Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 108768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
I grabbed a blue bottle and snickered.
Even their toiletries have to go with their color? Wow.
I squeezed a dollop onto my palm. The turquoise mixture had a thick foamy consistency.
A fruity scent permeated the air.
With gentle circles, I lathered my body with it.
The subtle sounds of the cascading water, combined with the distant chirping of nocturnal creatures outside, lulled me further into a state of relaxation.
Steam rose around my legs.
Every now and then, the water’s temperature would shift ever so slightly, sending a brief chill that only heightened the warm embrace that followed.
I’m taking a shower on a mountain. Can this week get any crazier?
Then, my dad’s bruised and tortured face flashed in my mind along with bloodied chopsticks and crumpled money.
No.
I froze with my hands in the air.
Don’t think about that. There’s no good in remembering that.
A cold shiver sliced through me.
The soothing sensation of the water began to wane as my thoughts consumed me.
Come on, Moni. Get back to the present. You’re on a mountain. In a shower. It smells good in here.
I did my best to push away the horrifying images.
But the memories were like intrusive vines, relentless and overpowering.
I took a deep breath and returned to washing.
The distinct sound of a distant scream cut through the air, muffled but chilling.
I paused.
What was that?
My heart skipped a beat and I instinctively turned off the water, listening intently.
A few seconds later, rhythmic pounding echoed through the night. Maybe it was metal hitting metal or something else.
Hammering?
A boom sounded and then silence.
That must be the Four Aces setting up for the feast. You’re tripping, Moni, because you’re on edge.
I turned the shower back on.
Warm water spilled over me again. The space filled with the steady patter of liquid hitting the shower floor.
I tried to rationalize, telling myself that it must be the bustling preparations for the night’s event.
But something about that scream. . .
It didn’t quite fit the narrative I was trying to construct.
Forget about it and finish washing up.
I stepped closer toward the shower spray and tilted my head back, allowing the water to massage my scalp.
Next, I began to smear the fruity-smelling foam on my head.
Though once completely bald, now a faint layer of hair had started to sprout, making the sensation all the more noticeable.
It made sense. I typically shaved my head every other day to keep the smooth look. Clearly, I had been too busy.
My fingertips grazed my head, feeling the soft stubble that now peppered my skin. The budding hairs possessed a peculiar sensation.
It was like touching velvet.
Hmmm.
I gazed around the shower and didn’t see a razor.
I could get Chen to give me one tomorrow but. . .maybe it is time to let my hair grow back?
It would be a journey in itself, watching the transformation from bald head back to hair.
What would I even do with it now? It’s been so long since I’ve even had to pick up a brush or comb.
Steam wrapped around me, forming a warm embrace as I thought back to the pre-bald- headed years.
My hair—much like chapters in a book—marked significant periods of my life.
I could never forget the hot comb.
As a little kid, those Sunday afternoons before the new week, when my mother would place that metal comb on the stove, waiting for it to heat up. Grandma was alive then, and even my aunt—Bank’s mother would be there gossiping about this or that.
I could still hear the sizzle as she ran it through my hair, transforming my tight curls into straight strands.
The process was almost ritualistic.
Surely, it was bonding time, moments where life lessons were shared, and family stories passed down.
Every stroke of the comb not only shaped my hair but also molded my young mind.
Then, junior high hit, and it was time for a new hairstyle—a new me.
I remembered the smell of the chemicals from the relaxers, the creamy texture, and the burning sensation if it stayed too long.
The first time I had my hair permed, I felt such a transformation.
The sleekness.
The way it swayed as I moved.
It had been a true departure from the tight curls I had been born with.
Permed hair was my first foray into maturity.
My rite of passage going from kid to pre-teen.
Dad was still with us then. Back then, Mom had extra money to send us to salons.
I remembered the countless hours of waiting for my turn, the scent of hair products, and the hum of the hairdryer.
High school triggered the era of weaves.
Oh, the versatility of it all!
Long, short, curly, straight— I changed my look as often as I changed my clothes.
It was thrilling and gave me a taste of what it was like to be someone else, even if only for a little while.
But under those weaves, I sometimes felt I was hiding, concealing a part of who I truly was.