Not so long ago, I was a 32 year-old blonde woman. I wore makeup almost every day and had a serious lipstick collection. I read books and went on trips, and sometimes I even went on dates. I traveled to Ireland for a wedding and spent three days celebrating the newlywed couple, surrounded by old and new friends. I saw movies in theaters. I exercised in gyms. On weeknights after work I’d sometimes sit at the bar at the Culver Hotel and drink Ruby Slippers while writing in my journal. When I walked down the street, strangers of all races and genders would approach me to say, “I love your hair.” I can hardly believe that was my life.
More recently, I was a 33 year-old bald woman. I wore makeup on days I wanted to look femme, but I mostly went bare-faced and browless. In the morning I often felt angry and at night I often felt nothing. I baked banana bread and mailed postcards and did push-ups in my kitchen when I had enough energy. If my mom called to invite me over for dinner I’d disclose everything I’d done for the last 14 days and insist on eating outside. When I felt claustrophobic I’d spray sunscreen on my head, throw on a mask, and take a long walk. I looked like a Mad Max extra and felt peacefully invisible. In the morning I’d wake up and drink a pot of coffee and leave irate messages for the Attorney General. I can hardly believe that was my life, either.
These days, I’m a 34 year-old brunette woman. I wear mascara for important (?) zoom meetings, but if I have plans to meet a friend I might also wear eyeliner. I insist on patio seating and love being asked for my vaxx card. I’m less nervous around my parents and I’ve misplaced my pulse oximeter. People who know me comment on how well my hair has grown out. On most weekdays I roll out of bed at 9am and spend the morning in my underwear with the blinds drawn. As I sip my tea I tell myself to enjoy this new routine as best I as can. Is this it, though? Is this my life?
None of these women are ghosts because all of these women are me. I am Blonde Steff and Bald Steff and Brunette Steff, and we’ve all been hunkered down together for the last year and a half. We’ve marveled at the grey hairs on our left temple and worried over the deepening lines in our neck. We’ve made each other laugh. We’ve helped each other kill cockroaches. We’ve cheered each other on when there’s work to be done and giggled triumphantly when there’s no work in sight. At the end of the day we pass around a joint and get into bed. Sometimes we ogle Brad. Sometimes we ogle Leo. We trash Paul Hollywood for being a jerk and we clap whenever Mero falls out of his chair. We often stay up later than we should, and when we finally close the laptop and turn off the lights, we somehow feel like we’ve lost.
Sometimes, the hopelessness creeps in. We’ll see a headline about new variants, and for a minute or so we just can’t find the point. Brunette Steff will cry for a few seconds and feel concerned that she can’t cry more.
“There’s so much more to do,” insists Blonde Steff. “It’s not over for us.”
A few months ago, when we moved into the new apartment, we got busy throwing stuff away. We helped each other break down cardboard boxes and took a serious look at the sock drawer. Eventually we found an open pack of condoms and checked the expiration date on each individual wrapper.
“I have until Halloween,” said Brunette Steff.
“I wonder when I bought these,” said Blonde Steff.
“I thought I got rid of ‘em,” said Bald Steff.
Sometimes Blonde Steff likes to look at pictures of herself. She scrolls through her phone and smiles while admiring her manicured appearance. She remembers hitting the gym three times a week and mostly eating whatever she wanted. She remembers walking a mile to spin class after work and then walking back home all sweaty and euphoric. Her chin was angular and she loved seeing the reflection of her rounded biceps in the mirror when she blow-dried her hair. Her body had never been stronger, and her connection to her body had never been better. Despite all this, she couldn’t give herself a break. If she skipped a gym class, she was lazy. If she ate Taco Bell, she was a failure.
“I can’t believe you ever talked to yourself like that,” says Brunette Steff.
“I mean, look at me here!” she exclaims, holding up the phone for us to see. “I’m like, buff! Like, what is this outfit? For God’s sake — I’m wearing hip-huggers and a crop top like that’s a normal thing to do!”
“Hey, I’m cute too,” says Brunette Steff, “I just need to sleep for a month.”
Bald Steff smiles and raises an eyebrow.
“I never felt cute,” she says. “I felt like Bruce fucking Willis.”
