Bend Me Break Me

“Oh my God, Kathleen, I do not want to end up looking like John Stamos,” I whined, picking up a straightener and trying to fix my goddamn hair.

“I thought that was what you were going for,” she laughed while she was sweeping the floor. The store had already closed down, but I wanted to do my hair before I left for home.

“I’m glad that this is funny for you, because my hair is going to be completely fried after this. I specifically explained to you that I wanted a cross between James Dean and David Bowie, but this obviously is all wrong. I cannot go home like this,” I declared. I set my tools down and sighed. “Fuck my life.”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” she said running her fingers through my hair. “It’s just crispy because you used too much product. Come on, we’ll wash it out and start over,” she said, pulling at my shoulder until I sat down at a wash station. “Now relax, okay? You’re acting totally insane.”

“I have every right to,” I said as she started shampooing my scalp. “I’m going to be so fucking late.”

“He never cares that you’re late,” she said and I folded my arms.

“Well, he should. He should break up with me right now via text message so that I don’t spend so much time freaking out about my hair. I haven’t even done my make-up yet.” She started humming. “Everything has to look perfect.” She pulled on my hair a little.

“Would you shut up all ready? Jesus Christ, Frank, you’re as bad as a fucking fifteen year old girl.”

“I am a fifteen year old girl,” I pouted as she rubbed a towel on my head.

“Now just put some fucking wax in your hair and shut up or else I won’t paint your nails for you.” I shut up instantly. I can never keep a steady left hand long enough to keep the nail polish from getting all over my right hand.

I squinted and took some pomade and started sculpting an attempt at a pompadour. Cosmetology is such a lost art. No one understands the lengths we go to in order to create weird hairstyles that have never been done before.

“There,” Kathleen said after I had spent 20 minutes fixing my hair until it put Elvis to shame. “You see, you look great,” she said smiling. I grinned, combing back the sides one more time before spraying half of a bottle of hairspray on it. “Gerard won’t be able to keep his hands off of you.” I laughed and sprayed hairspray into her face.

When I pulled into the driveway of my house, all of the lights were off, as usual. Typical, as Gerard likes to work in the dark. Apparently, it’s more inspiring. I pushed the door open and walked upstairs, turning on lights as I go.

Gerard’s an artist, so he has his own studio/office space that he keeps damp and dark. I generally don’t go in there unless he tells me to. I’m actually kind of afraid of what’s inside some of his drawers, but he’d probably say the same thing about where I work.

I walked into the kitchen and latched my arms around Gerard’s waist from behind.

“You smell like…” he started before pausing. “I don’t even know. Lots and lots of Tresemme. Maybe Paul Mitchell.”

“It’s actually some of both,” I giggled on his neck. I kissed it softly. His hand rubbed against my arm and over to my hands. Ugh. My motherfucking hands. They’re the ugliest thing in the whole world. They’re all gnarled and look like 90 year old woman hands. They feel like they’re 90 too. They’re so leathery and gross from working with hair all the time. They’re the one part of my body that I can’t stand because no matter how much fucking lotion I put on them, they look the same.

“Let me see you,” he said, trying to look over his shoulder. I let go and he turned around. He looked beautiful. He always does, and it’s effortless. I always put so much fucking work into looking good for him, and he doesn’t even do anything to his hair except run his fingers through it, but it looks amazing. He says it’s because I cut it for him, but the hair gods have blessed him. “Oh my God, Frank, your hair is so fucking hot,” he said, aghast.

“Touch it,” I dared him. He reached his hand to my hair and applied pressure. I could hear it crunch a little.

“Sweet Jesus, it’s as stiff as my fucking dick,” he said before pushing his lips onto mine. “I love it!”

Before I left Kathleen painted my nails black and I put on a bunch of hot pink eye shadow. But it matched because I wore a pink shirt with a black vest. Oh my God, that outfit is to fucking die for, but that’s not the point.

The point is that Gerard made dinner! Yay! Pasta of course, because it’s like the only thing that I eat. He held my tree-like hand on the table, running his thumb over my knuckles. His eyes shined in the dim light of our kitchen. “I love you, Frank.” I smiled at him.

“I love you too. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He kissed my hand and I melted into a giant pile of mush. “I was just thinking today about how we met.” We both laughed.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Gerard blushed. “I had a crush on you.”

“To say the very least.” His ears turned red. I loved telling this story to my friends. “You would get your haircut every month. Sometimes even twice in one month. Just to see me.”

“You’re the one that gave me your number.”

“Only because I knew you would never ask for it by yourself! Besides I liked you because you would come in, you wouldn’t say a word to anyone, and then when I asked you what kind of hair you wanted, you’d just smile really wide and tell me to do whatever I thought would look good. Oh my God, I remember one time I dyed your hair blonde and gave you pastel pink highlights. I pissed my fucking pants.”

