PATRIARCHY

ten

chapter 10

the sixth of june, 2155

The razor is dragged upwards my leg, slicing off the tiny nips of hair that have grown since yesterday.

I flinch, and I watch a tiny drop of blood form just below my knee. Mother presses her index finger against it for a couple of seconds, and once she lifts it, there are no traces of the tiny cut. She continues; masterful, miniscule movements clearing my legs of hair. Just a tiny bit is left, so I prepare my other leg, undressing it of my white sock. Mother lathers it with foam, and I glance over her shoulder, at my reflection.

My hair is wet, but it still somehow manages to be frizzy. The hair iron lies beside the sink, eager to defeat my curls. I flinch once more, and Mother presses her index finger against the fresh cut.

"Do you feel ready?" she asks me, drying my legs with a towel.

"I think so," I say. As ready as I can feel.

"Good. That's good."

"That's everywhere, right?" I ask, eager for it to be over. Mother frowns, scanning my body with her grey eyes.

"Hands, arms, pits, face, thighs, legs, feet... Yes, we are all done with the razor," she says, and I exhale a breath of relief.

"Sit down here darling, we have to get started on your hair."

I gather my hair behind my back, sitting down on the stool right in front of the mirror. She stands behind me, trimming the ends of my hair with a pair of white scissors. Some of the strands land on my arm, the split ends stinging my skin. She then moves on to the blow-dryer, the sound of it muting my train of thought. Good. I don't want to think, really. I just want this day to be over.

My hair dries quickly, and Mother is quick with the hair iron. Her own hair is pin straight, but she has had to use the iron quite a few times on me. She is the only one who can semi-tame it.

"Did you feel ready on your exam day?" I ask her. She puts down the iron and looks at me through the mirror.

"I was very nervous, but I did alright," she says quietly through her thin lips. Alright? If a score of 87 is only alright, I'm in big trouble.

"Do you have any... advice?"

"Don't do or say anything if you aren't sure you should," she says, staring at me. My throat shrinks. That doesn't usually work out.

She takes the middle part of my hair, braiding it backward. Straight red strands graze my shoulders, and instead of stinging, it tickles. I'm used to my hair gathering like cobwebs, reddening my skin like an uncomfortable sweater.

My eyes are lined with precise, black lines by Mother's steady hand, and my lips are painted scarlet. I shift my eyes to my own, and I wonder if the censors will be impressed.

You aren't really allowed to receive help in presentation for exam day, but I really need it. Father didn't even seem to mind. He encouraged it, even.

"All done. Go get dressed Amelia," Mother says, clenching her hands on my shoulders.

"Thank you for helping me."

She smiles at me, her eyebrows straining. I'll miss her.

My ceremony is in two weeks, and once I'm claimed, I'll have a new home, never to return to this house. It's kind of a relief, but I'll miss her. And Thomas. I don't know if I'll miss Father too. In a way, I hope I do. We're not very close, but we are still Father and daughter. It would be sad to not miss him at all.