Art by Elsa Li

Content Warning: gore, burns

My mother, if she knew I was telling this story, would probably roll her eyes and say that I exaggerate. 

She doesn’t even remember it happening. The whole thing is sort of her fault, egging people like my aunt Eloise on, whose biggest flaw is that she doesn’t know when to stop talking. But I like to think Eloise at least became a bit more careful after that; every time I went to the salon after what happened she had guilty eyes.

Back in the day my aunt Eloise ran a hair salon. It was a cosy little place and I miss it sometimes. She’s got a place in Malaysia now, where the rent is a third cheaper and the food three times more oily. 

Eloise’s salon had what you might call character. There were unopened Coke bottles hung all over the place: normal ones, wide, slim, twisty, souvenirs from Formula One races, bottles from all over the globe. Licence plates from I don’t know where covered the walls—you’d think that someone died and left her an auto dealership. There was even an orange and white floaty ring hanging from one wall, but as far as I knew, Eloise never had time to swim.

Eloise isn’t really my aunt, she’s my dad’s cousin, but family is family no matter how far removed from Eve you are. Eloise and my mother got on like the bourgeoisie and yachts. Every Lunar New Year they’d gather in their own little corner, speaking in low tones and sneaking sly glances at anyone and everyone, grown women acting like teenagers. 

My mother doesn’t often have much gossip to share; her conversation mostly consists of how angry I make her. But she knows how to steer a conversation to where it’s most interesting, and then drinks like a horse from a stream. Eloise’s stories would be the stream; when she opens her mouth, she’s unstoppable. I can’t blame Eloise. If I heard half the things she did I would’ve blabbed without anyone needing to waterboard me.

I remember why I wanted to be blonde, although I didn’t tell anyone this at the time. I wanted to look like a character from this fantasy anime I was watching. I liked Mitsuki, because she was cute and had a big sword and went around slashing robots. Eloise washed my hair and put the product in, warning me not to scratch at it; it contained an acid that could burn my fingertips, eating away until only the bone stuck out from the fleshy remains of my finger like the end of a meat popsicle. She didn’t say all of that, but I find my imagination tends to veer into dark places. Then she had me lie back on the reclining bed and wait for the stuff to set in. It felt like a ton of fire ants were gnawing at the roots, so you’d think that Eloise would have had the sense not to leave it on for too long. 

Is it supposed to burn? I wince.

Yes, dear. Eloise says. It’s a new product, it’s fantastic. Achieves results like no other.

Her face comes close, a brown eclipse interrupting my view of the ceiling lamps. She’s got the look of someone who’s been working a little too hard for too long, the lines of her face poorly hidden behind thick makeup. But there’s something youthful and lively about her all the same. 

No pain, no gain, Eloise says, before turning back to my mother. Then their tongues began to flap away like flags in the wind. 

Eloise says, Did you hear about Ian? 

No, I didn’t, my mother says.

Well, he’s going through a divorce. 

My God, my mum gasps, as Eloise massages shampoo into her scalp. What happened? I need to know everything. 

Eloise was never the best at telling a story, I guess she and my dad have that gene and I think I do too. But I’m getting side-tracked. 

Ian and his wife Mae had gotten into a huge fight. Their daughter Angel should’ve been in preschool, but Mae took pride in homeschooling her daughter. Mae’s syllabus was designed to foster independence and stillness, with self-directed learning. And Angel was the most well-mannered child anyone ever saw—until her iPad was taken away and she was jerked out of her online rabbit hole. Then she became a whirlwind of anger, swinging her balled fists and shrieking like a hurricane.

Ian worked as an insurance salesman. The job required days away from family. The hours spent at home over the weekend were dedicated to hasty dinners and deep naps before he disappeared to close another deal. Mae worked from home selling luxury candles, so Angel’s education was the best way to keep her sedated.

Once in a while, Ian would come home to pluck the baby birds out of his beard and see how his family was getting along. His break would consist of a whole Saturday free with an overtime coupon to visit a middle-tier restaurant. On this particular Saturday, he and Mae were fighting about Angel before he’d had the chance to take his shoes off. They were supposed to cash in that coupon, but Mae was fed up. My God, she’d said. My God, I’m so sick of everything. I’m sick of this house and I’m sick of doing everything for this daughter of yours and to have you come back and do nothing.

I’m working so this family can have some money, Ian says.

Whatever, Mae says. Whatever. Go spend some time with her. I’m sick of always having to take care of her. She doesn’t even talk to me. 

And off she goes, probably to go sniff a couple candles.

My mother interrupts to ask Eloise how she knows all of this, and Eloise says Ian had come and sworn her to secrecy, which she honoured, because this doesn’t count because it’s all in the family, right? And my mother says yes and almost begs Eloise to continue.

