Chapter 4 – Head Aches

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Sonny had been sadly mistaken about that bag. Bitty took a pair of sharp scissors from the tote -- which didn't hold make-up, or drag clothes -- and cut the rubber band that was holding Bonnie's scraggly hair out of her face. Once that was done, Bitty began to skillfully shear off inches of the ebony mane.

It was like watching Da Vinci paint the "Mona Lisa" for all Sonny knew about it. He'd always been fascinated with the grooming habits of girls: the manicured nails, the hairless limbs, the painted faces, the tucking and tightening they go through to look good in clothes when it counts, and the careful precision in which they style their hair. The latter fascinated Sonny the most because he was currently bearing witness to how it is done.

Bonnie sat Indian-style on a clear spot on the floor while Bitty sat behind her on the bed, her bony legs on either side of her friend's shoulders. Bonnie cupped her hands to catch the sheared strands falling around her and dropped them in the wastebasket beside the bed. Sonny noted her hair no longer touched her shoulders, but rested just below her chin, and a fringe of dark tresses now dusted her eyelashes. Bitty produced a hot curling iron next, and systematically took thin layers of black hair and curled them into loose spirals.

With Bonnie on the floor with her head down and Bitty preoccupied, rather than ask questions that may result in breaking Bitty's concentration and Bonnie having a lopsided haircut, Sonny's eyes admired the odd couple. When she stood next to him he figured Bonnie was about five foot seven inches, she was what some might call "voluptuous" and particularly well endowed bust-wise. Bitty was short and shaped like ply wood. When she looked at him, Bonnie's eyes gleamed like black obsidian stones. Bitty's eyes reminded Sonny of those Japanese anime cartoons – round and unreal. Bonnie's angular face was soft and serious all at the same time with high cheekbones and pouty lips like little pillows. Bitty's baby face was circular, her button nose splattered with little brown freckles that spilled onto the apples of her cheeks. Bonnie's skin was like the color of good honey, and Bitty's complexion rivaled his own – if he had a healthy, permanent tan.

"Voilà!" Bitty proclaimed proudly. Finished.

Bonnie's hair was now coiffed to frame her face. She got to her feet and came toward Sonny with sure steps.

The haircut instantly instilled confidence in her that she didn't possess earlier. Her eyes no longer gleamed, they pierced; and her new bangs softened her elongated face. Bonnie stared at him, and if Sonny was supposed to know what the look meant it flew over his head. He felt like he was in high school again, when the popular girl catches you looking at her, but she doesn't flick you off, she smiles. The corner of Bonnie's lips rose, as if they were being tugged by an invisible string, flashing dimples he hadn't realized she had.

*

"Sit, Sonny Boy." Bitty says with such finality that he dared not protest and did as he was told. The fact that she was commanding him to do things like some lapdog was only an afterthought.

Somehow the roles had been reversed. Bitty was in the sofa chair he'd recently vacated; he and Bonnie kneeled on the floor, the soft carpet padding their knees. Bitty patted a denim-clad thigh.

"Well? C'mon."

Sonny squinted, an idle hand going to scratch his stubbing chin, and he looked to Bonnie beside him for answers. "I'm not sure I'm followin', what do y'all want, 'xactly?"

"We want to do your hair." Bonnie said carefully. Bitty nodded once in agreement.

"Right. Was that so hard to say, Bonnie?"

Bonnie sucked her teeth, waving a hand Bitty's way dismissively. The color drained from Sonny's face.

"No, y'all ain't playin' 'Beauty Shop' with my hair. I ain't no queer."

"Well, it's a good thing we ain't playin' 'Beauty Shop', huh?" Bonnie rolled her eyes. She was getting more confident, and subsequently rash. She began to crawl towards him, like a prowling cat, forcing him to move back on his haunches until Bitty's chair blocked his retreat.

"What're doin'?" Bonnie sat perpendicular across his prone legs, thus immobilizing him. Just like that, he had an understandably masculine moment of weakness. He couldn't complain much about this predicament: Bitty's calves came around to lightly brush his biceps, her hands on his shoulders; Bonnie's face was within kissing distance. He should be on cloud nine right now, but -- at a risk of sounding vain -- he couldn't help to be a bit anxious about what they had in mind for his hair.