“Everyone thought that I was a girl so I had to beg you to re-dye it like a week later. But, you were all like, ‘I don’t think this is a good idea…’”

“Because it’s wasn’t. Your hair was over-processed and we were mixing two different dyes,” I remembered being really worried about what would happen, but he kept saying, “I hate my hair.” I felt so bad because I was just messing around with him and I think that he was really upset with how it had turned out before I re-dyed it.

“And then you gave me your number in case I had a ‘hair emergency.’”

“It has happened before. And then the next day you called me and you were like, ‘My hair is falling out in clumps.’ So I rushed over and your hair was fine, you just wanted to ask me out. You seriously had me worried. I thought that I was going to get sued by some big shot artist.” I got up to put the dishes in the sink and then I ran my fingers through his long, black hair upon return. “Your hair is amazing,” I said, twisting some locks around my finger.

“You’re amazing,” he said back to me, holding onto my arm with his hand. My arms held bottles of ink. Tattoos lined them with pictures and words that I had deemed important enough to be put on me forever.

Gerard’s afraid of needles so he doesn’t have any tattoos or piercings. I love his skin. It’s extremely pale, and in some places it’s flaky and white. I just love touching it. I love when he holds my hand and I can feel the calluses from where he holds his paintbrushes. I love when I stroke his arms, his shoulders, his face. The best is touching the skin that hardly anyone ever sees. Touching the soft skin on his chest or the rough dry skin on his knees and elbows feels amazing.

He pulled me onto his lap so that I was straddling him and I kissed him. If just touching Gerard is amazing, then it’s unimaginable how great it feels to have his tongue against yours.

I remembered how Gerard asked me to move in with him because it started off the same way. My power was out and I seriously needed to blow dry my hair before I went to bed, and somehow that led to making out in the kitchen. I think that I said something like, “You’re so lucky that you don’t lose power every time that it rains.”

And then he said, “You can live here too if you want. I would love it if you did.” It was pretty spur-of-the-moment but I in his house within a week of him asking me.

In minutes, we were upstairs. Our tongues met and our hands were intertwined and thrown on the side of the bed. I ground my hips into his. I wanted to feel him inside of me so badly.

Our first kiss was outside of a movie theater. We went to see a film, I can’t remember which one and it had started snowing on the way out.

“I wonder if snow is just God’s dandruff,” Gerard said and I laughed, looking up at the sky.

“If it was, then dandruff would melt. I don’t think it does. Lots of people that get their hair cut have dandruff and it just sits there on their shoulders.”

“It would melt in your mouth too,” he said, sticking out his tongue to collect snowflakes. I stood there and watched the frozen precipitation fall and melt once it hit the pavement. I wasn’t really wearing a proper coat or any mittens, and I think that at one point my teeth started chattering a little. “Aw, sweetheart, you look frozen,” Gerard said, cupping my irritated cheeks with his gloved hands.

“Nah, only my hands,” I said. I slipped them under his own so that we were both holding my face. He curled his fingers over mine and laughed nervously before I leaned in so that our lips were touching. When we pulled apart, our breath ghosted away into the air. I looked at him and some snowflakes had landed on top of his eyelashes. He was undeniably adorable.

It had been minutes since Gerard had crashed on the sheets next to me, and our perspiration had dried for the most part. I pushed my fingers through his hair, trying to move it out of his eyes, but it hopelessly fell back in place. His thumb hovered over my cheekbone, down along my jaw and then over my chapped lips.

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he whispered to me. His smile was contagious as I felt it creeping onto my cheeks. I sighed and repositioned my head on the pillow. His thumb ran over my brittle and clumped eyelashes. “You’re so beautiful.” My face got hot and turned red. I leaned forward and put my head in the crook of his neck. “Plus I get free manicures,” he mumbled against my forehead. I smacked his head lightly before he pressed his lips against mine. My black varnished fingernails contrasted with his pallid back.

It’s so weird that Gerard is entirely wholesome and pure while I’m over-processed and capricious. I’m not sure which of those is better. He grabbed onto my hand and held it in his.

“You’re only lucky that I’m not a cheap bastard.” I bit the skin on covering his vocal cords very hard as he pressured his hands onto my back and his neck writhed under my mouth. He had a huge red mark on his neck that would last for days. Things seemed more equaled out now that I had tarnished him with my teeth. His omnipresent glow was only slightly masked by this small imperfection and I couldn’t lie and say that my reason for this was unknown.

I knew perfectly well why I was so attracted to Gerard: because he was everything that I’ve never been and always wanted to be. He’s good at shielding his emotions, and whenever he confesses that he’s gay to someone, they’re actually surprised. For me, it’s just like, “Well duh.” I’m such a fucking flamer that they can spot me from a mile away. People respect him, but Gerard’s one of the only people that takes me seriously.

He traced the word “and” over my stomach with his fingers. Not only did he look perfect with the mark, but I loved it because it was mine. He was mine. I loved that I could dirty him and make myself part of him. I loved that he was mine because somehow through all of my grime, he made me feel clean.