Running With Scissors_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [65]
I stood by the stairs, not wanting to get more cobwebs in my hair. I’d just taken it two shades lighter and it was very porous. I was concerned that dirt might actually stain the shafts. I wasn’t sure my hair could withstand another processing.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Natalie said.
Hope was posed on her side, her face next to the laundry basket. Harsh light from the bulb overhead created dark, dramatic shadows under her eyes. The flashlight Natalie had aimed through the laundry basket created subtle slats across Hope’s cheekbones. It looked like it would be a great photograph.
Eventually Agnes appeared at the top of the stairs, suspicious. “What are you all doing down there? You better not be smoking pot or engaging in other activities. I won’t allow any of that in my house.”
Natalie kept her eye on the eyepiece of the camera and shouted, “Shut up. Leave us alone.”
“I’m warning you,” Agnes called. “I’ll speak to the doctor.”
“This was a good idea, Nat,” Hope said. “It’s nice of you to come down here and take our picture. It’s special.”
Natalie laughed. “Oh, it’s my pleasure.”
“Cut it out down there!” Agnes screamed. She was even more annoying than usual. I wanted to walk up the stairs and close the door but since I wasn’t her kid and this wasn’t my house, I couldn’t.
Hope said, “She is such a mothermind.”
“Don’t move your mouth.”
A mothermind was a Dr. Finch-ism. It was one part busybody and one part manipulator. It was based on the principle that mothering people is unhealthy after a certain point in life. Like the age of ten. A mothermind wanted to oppress and control you. If a mothermind needed money, she might say, “Do you have ten dollars?” Dr. Finch’s feeling was that it’s none of your business whether or not I have ten dollars. If you need ten dollars, say, “May I have ten dollars,” or “I need ten dollars.”
Everyone in the house was paranoid about being seen as a mothermind. And Agnes was the biggest one of all. The Antichrist of mental health and emotional maturity.
After Natalie was satisfied with her pictures, she said, “How long are you going to stay down here?”
Hope answered gravely, “As long as I need to.”
Once we were back upstairs in Natalie’s room and had stopped laughing, we wondered if maybe we should call the doctor. “It seems like she’s really serious,” I said. “Like she’s not joking.”
“Your hair looks so dry,” Natalie said. “Have you colored it again?”
“This isn’t about my hair,” I said. “But yeah, I did. I had to go a little lighter. I think it looks more natural.”
“More natural than your natural color?”
Natalie would never understand, could not understand this basic concept. She barely even washed her hair. Which was one thing I really hated about her. Because she could be so beautiful if she tried, if she wasn’t such a fat and sloppy thing. And as soon as I thought this, I tried to think of something else quickly. Because we were so close that I felt sometimes like she could read my mind.
“What’s the matter with you?” she said.
I knew it. She heard me thinking. “I’m not thinking anything,” I lied.
“What?”
“What?”
“What were you thinking? Your hair was fine.”
Phew. “What about Hope?” I said, changing the subject.
“Let’s let Dad figure it out.”
That evening when the doctor was sitting in the TV room and Hope was still downstairs in the basement with the cat in the laundry hamper, we explained the situation to Finch. He listened carefully, nodding and saying, “Yes,” and “I see.” I have to admit, I was impressed with his professionalism. He looked and sounded exactly like a real psychiatrist. Until he opened his mouth.
“Let’s ask God,” he said.
Automatically, Natalie walked to the fireplace mantle and pulled down the bible. It was sitting next to a framed black-and-white photograph of a movie marquis that read, “Tonight: Velvet Tongue.”
“Okay then, let’s ask for guidance.” The doctor closed his eyes.
Natalie fanned the pages and then opened the book.
The doctor put his finger down on the page. He opened his eyes and slid his eyeglasses down