I let out a huge sigh. I hear the zweet-zweet of the polyester cape as my mother turns to glare at me. Eloise begins to cut her hair, working her way through the wet strands with her comb and scissors.  

I say, This stuff is really starting to burn.

Eloise comes over to me. I can tell I interrupted her flow, but I care more about walking out with my follicles intact than whatever talk of the town she’s obsessed with. My mother lets out annoyed sniffs. She thinks she’s sneaky but she’s not. I never understood why she didn’t just get a job at the salon. 

Eloise’s latex gloves rub against my scalp. 

What’s that smell? I ask, nervous. 

It’s nothing major, says Eloise. It’s the bleach activating. 

Are you sure? I reply.

Looks fine to me, says Eloise. We’ll just leave it on for a couple more minutes.

Mum tells me to stop asking so many questions, and then that girls shouldn’t ask so many questions, which is rich coming from her. Eloise says that it’s fine that I ask questions, because a curious mind indicates a healthy one, which leads to healthy follicular growth. It’s only when the story continues that I realise Eloise hasn’t answered my question at all. 

So, anyway, Eloise says, Ian and his daughter are out. They’re driving down towards the city when Ian asks Angel a question. What really shakes the shit loose from his colon is when Angel replied in a language that he’s never heard in his life. He’s so surprised he almost runs a red light. He looks his daughter dead in the eyes and asks her to repeat herself. And she breaks into an unintelligible monologue. 

Never in his entire life has he been so scared. Ian knows the sounds of Mandarin, English, and a lick of Bahasa Melayu. He knows sure as hell that his daughter isn’t speaking any of those.

Angel’s stream of gibberish finally takes its toll. Ian pulls up on the highway in a sweat, searching on his phone for a language similar to the one that Angel is speaking. It’s not French or German or Italian. It’s not Japanese or any of the Chinese dialects. The phone grows slippery in his hands. He sits there begging Angel to start speaking again, but Angel is just looking at her father blankly. They sit on the side of the highway, hazard lights blinking.

Eventually, along comes the police—a man, a second-generation Chinese immigrant and his partner, a small brown woman. They look like serious police folk, sunnies on their noses and guns on their waists. They tap on the window and begin to grill him.

You can’t stop here! It’s a highway, for God’s sake. What the hell are you doing?

And that’s a question that Ian can’t answer. Ian stammers and stumbles. Just as Ian thinks that he’s going to be arrested, Angel starts to speak again, surprising the mousy officer. She starts talking to Angel, growing more and more energetic. Meanwhile, Ian and the other officer watch befuddled as the two gab on and on. They’re speaking Tagalog.

Ian’s confused by this, since he can’t speak Filipino and neither can Mae. Ian asks the police officer to translate, and it eventually comes out that Angel had been binging a soap opera about Filipino teenage vampires. Enraged, Ian drives all the way back home, where he and Mae have another big fight, with cops spectating.

Our daughter speaks Tagalog, Ian says. Mind explaining that?

What the hell are you talking about? Mae retorts.

And it begins to make sense. Angel hasn’t spoken to anyone in so long that she’s completely forgotten how to speak English. So everyone is hauled to the nearest police station and charged with every single violation the constitution can uphold. 

That’s that, Eloise says, when she finally concludes. She wipes her hands on her apron. Ian is filing for divorce so that he can have custody of Angel. Though how he’s going to take care of her, I don’t know.

That’s insane, my mother says, shaking her head as much as she can. She casts a meaningful look at me. See the way she rolls her eyes? She doesn’t like it because it’s the truth. 

They didn’t like Jesus because he told the truth, chides Eloise. Now look at him. Son of God. What a great gig.

Amen to that, my mother says, picking up a magazine. 

Now let’s check on you, Eloise says to me, and she sprays the showerhead to wash out the bleach. Her fingers run through my hair. The burning’s stopped, and a cool sensation ripples across my scalp. A few seconds pass in silence, and suddenly I’m aware that parts of my head feel breezy and light. The showerhead’s aim is lowered, the spray of water hits the ceramic bottom of the sink. A few solitary droplets of water creep down my forehead. I meet the gaze of Eloise and see panic. I sit up and stare into the sink, clogged with clumps of gold-white strands.

But that was a long time ago. I’m not mad at Eloise, because that sort of thing can happen to anyone. It sucked for a while, and I was made fun of at school, but things returned to normal. Now, as I’m telling this, I realise that I didn’t need to tell the whole story about Angel and Ian and Mae and everything. Especially since the next time I went to Eloise’s the story was old news. I don’t know what happened to any of them in the end. I’m terrible at telling stories, like I said. Somehow or other something more interesting crops up and I just have to share it, it’s just how it is.