It was always the female writers with wavy hair in
independently made films that caught and owned your attention.

You would pore over their photographs on Google images and follow their wavy hair out of character and into reality. You drank in the bliss that was their hair. Oh so soft. So weightless it rose at the mention of the wind.

You returned to the movie again to follow the plot, you were interested in wavy hair’s story and the tale she was trying to tell and soon enough it became apparent, female writers were independent women who never played by society’s rules. In a world of charcoal grey business suits, they were the burst of colour, the gypsy skirt wearing, Ouija-playing, palm-reading, Chinese-tea-drinking protagonists. They tended to red wavy hair and as far as sexuality was concerned they were “liberals”.

This piqued your interest, though it was too much for your conservative church mind to digest, but you aspired so greatly to that stereotype that you were determined to draw out the character and live the hell out of it. To succeed you must know how to become it. So you began your research.

You stood under the sun, at one of the many stands selling hair products at the Trade Fair shopping complex, carefully selecting the right type of wavy hair and the right shade of red. You found that the actual red, like the one you saw in the movie, makes a shocking contrast to your dark-brown skin so you settled for something softer – burgundy, almost pink and you contented yourself with it and bought it, after the trader had become irritable and just wanted you to leave his stand.

The hair was the greatest component of looking the part, once you had that sorted, everything else simply fell into place like the recipe for a well-done meal. The dark purple lipstick, the henna dye, the kajal, and the gladiator sandals. The Ouija board you decided you could do without  –  you were not a fan of the supernatural and you would rather stick to God, thank you very much.

You had to begin living the part somehow. So you came out of your shell and smashed it to smithereens to stop you from being tempted to crawl back in.

You had to find people to be “sexually liberal” with, so you start going to the likeliest places where you could meet willing partners. The club you find is an abundance of bodies and alcohol. You hate the too-loud music that drowns your thoughts so that you literally cannot think. And the smoke-drenched atmosphere, which struck you as a dream dissolving into another dream like the murky ones you had after you fought your mother and fell asleep restless. Despite the darkness, your red hair was a hit. The first guy you pulled was half drunk and your first taste happened in the back seat of his car.

You imagined you picked right because inebriated or not the guy was an expert, he managed to don a condom (which materialized from nowhere) with one hand before he bled you.

“Shit I’m sorry baby,” in his sad attempt at an American accent.

You were mad with pain but you were still curious enough to try to look down and see what was going on and what was being put where.