"What does it look like?" Bonnie scoffed, her speaking caused her to wiggle over him and he briefly closed his eyes and concentrated on not getting too excited. He clenched his fists at his sides. Bonnie laughed and moved again. "Don't flatter yourself, Sonny. If you weren't such a spook I might not've had to sit on you to make sure you'd hold still."

Sonny's hand shot out to touch her leg just above her knee - successfully stilling her movements - he matched her challenging gaze. "Stop that."

Bonnie got the message and heeded his stern warning and stopped moving forthwith. She focused on equally distributing her weight so as not to sever the blood circulation to his legs. He felt Bitty's fingers pull playfully at his hair… hair that didn't know whether or not it wanted to be blond or brown, curly or straight.

"Hope you're not tender-headed."

*

Bitty was doing something painful to his scalp. He felt as her little fingers pulled and released strands of hair every few seconds, making tedious and hurtful work of whatever she'd been doing for the past half an hour. "It's a surprise," Bonnie said, refusing to give him a mirror to monitor progress, or make sure Bitty didn't pull out the scissors, for that matter. Bitty tugs at a tuft of hair above his right temple, he winces, the backs of his eyes begin to burn with unwarranted tears.

"Beauty is pain." Bitty chirps melodiously, he couldn't see her, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

Bonnie was dozing in his arms, albeit a bed was just a few feet away. In her haste to rest she forgot weighing him down wasn't supposed to entail this much body contact. Her back was flush against his front, using him as a human recliner, her neck crooked in a way he knew would hurt once she awoke eventually. She smelled faintly of the honeysuckles that blossomed all over this time of year, and seemed to fit perfectly laid against his body like this... He fought to harness the pain at his scalp and another sort of painful discomfort permeating in his groin. He should be given a medal for tolerating such cruel and unusual punishment.

"Done." Bitty scoots the chair back and stands, stretching, then moved to her dresser, finding a hot pink hand mirror in seconds. Sonny's handed the mirror -- Bonnie groans, then snuggles into him closer -- he freezes, thinking he'd woken her. Bitty takes the mirror back and holds it in front of him...

"Braids?"

"Cornrows." Bitty amends tersely. The hand that's not hugging Bonnie comes up to touch the neat plaits weaving vertically down his scalp - he grimaces at the taunt weavings. Bitty runs through the precautions like a doctor lecturing a patient. "Don't touch them for a'coupla hours, they're going to be sore. Don't scratch either -- that's a no-no..." she looks to the ceiling thoughtfully. "Tomorrow you can take them down and your hair will be even curlier."

"A'right..." He looks down at Bonnie, who's still peacefully snoozing in his lap, her wavy black hair covers half her face. He gently shakes her shoulder but she doesn't budge. He's restless and his ass is beginning to go numb from sitting on the floor and he knew it was well after dinnertime and he'd have to drop Bonnie off... but first she had to wake up.

"Don't." Bitty bends at the waist, eye level with him now, gesturing to Bonnie. "She doesn't like to be woken up... she can stay here t'night."

Sonny considers. If he leaves her with a friend, it'll look better than driving her home late at night -- he didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. "Will you call her folks and tell 'em where she's at?"

Bitty shakes her head yes.

"Fine."

They'd successfully placed Bonnie in Bitty's guest room without stirring her much. Now Sonny stood aimlessly in the room, contemplating the day. Bonnie lay unawares in bed on her side -- still dressed except for shoes -- with a sheet pulled up to her stomach. He couldn't recall a time where he was welcomed, unquestioningly, into another person's home. He'd met Bitty seven hours earlier yet she didn't have any qualms about accepting him into her home like a vagrant needing shelter from a storm – and trusting him alone with her slumbering friend. He wondered why it was so easy for the girls to trust him like this after having known each other for such little time. Just as quickly as he thought it, another voice inside him denounced the pessimistic notions, for he meant the girls no harm, and all they wanted to do was play in his hair, and that was the gist of it.

