Camellia
ALLISON FRITZ '22
Kyun had been a hairdresser for a year. He didn’t make much from his job, but he enjoyed the crisp morning sunlight pouring into his salon, and the conversations he shared with his clients. At first, he wondered if he had made the right choice by choosing this career. He didn’t make significant money, and he didn’t have any holidays off. So why would he choose it, even when he had a choice? But oftentimes, people don’t have a choice in life. Life is a gamble, and you pick and choose until you win the lottery, which isn’t even a guarantee.
No matter the reason, he wanted to help people. No, he couldn't save lives like a doctor, he couldn’t prescribe medicine like a psychiatrist, he couldn’t bring justice like a lawyer. But he always wanted to save someone in his own way. Because someone told him once, “Being a hero doesn’t mean you do something big and grand and everyone loves you. Being a hero means doing something to help someone even if you might not get anything out of it.”
“...of course we clean.” Felix snapped back. “Sorry. This is really important to me.” “I can tell. Alright then, bring it in and we’ll see what we can do.” Felix seemed awfully desperate to have the flower back to health. The hairdresser couldn’t figure out why, but he decided to keep the boy’s mind at peace. It was a small favor anyways. Felix did as he was told, and the flower started growing well in the sunlight. He decided to keep it at the salon permanently in a white pot in the corner of the room. He thought it was growing so successfully because of the sunlight. He didn’t know until years later that the hairdresser had taken extra care in watering the camellia routinely. People would probably make fun of him if they knew he cared so much about a flower, but the thought of it thriving made him smile. He thought of the old planter that once held the flower in his house, pristine until it got smashed. After the soil spilled from the pot, they stopped bothering to clean the house. Felix didn’t ask for a new planter, because at least the fighting stopped. He walked past an empty street one day, and paused when he saw a splash of pink and red against the backdrop of a grey landscape. A camellia flower sat in a porcelain planter on the doorstep of a house.
Felix used to get his haircut at a little salon located at the corner of a small shopping area. His mother had asked him if he preferred to go to a fancy salon, one that charged one hundred dollars per cut, and came with a massage, but he was young, so of course he had no need for those things. She brought him to the salon every few months, even when his slow growing hair was out of his face, because his father had insisted that his hair was a “bird’s nest” every time it grew a few inches beyond his ears. It was boring and he had to sit in the uncomfortable chair, but his hairdresser always finished in a matter of minutes, as Felix’s hair didn’t take long to cut. When he got a little older, he always insisted on coming to this salon, because the process was so easy. Every time he went, he noticed that the salon had a new addition. Maple wood flooring to the reception area. A mint green electronic fan. Soft blues painted onto the walls. Monstera and cacti growing from white porcelain planters. “Why do you have those specific plants?” Felix asked the hairdresser one day. The hairdresser laughed. “Because those can still thrive even if they’re neglected. I tend to forget to water these plants. They’re one of the only things you can neglect and still bear no consequences.” “My mother says they thrive well because of the sunlight. You have a lot of windows here.” “That must be it.” He snipped off a strand of Felix’s hair. “So can I bring my plant here? It’s a camellia, and it’s wilting.” “...A camellia?” “Yes, I need it to grow here. Our house is too dusty, and its petals are getting ugly.” “Oh? Do you...not clean? A camellia...will grow back next year, won’t it?” He didn’t mean to speak so coldly, but the hairdresser wondered how a dirty house would make a plant deteriorate.
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R E T R O S P EC T P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L
Giselle wore oversized sweaters that might have been hand-me-downs, or a garment from a lover. At least that is what she liked to imagine. In reality, it was because she bought men’s clothing from a warehouse supermarket, when she realized that she could get brand name clothing for a better price that actually came with real pockets instead of ones that were sewed on. People said she had a keen eye for observation. Speaking of eyes, she had an eye smile so that when she laughed her eyes became crescent moons. She was polite and attentive, and brought her laptop to the hair salon to work on something. After her session finished, she always immediately deleted her laptop’s search history. After all, she was shopping online for knives, took notes on which weapons could cause fatal injuries, and knew what sold well on the black market. She knew that the hairdresser would glance at her screen, as she saw his shaking eyes in the reflection of the mirror. Giselle wondered if he would report her to the police, so she decided to be honest. “I’m an aspiring writer.” She told him. “The research you saw was for my writing. The knives are for my grandaunt, you see. She loves to cook.” He paused, seeming more suspicious than before. “Oh. I see. That’s lovely.” “...would you read a book like that? About crime, I mean.” This was the first time she asked him a question that was unrelated to his job. “Um, maybe? I’m not sure.” “Because my writing seems to always get rejected. So I was just wondering if I was taking the wrong approach.” “Hm. Maybe you are. If you would like, you can write some drafts and bring them. I’ll read them and tell you what I think.”
