This Girl is on Fire

She's just a girl and she's on fire

Hotter than a fantasy, lonely like a highway

She's living in a world and it's on fire

Feeling the catastrophe, but she knows she can fly away

                 - Alicia Keys

Yeah.  It was kind of like that.

 My lover got me a ticket to Jamaica for Valentine’s Day.  When I say my lover, I mean my employer.  And when I say Jamaica, I mean Orlando, Florida for a client meeting.  So, maybe I didn’t get whisked off to the Caribbean (this time), but my Valentine’s Day was hotter than yours.  Believe it.

I sometimes wear my hair naturally and for me that means a bunch of curls.  It makes me feel a little spicy.  Like at any moment I’m going to hurt someone with a mere switch of my hips.  The first time I wore my hair naturally as an adult, it was to impress a boy.  He had a crush on a girl whose hair was curly.  She was also Latina, but with one of those really annoying Spanish accents that everyone finds sexy, except me.  It just made me want to punch her in the mouth.  She was a troll and I was fabulous (obviously).  I would make him see this. I would make him choose me.  Short of boiling a bunny, I decided I would make my hair look just like hers. 

What?  That’s not normal?

I had no idea what I was doing.  Out of the shower, my curls look great; at the beach, same-same.  So I imagined all I had to do was wet hair, towel dry and head out.  But by the time I got to work my hair was in a huge fro.  I was going for Selma Hayek-natural but instead looked like a meth addict.  Hot!  I had no rubber band to tie my hair back and no time to run to a convenience store.  So, instead of impressing my crush, I ended up terrifying him.  Honestly, I find it very unfair since he never even found the stash of memorabilia stolen from his office (used forks, dirty Kleenex’ and other such personal objects). 

I digress. 

Present Day. 

I carry extra hair ties in my bag… at all times.  I’ve also learned to wear my hair curly (it requires lots of product).  And I’ve got enough confidence in myself now that I’ve pretty much stopped stalking boys.

… 

Okay, that last part just isn’t true.  But my confidence level does (as you will see) border on the obnoxious.  That’s how all good stories start, though.  Right?

Last week, February 14^th, I walk into a bar to meet a guy I used to date, (but who now (like Biz Markie says) is just a friend), along with a bunch of his Navy buddies.  My hair is curly (product!), my makeup is flawless, my heels are fierce, and my jeans fit like a glove.  I smell delicious and it is literally and figuratively intoxicating.  Everyone in the bar is eating out of my hands. I’m not sure how many years, (or decades if I’m lucky) I have left of this, but for now, in this wonderful, magical carefree time, I’ve still got it and it feels beyond amazing.

So, my friend walks me to the back of the bar and pushes me against the wall (because girls really hate it when guys do this) and he kisses me.  Things get hot.  Too hot.  I begin to have sensory deprivation because nothing is matching up.  The sweet smell of hubris has been replaced with something foreign.  Something awful.  Something burning. 

My hair. 

My long, flowing, thick, beautiful hair.

It’s on fire. 

I am on fire.

I am on fucking fire. 

I shriek a scream so loud it sounds like murder.  It is murder.  My hair… has been murdered. 

My Navy friend, like all good sailors, skilled in the art of damage control, pats the fire out.   I run to the restroom, heart racing, whimpering like a slobbery buffoon.  The product in my hair caught an open flamed candle on the ledge of the wall I was leaned (pushed!) against.   I begin to pull chunks of burning hair out onto the floor and there seems to be no end.  The clumps - melted, charcoaled black clumps - keep coming out.  I have a lump in my throat.  My cheeks are flushed.  My armpits sweat.  I smell horrible.  The whole bar smells horrible and everyone knows who dealt it. 

I run out of the bar humiliated… like all good stories end.

Maybe it was a sign from Jesus to cut my hair.  Or to stop making out in public.  It’s difficult to tell because He does work in mysterious ways.  Six inches later, my hair is still long.  No one noticed my missing locks at work, which is a good sign.  Lord, in this your Lenten Season, if you want me to stop kissing frogs, please throw a couple of princes into the pond.  And might I add (respectfully), when you want to burn a bush in the future, please don’t use my hair.

I’m just a girl and I’m on fire.  I thought you knew.