Backcombed Hair & Bad Decisions

This short story was my latest piece of “homework” for The Chorley Creative Writing Collective. I didn’t make it to the meeting to share it with the group, so I thought I’d share it with you instead.

The brief given was to "write a story about your first experience of an illicit substance.” Mine began as a memory of my first puff on a cigarette, but as the words came, it grew into something else - a small coming-of-age tale, full of awkwardness, rebellion, and bad hair.

As clichéd as the following narative may be, I hope that it makes you smile. Researching 1981 (the backdrop for this story) took me back to the days of MTV, my first CD player, the epic Texan soap opera that was Dallas and also, who can forget the wonder of shoulder pads and stone-washed jeans!

I hope you enjoy my little story. Perhaps, you'll recognise something of yourself in it, or that it will raise a wry smile? If not, please feel free to join me in rolling your eyes at my 11-year-old self!

BACKCOMBED HAIR AND BAD DECISIONS 

Year: 1981. Age: 11 years. Location: Secondary School. Soundtrack: Toyah Wilcox - I Want to Be Free. 

The “cool kids” had taken over the space behind the sports hall. It was a grim refuge, cold concrete, a dripping drainpipe, and a bin that smelled like rotting fruit and rubber soled pumps. But, it was a haven from the prying eyes of authority, or so we thought.

I had adapted my school uniform so I looked "trendy". The maroon blazer sleeves were rolled up to my elbows, my skirt’s waistband doubled, and my tie was knotted so short it looked like it would choke me. I’d shoved my clunky hush puppies into my rucksack, and borrowed, black stiletto heels completed the ensemble.  My teased and crimped hair, thick with mousse, looked punk to me.

Julie was Blondie incarnate. Her tussled platinum hair framed her face and she looked like she was posing for the cover of Smash Hits, as she leaned against the wall. Her eyes were fierce, flicking lazily over the crowd of misfits that were beginning to gather. I thought she was awesome, a supermodel in her own right. She lifted her satchel, adorned with Tipp-Ex love hearts and a Rubik’s Cube keyring which swung violently as she opened the buckles.

When she pulled out a battered pack of John Player Specials and offered me one, my heart hammered. My Mum was a smoker and I had seen adults smoke a thousand times, but the reality was something else. My parents would be furious!  Smiling inwardly, I muttered my acceptance. Julie, flipped the lighter, and I heard the click of the flint, the hiss of escaping gas and I felt the heat from the flame flickering close to my face, as I lifted the paper tube to my lips. The first drag hit like a shock. A hot, acrid burn that clawed at my throat and settled heavily in my chest. My lungs rebelled, I began choking and my eyes watered uncontrollably.

Julie laughed, the sound sharp and fearless. I tried to play it cool, but the smoke clung to my insides and I spluttered again. She patted me on the back a few times and the coughing stopped. I had done it, I had defied the grown-ups, and to cap it all, I was accepted by the prettiest girl in first year. We stood together in companionable silence watching as two boys argued over who was coolest, Adam Ant or Shakin’ Stevens, and a red haired girl in braces bragged to her friend about her high score on Pacman. 

The faint smell of greasy school chips floated past and mingled with the smoke, as the bell rang signaling the end of lunch. Julie and I hung back waiting for the queue to go down. We shared a packet of polo mints, trying in vain, to mask the smell of smoke on our breath. My carefully styled hair was now limp from the damp air, my lungs still raw and burning, and my blazer smelled stale. But in my mind, I could see Toyah Wilcox, hair aflame, all attitude and energy, and she was looking straight at me and smiling approvingly at my first step towards independence.

That illicit cigarette was just the beginning of many more mini rebellions. When I took that first puff, I was accepted by Julie and therefore by the cool kids, but I had no idea of the journey on which I was embarking. Next came the White Lightning cider in Astley Park (disgusting stuff but I drank it anway), daring to defy my mum’s strict deadlines as if I were part of a one-woman uprising, and a string of friendships that were as unsuitable as they were unforgettable. That chapter, however, is a whole different story.