6:27
Claire stood in front of the bathroom mirror, gathering her hair into a ponytail for the fifth time. The small black elastic snapped against her fingers as she pulled it tight.
She leaned closer, her breath creating fog on the glass. The edges of the white porcelain sink were cold against her palms.
Several thin hairs curved out near her temple.
A small bump appeared in her hair the tighter she pulled the ponytail.
The girl in the mirror looked wrong. The mirror was large, taking up the upper half of the wall space. So large Claire could see the entire upper half of her body in it.
Claire sighed and pulled the elastic loose. Again.
Downstairs, she heard the faint clink of plates. Her parents were already in the kitchen, preparing for the day.
Breakfast was at seven. It was always at seven, even weekends—days off from school and work.
They didn’t like it when she was late. When Claire was younger, her parents would set a kitchen timer to help her get used to how much time she should spend in the shower every morning. Another set of the kitchen timer. How much time she should spend in the bathroom after that. Nowadays she uses her phone alarm to keep the same times. 15 minutes for a shower. Thirty minutes of bathroom time.
Her school blazer hung neatly on the back of the bathroom door, the embroidered crest facing outward. Her parents liked it that way. Everything straight. Everything presentable.
Brush in her left hand, hair in her right, Claire gathered her hair again, brushing it into a new ponytail.
Twist.
Pull.
Tighten.
For a moment it looked right. Claire turned her head to the left, then to the right inspecting her work.
Then another strand slipped free.
Her jaw clenched.
Why couldn’t it just stay put? Why couldn’t it just be right?
6:36
She leaned closer to the mirror. Her nose almost bumped the glass. The stray hair curved away from the rest like it didn’t belong. Claire held the strand with her left hand and ran her right hand to the base of it.
She plucked.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head.
You should always look presentable. People always notice.
Her father’s voice echoed even louder.
You shouldn’t settle for average. You’re not average.
Claire pulled the elastic loose again and started over. Her fingers moved faster now, flattening every bump with the brush.
Another hair escaped.
Her chest tightened.
She pulled that one out too.
Tiny dark brown strands fell onto the white sink.
Downstairs a chair scraped across the floor. Her parents had moved to the dining room. Though the large mahogany table seated ten, her parents never sat together instead preferring to sit at the heads. Claire would sit in the middle, an empty chair between her and her father, two between her and her mother.
Seven o’clock means seven o’clock, her father always said. Punctuality is important in all settings, not just professional settings.
Claire twisted the elastic around her hair again.
Tighter.
Smoother.
Still wrong.
She leaned closer to the mirror, studying every inch of her face.
That’s when she saw it.
A small red bump on her chin.
Claire pressed her finger against it. She could feel the pressure of it as she ran a finger over the small bump. She knew that she shouldn’t pop pimples, but she lined it up between two fingers and squeezed anyway. The skin broke and a small spot of white appeared.
She wiped it away.
But the mark stayed red.
Still there.
Still noticeable. Her skin slightly pink around where the bump had been.
Claire leaned closer and scraped at it with her French manicured nail.
A thin line of blood surfaced.
She scratched again.
And again.
The collar of her white button up shirt scratched the back of her neck, breaking her thoughts momentarily. She instinctively itched it.
As she lifted her hand away she saw a smear of blood from her fingers had transferred to the shirt. She realized she had used too much of her father’s starch. He had taught her to iron as soon as she began going to attending St. Mary’s.
How could I have used too much starch?
Downstairs a cabinet door shut.
“Claire?” her mother called faintly. Breakfast was at seven, but both her parents expected her to be early, helping to set the table and get breakfast ready. Usually Claire was ten to fifteen minutes early, accepting the unspoken rule that you should always be early. The deadline is seven, but seven is considered already late.
Her hair felt heavy in her hands.
Twist.
Pull.
Tighten.
For a moment, another memory surfaced.
When Claire was younger, her mother used to stand behind her every morning, pulling her hair back tight before school. Hold still, she would say, impatiently pushing her face forward towards the mirror— twisting the elastic until Claire’s eyes watered.
Her heart raced.
6:42
Claire’s eyes fixed on the small red mark on her chin. Her fingers repeating the morning’s motions, trying desperately to make a straight ponytail.
Twist.
Pull.
Tighten.
Another strand slipped loose.
Her breathing grew shallow.
She yanked it out.
Then another.
Hair drifted into the sink.
She smoothed the same section twice with the hairbrush. Then again, to be sure.
Clair reached for the hairspray. The large grey can was cold in her hands. The hairspray mist was cool against her skin, yet hot and slightly burned the sections of her raw scalp.
A single eyelash on her left eye tilted away from the others.
Crooked.
Her fingers moved before she could think.
Pinch.
Pull.
The eyelash came free.
She felt nothing.
Claire stared at the tiny black thread between her fingers before dropping it into the sink.
Another lash looked uneven next to the empty space.
She pulled that one too.
Pinch.
Pull.
Drop.
Pinch.
Pull.
Drop.
Still wrong.
The sink slowly filled with strands of dark hair and scattered eyelashes. A few fell onto the front of her shirt which she brushed downwards towards the sink. A small spot of pink stayed on her shirt where she had brushed the hairs away. Blood from the pimple was still visible.
Her scalp burned.
Her eyelids stung every time she blinked.
She ran her fingers against the empty spaces where the lashes had been.
Downstairs, muffled voices drifted upward.
Claire’s eyes flicked toward her phone on the counter. She was running out of time.
6:59
Her stomach twisted.
She twisted the elastic around her ponytail again.
Harder.
Tighter.
The hair finally held still.
No stray strands.
Perfect.
Her hands trembled as she lowered them to the sink.
Hair.
Eyelashes.
She brushed everything to the side with two sweeps of her hand.
The water was cool against her hands as she washed.
Turning off the water, Claire wiped her hands against the pleated skirt of her school uniform, turned off the bathroom light, and walked downstairs.
7:06
Her parents were already seated when she entered the kitchen.
Her mother stopped spreading jam on her toast. She let out a small gasp.
Her father paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth. His eyes stayed on his daughter’s crown.
Neither of them spoke.
Claire didn’t notice.
She pulled out her chair, sat down, and reached for an orange.
Upstairs, the porcelain sink waited.