HAIRSPRAY (1998) is a musical film by John Waters. It was adapted into a stage play in 2002, and also remade in 2007.
12/08/09 | Film

Hairspray

by Kim Chinquee

Before she’d even heard of the results, she found the scissors and went to work on her hair, cutting one section, then spraying it. Looking in the mirror, deciding what was next. There were different colors and certain parts stuck out more than others and she was balding in one spot just like her sister and her mother. Dang, she said, then stopped to hear the whoosh, the bongos on the speaker, thinking she also needed an upgrade on her software, hearing of how other people were downloading and saving on their iPods, and she had no clue, couldn’t even figure the thing her son had given her last Christmas, so she wouldn’t have to carry her player so heavy in her hand while she was running in her races. The next section had a curl, so she bunched the thing between her fingers, like she’d seen the girls do at the salon. She figured she was smarter than them, it couldn’t be hard, so she did that, and then snip, and that curl was history. She watched it fall in to the sink, thinking she had more hair than she’d realized. She heard some people squabble from the outside, from her open window, and she thought of squabbling, but there was no one for her to squabble to, or with. Her son was gone, and she was about to move herself, but there were also results. She’d have to wait for the results. She got the other mirror and held it up so she could see the back side of her hair cut. It was uneven. Dang, she said. And she put the mirror down and picked the scissors up again. She closed her eyes and held the scissors to her head, opening and closing, opening and closing, as if she were back in kindergarten in an art class, and she thought of that. Glue and cardboard, and a boy who’d tried to kiss her. No one was kissing her now and she was even fat then, her back. She opened her eyes, noticing her cheekbones. Higher now, with her uneven hair cut. The doctors had told her that her bones were getting hollow, and that was only a small part of what they called the situation. She took the mirror, lifting, finding it kind of heavy, and then she let it down again. She picked up the scissors, and she cut. She closed her eyes and cut. She closed and cut and closed and cut. She kept on and ran her hand over her head, and then she cut some more. She kept on like that. She continued until there was nothing left to cut, and she picked up the mirror.