PUNK PROSE: Free to Be by Laura Stamps

Mange. The latest treatments, pills, shampoos. That’s what this article is about. On the next page. In this dog magazine. Okay, okay. I confess. I watch a lot of dog videos. On YouTube. I do. And I’ve seen those mange videos. Dogs rescued from the street. Their skin. Gray as granite with mange. Poor hairless doggies. So sad. So painful. Not my favorite videos. Too, too sad. But transformation videos? Love them! Can’t get enough of them. Neglected dogs covered in mats. Dogs that look like haystacks with paws. No eyes. No nose. No face. No kidding. Just moving mounds of fur. Ropes of hairy mats trailing behind them. Aliens on earth. That’s what they look like. But then, but then. Someone rescues them. Takes them to a groomer. And they’re transformed. Free to be the beautiful dogs they were meant to be. This. This I can relate to. Because, because. I was transformed. Ten years ago. Not that I had mange. Or tons of mats. (Horrors!) But I had hair. And lots of it. Long, silky, waist-length hair. Pulled back in a ponytail. Curled at the ends. That was me. But, but, but. Then I escaped. To the beach. To North Carolina. Left my hoarder husband. The man with anger management issues. Left him. Me. No longer his wife. No longer her. That woman. Me. His wife. No longer. What did I do? Found an apartment. Found a job. Found a beauty shop. In that order. “This,” I said to the beautician, when I sat down in her chair. “This is what I want.” She frowned at me in the mirror. “Are you sure?” she said, as her fingers combed my long, silky hair. “Yes,” I said, pointing to a photo I’d ripped from a fashion magazine. “Absolutely.” Surrounded by hair. Me. An hour later. Just like the dogs in the grooming videos. Piles of hair. Mine. All over the floor. And I couldn’t stop smiling. My transformation. Complete. Short, layered, light, bouncy. Fun, fun, fun! New hair. New life. New me. At the beach. Now. At last. Finally. I’m free.   

--Laura Stamps