Lori Sambol Brody
My hair stylist Michael says that ashy tones suit my hair, not warm not brassy. Ashy: scattered in the lake, floating like oil in the wake of our boat. Flakes falling as Malibu burns; a body in Pompeii crumbling. When Krakatoa spewed ash into the sky, it turned sunsets into blood across Europe. Edvard Munch screamed in despair. I’ve aspired to brassy: women in sitcoms, Helen Roper or Peggy Bundy or Edina Monsoon, resplendent in muumuus or tight capris, hair teased out to there. No need to hide what they wanted, sex or money or Jack Tripper or cocktails, rings glittering on fingers as they took the promotion hoisted a bottle of vodka stuffed dollar bills in a stripper’s g-string. Michael, color my hair brassy. Let me tell you what I want.
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Lori Sambol Brody lives in the mountains of Southern California. Her short fiction has been published in Smokelong Quarterly, Tin House Flash Fridays, New Orleans Review, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. One of her stories has appeared in the Best Small Fictions 2018 anthology. She can be found on Twitter at @LoriSambolBrody, and her website is lorisambolbrody.wordpress.com.