We know what she means by this. Bald Steff was the most cooped up of all of us. She wasn’t allowed to go out after 4pm and she fell asleep to the sound of circling helicopters. She needed a change of scenery. She needed an escape. She needed to reinvent herself as a person who looked like they could handle whatever was coming next. On the night she shaved her head, she put on a heroic amount of makeup while drinking a glass of white wine. She then put on a bikini and cut holes in a trash bag before slipping it over her head. An hour later, when she lowered the clippers and looked in the mirror, she didn’t see beauty; she saw power.
“You really are Bruce fucking Willis,” says Brunette Steff. “You’ve seen a lotta shit.”
Recently, there came a point where Brunette Steff needed a break. She felt too acquainted with the white walls and yellow bedspread. Everything she had to look forward to seemed like a vague suggestion with an implied “We’ll see.” One day in August, right after reading her horoscope, she suddenly knew what to do.
“I’m going on a roadie,” she said.
“Are you going up North?!” Blonde Steff asked.
Bald Steff had other questions. She started to imagine condemned buildings and gas station bathrooms and unmasked strangers in crowded hotel lobbies.
“Where are you gonna stay?” she asked. “What are you even gonna do?”
“She’ll hang out with people she trusts and eat dinner on restaurant patios!” answered Blonde Steff. “She’ll still be her damn self. It’s just a roadie.”
Bald Steff nodded. “I know. I’m scared.”
“Of course you are,” said Blonde Steff. “We all are. But we’re also dangerously bored.”
Brunette Steff spent a week in Northern California at the beginning of September. Bald Steff made her do a PCR test before she left, and also bought her antigen tests she could take during the trip. To keep Brunette Steff away from gas station bathrooms, Bald Steff bought these things you pee into called Travel Janes. Some people suggested she was going above and beyond with the protocol, but she disagreed; Brunette Steff’s peace of mind was worth everything.
Blonde Steff overdid the packing. She insisted on bodysuits and tank tops and all the red lipstick in the makeup drawer.
“Do you want to bring any condoms?” whispered Blonde Steff.
“They have condoms in North California,” whispered Brunette Steff.
“I want you to have fun,” whispered Blonde Steff. “I want you to have everything.”
Her trip was perfect. She spent the first weekend in Berkeley staying with a beloved friend and her delightful roommate. They ate breakfast while listening to Sonny and Cher and ate pasta while listening to Dean Martin. One afternoon they drove an hour and a half to Pescadero to get a pie at a place called The Pie Ranch. They wore scarves on their heads and had the kind of balls-out, raw conversation Brunette Steff had been craving. After a few days she drove to San Francisco and stayed in a hotel at the gates of Chinatown. She ate clam and garlic pizza in North Beach with a friend she met in college and drank coconut milk cocktails in Marin with a friend she met in Ireland. She spent a day with her cousin who lives in the Mission and ate dumplings for lunch and eggplant parm for dinner. She didn’t worry about fitting into her bodysuits; for the first time in centuries, she didn’t worry about anything.
One night, while she was sitting outside Vesuvio Cafe nursing a whiskey and scribbling in her journal, a man called to her as he walked by.
“Be careful with your poetry,” he said.
She wasn’t writing poetry, but she was still listening.
“A few years ago I wrote something that was pretty devastating, and then a few years later everything came crashing down. These walls…these walls are powerful.”
“I’ll be careful,” she replied.
After he walked away, she looked back down at her journal and wrote down everything she wanted. Everything.
“There we fucking go,” whispered Blonde Steff. “We’re still in this.”
I am a 34 year-old brunette woman. I stay up later than I used to and sleep in later than I used to because that’s what I need right now. I don’t cry about tight bodysuits because that’s a stupid thing to cry about, and I never worry about what people think of my hair. I miss the bar at the Culver Hotel, but I’m grateful for that night at Vesuvio when I put pen to paper and dared to name what I still intend to get. There are days when I feel bored. There are days when I feel angry. There are days when I look in the mirror and think, “You’re really getting it all done, aren’t ya?” I’m a platinum blonde. I’m Bruce fucking Willis. This is my life. For now.