Morning Routine

This week I wanted to write about something I haven't really experienced personally, and started with the idea of tying up one's own long hair. I saw a girl on the bus recently putting her hair into a bun without even thinking about it, so I decided to try and get inside her head. This is obviously not what was in her head.

I also will make a permanent home for my new posts sometime this week! But for now, here's the main story, Morning Routine.

                When Patricia got off the bus on her way to work one morning, she stopped and touched her hair. It was wet and cold, and still in the bun she had made hastily on her way out the door. She regretted putting it in a bun as soon as she walked out the door, because the unforgiving Ontario winter air would make sure her hair stayed exactly in the shape it had upon contact with the outer world for at least fifteen minutes after entering her office. Near the end of her elevator ride she let her hair down and tried to shake it into a dignified shape, but with her hair dryer far from reach, Patricia knew she would have to do a better job improvising. It was a very expensive hair dryer, and according to the online reviews she read for it, it was supposed to double as a curling iron, but she had never bothered to figure out how to set the attachment. A few floors from her destination, June entered the elevator. Patricia flashed her a nervous, quick smile. Their cordial relationship had never quite recovered since Patricia misinterpreted June’s behaviour at the office Christmas party as flirting. She knew that June wasn’t even interested in women, but because office rumours always seemed to spread much more quickly than anyone anticipated, Patricia was still a little uncertain. June wore her hair remarkably short for a woman as young as she was, and her second and third ear piercings practically screamed the story of her drug-filled summers chasing other young creatures at rock concerts and in clubs where everyone seemed to be obsessed with the feeling of their own faces.

                Without too much more suffering, Patricia eventually arrived at her floor. She gave June a polite “see you” and sighed a small sigh of relief when she was sure the doors were completely closed. She noticed her hair in the reflection of the stainless steel elevator doors, and groaned at the wet patches that had formed on the shoulders of her jacket. They would undoubtedly leave identical wet patches on her blouse underneath as soon as the jacket was off, so Patricia strolled as nonchalantly as she could to the nearest bathroom. She pulled out her brush from her bag, and pressed sheets of paper towel against large chunks of her hair as she brushed it into a more manageable state. Her brush wasn’t nearly as expensive as her hair dryer, but she had been using it for years, and it didn’t also double as a curling iron. By now she was starting to develop a headache from having a cold scalp for the last hour and a half, and she whimpered at the thought of the coffee pot waiting in the break room. She would have time for a cup before her fist meeting, assuming she could get her hair done reasonably soon, and for the first time in a long time, Patricia didn’t mind that her hair wouldn’t look perfect. Small flecks of wet paper towel were starting to get caught in her hair, but it was doing the job well enough, so she kept at it. When she walked past Stephanie’s desk on her way to the break room, Patricia could feel the judgmental stare on the back of her head, but restrained herself from making an offhand comment about Stephanie’s hideous choice of knee high socks. She was face to face with the glorious coffee pot that would save her from her daily coffee withdrawal-induced hangover. “Hello, beautiful,” she giggled quietly to herself, savouring the dark brown cup of joy she was about to cram down her gullet in no subtle way.

“Beg pardon?” came the unexpected reply from Keith, who happened to walk in on Patricia during her solitary celebration, which she know realized was more of a shouted whisper than a quiet giggle. Cursing herself silently, and revealing most of her teeth in a forced smile, Patricia dismissed his comment and changed the subject by asking Keith how his weekend was. He gave an answer about camping or attending one of his childrens’ recitals or sports games or something Patricia could vaguely acknowledge and bring up in conversation later, but while her eyes were level with Keith’s, her brain and hands were preoccupied with groping for a clean mug in one of the cupboards and the creamer sitting somewhere on the counter. She knew that pouring the cup without watching her hands would be difficult, but breaking the conversation for even a second before Keith was finished his story about the lake or the forest or some mountain in Québec would mean she would have to participate in the conversation and potentially reveal something about her own weekend, which she had spent alone, in her pyjamas, eating nothing but her own leftover baked goods from a potluck she meant to attend last week.

“Ah!” she cried, dropping the coffee pot onto the counter, rushing her fingers under tap Keith had thankfully turned on for her in quick response to the spill. “Maybe he isn’t that dull after all,” Patricia thought, “I really should start listening to his stories.”

“So as I was saying, the next time Paula and I make it up to the cabin by the lake, we’d love to have you and… uh… it would be great to have you join us.” Keith got quiet, and Patricia winced at both the sudden change in the water’s temperature and the mention of her ex-fiancé. She knew there was no easy way out of this now, and she would have to add Keith to her growing list of coworkers she didn’t want to see outside of the office. She grabbed a dishcloth, thanked Keith for the offer, and scurried to her desk to grab her notes. She had spent the whole night previous preparing for this meeting, but all she could think about now was whether the coffee was hot enough to make her skin blister. Patricia had always admired her fingers, and the nail polish she was wearing was one of her favourites. It was more expensive than her brush but less expensive than her hair dryer, so she was nervous that she would have to hide her red and blotchy fingers. She mustered up enough courage to peek under the dishcloth that was tightly wrapped around her hands. Definitely not blistered. She blew on her fingers to cool them down a bit more and grabbed her notebook and laptop from her bag. She had another five minutes to finish adjusting her presentation, and Patricia wanted to make sure that her fingers were still nimble enough to hold a pen. She struggled a bit at first, but willed herself strongly enough to keep the pen in her hands as she jotted down some notes. Most of them were reminders about who to face during each section of the presentation, but she added one at the bottom, reminding herself to watch her hands, and ignore any smirk Stephanie might have on her face when she realizes Patricia’s hair still has flecks of paper towel in it.