On a whim, he slowly sat on the edge on the bed, then -- very slowly -- laid down on his side, gingerly propping his braided head up on his elbow facing Bonnie. She looked to be in the throes of a bad dream. He could make out her eyes moving underneath her closed eyelids, indicating a deep slumber. Her lips parted mutely, and Sonny waved a hand in front of her, at which she didn't respond. He was torn between interfering and subsequently finding out what Bitty meant about Bonnie not liking her sleep disturbed, or coming off as a sadist for having done nothing while she struggled.

He didn't have to decide.

A toilet flushes somewhere, and he bolts up and off the bed. Bonnie lethargically swipes at the empty spot he left, still fast asleep. He met Bitty in the twilight-dark of the hallway, but he'd walked from one conundrum right into another.

Bitty had been saying something but it might as well have fallen on deaf ears. See, he happened to look up behind her, and there in a small alcove inserted into the wall was an old military photo of a young man with a severe look on his face like most army men. He wore a military uniform with a lot of badges pinned proudly above his heart. His hat was pulled tightly over his cynical eyes, familiar looking eyes, only younger. Sonny let out a string of curses; Bitty followed his gaze, turning to look at the photo he was gawking at.

"Sonny... It's just a picture of my daddy."

"Dappa..." he whispered. Now he knew what that ominous feeling he had before meeting Bitty was – he worked with her father. Dappa Smith, a trusted member of Hank Grotowski's Death Row security team at the local penitentiary for twelve years.

"Do you work with my dad?" Bitty asked, her voice had an avid lilt to it, like she was meeting her favorite pop star. Sonny felt a wave of sickness wash over him. Bitty's eyes brightened in revelation. "Bonnie said you were a guard, are you on the Death Squad too?"

"Bitty..." He started, that name didn't exactly roll off one's tongue. He wanted to scream at her, try to make her see why this was no laughing matter. He was "Hank's Boy" at Jackson, and he already got shit from the vets, not excluding Dappa, that he was too young and inexperienced to guard Death Row. There was talk that Hank made some exceptions for his son, but no one could prove it. Sonny knew the truth. Truth was, he'd been bred to become an authoritative figure, preferably going into the family business of being a correctional officer. Come to think of it, Sonny had no choice but to be a CO, he was cut no slack and constantly had to prove he was worth his salt. So one could understand why Sonny didn't want Dappa or any of the naysayers to feel validated about objecting to Hank's decision to bring his son into Death Row.

Bitty giggled, not noticing Sonny's anxiety. "You are, aren't you? That's pretty... pretty badass. Where are you going?"

"You know nothing about it." Sonny was unhinged by the time he made it into the family room. Bitty's voice floated to his ears and his hand paused on the doorknob of the front door.

"You're not leaving until you tell me why you're high-tailin' it out of here like a fire's under your ass."

She was at his elbow now - if he opened the door it'd hit her. He let go of the doorknob and faced her; it wasn't hard to manage to loom over the small girl. "What would your old man say if the son of his boss was in his home, with his seventeen-year-old daughter...?"

Bitty fixed him with a sidelong glance, as if she'd expected him to say more.

But nothing else needed to be said, fraternizing even platonically with Bitty was like treading on thin ice for Sonny. If he got wind of this, Dappa would castrate him and his family's name wouldn't be worth squat at Jackson anymore.

"I don't know where you're getting' at… but if it makes you feel better, I'll tell Daddy we were playing 'Beauty Shop.'"

Sonny's frown deepened and he gave her a warning look. "S'not funny, Bitty."

Bitty threw her fiery head back and shook with laughter. For such an attractive girl, she sure had an ugly laugh -- more like a chortle -- or that's what Sonny thought in his fit of contempt. She covered her mouth, snorted, then burst with laughter again, soon her mirth lolled and she was able to form sentences again. "I'll worry about Dappa, you go on home. I won't hold you up anymore."

"You seem mighty sure o' yourself, Girl." Sonny opened the door when Bitty stepped back into the room. The night was cool, clear and the sound of cicadas and crickets skittering nonstop in the treetops filled the air. Bitty smirked saucily, in the sparse light her eyes glowed like two dull flames.

"I am."