Pinned
I forgot again. It’s hard to remember the little piece of metal with a plastic head. Maybe only two inches—how am I supposed to remember that? Much less be able to find one when I do remember. Sure, I’m a dancer, we have them all over the place, but they like to hide. In the sink, the shower, behind the lotion bottle, under socks and leotards. It’s not like they’re easily seen, or stored for that matter. Bobby pins are a pain.
Ouch! Found one. It’s convenient that the RB houses every dancer on campus, and that every dancer is forgetful. Bobby pins are everywhere—if you know how to look for them. Just walking around you are bound to step on a rogue pin somewhere along the hall or in the studios. It really keeps costs down, all this recycling of pins. I pick it up—good enough.
The metal pin scrapes between my teeth and my tongue moves it over to the side so I can still breathe through my mouth. My hands are pre-occupied—twirling my hair around my fingers, creating the perfect bun, a cinnamon roll right on top of my head. The bun secured, my left hands sweeps across the front side of my head, gathering the bangs and fly-aways, pulling them back toward the bun. Finally, the bobby pin is separated by my tongue, the bottom half held securely between my four front teeth while my right hand opens the prongs then pinches the pin away, sliding it over the loose hair and pinning it down to my head. I’m ready for the music.
I can feel the pin digging into my scalp, reminding me to thank Mr. Bob Lepine for creating the bob back in the 1920’s. It was Irene Castle though, a dancer, who marked the new trend ten years before Bob claimed it. She was beautiful, the perfect mover. Her body was graceful and fluid as her husband and partner, Vernon, swept her across the floor. Turns out the girls who chopped their hair off—wishing to look like Irene, a little more modern, a little more independent—had trouble with the short hair and needed a good pin to secure their new styles. Here enters Bob, what would a dancer today do without him?
I look at myself in the mirror, left tilt to passé, then ronde jambe for a prep—double turn. Hair in face. Land.
Great, I picked a loose bobby pin up from the ground. The hold was lame, the jaws of the pin relaxed and unwilling to stay in place. It was black, shocking against my blonde hair.
I sigh, gathering the front portion of hair up again, trying to weave it through more stable hair so that the pin doesn’t have to do all the work. But I know it’s useless. This will happen every time.
It’s one thing if the pin is used for show—a jeweled end, or maybe it’s bright green to show off your summer blonde locks. It’s different if there are two pins; one crossing over the other so the stability is twofold, matching the increase of pain to your scalp. It’s an entirely different situation if the pin actually makes you look cuter, placing your bangs in the perfect side sweep across your forehead for a more demure do.
But this pin is doing none of those things. This pin is a piece of scrap metal, picked up rom the floor of studio 186 in the RB. Probably used by at least three girls before me, their sweat caked on the metal bars, their saliva hanging on to the inside prongs—this pin has a story. I mark its end as I drop it in the trashcan on my way out the heavy wood doors.
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