The Hair Model With A Dead Aunt Day!
Another day at work. Lights flashing. Harsh white backdrop soaring twelve feet high. A bitch of an uncomfortable stool that you swear is gonna fuck up your knees within another year. Your head's cocked out on your neck like you're a pelican listening to some juicy gossip. Your cell phone's ringing.
"What is that cocksucking noise?" shouts the photographer. "My ears are to bleed?"
The seduction in your smile doesn't waver in the slightest when you shout, "Loosen your thong Guillaume. It's my phone and I'll turn it off as soon as you snap something remotely usable."
Guillaume reloads the camera and mutters something about a cunt. You smile, you hold your head where it doesn't wanna be. With every ring, you repeat in your head, Baby's dead. Baby's dead.
Tonight you'll be making good on the plane reservation you've kept standing for the past two weeks. You'll hop off the stool at 4 o'clock no matter how loud Guillaume wants to shout about complete cooperation. By 4:40, the packed bag at the foot of your bed will be in your hands. At seven, you'll be on a plane to Milwaukee, a drink to your lips and your hair in a muss.
They gave Aunt Baby less than a month six weeks ago. You told your brother you had work. No, you would not call. No, you would not stand by the bedside of the lady who raised you in your mother's stead. The lady who gave you most of her life for eighteen years. And who for the past twelve expressed nothing but disapproval at every decision you made. Aunt Baby, who would accept nothing less than your absolute surrender to her church. Aunt Baby, the embodiment of selflessness and selfishness all at once. No, you would not come and say goodbye to your mother's sister.
"I'll see you at the funeral," you told Jake. "Make the arrangements when there are arrangements to be made and call me. I'll pay for everything."
Your cell phone again starts shouting from inside your bag. Guillaume takes his eye from the view-finder to shoot you a look. The seduction in your smile turns to menace for a pause as you meet his eye. Guillaume goes back to taking photographs. You hold still and mourn from behind a hair model's smile.
Happy The Hair Model With A Dead Aunt Day!