It was a Friday evening at about 6 or 7, and I was out with a group of friends from work who had essentially migrated from the office on Fifth Avenue to a small bar just around the corner. It had been a long day, and I didn’t necessarily want to be out- I wanted to be home, really. And I didn’t really want to be with a crowd of people getting drunk. And a bit louder than I was in the mood for. I wanted quiet and solitude but also kind of felt pulled along by them. So I’d followed them and sipped at a beer while they drank cocktails, laughed, gossiped, and picked at snacks at the bar. I reminded myself that they were all my friends. Really, we had been for years, and they were all good people, and a half hour or so was just a tiny piece of the weekend that I really badly needed. 

But as that half-hour mark hit, the bar was getting crowded, and my friends were getting louder, and someone was starting karaoke. So I finished the beer I’d been nursing all that time and started to slide away from them. It was still a pleasant buzz, just kind of softening the irritation of the noise and crowd. But I’d either have to leave or get drunk. And I didn’t feel like getting drunk. So I raised my hand to wave, said something about being tired, and moved towards the door. 

That’s when I saw her. What struck me was how small and vulnerable she looked. Young. Maybe 22 or 23, dressed in tan-colored yoga pants and a matching tan long-sleeved, untucked business shirt. She was watching the crowd and taking in all the distinct noises with the intensity of a cat. Eyes moving from point to point, her head making small abrupt movements like a driver watching the road ahead-  it made me think that she was not only watching but also listening. And as her head moved, her hair- jet black, almost obsidian colored, reflected light from around her. Strobes, light from a flatscreen TV. Even the flare of cigarette lighters. Her head moved as if even her ears were attuned to the sounds of laughter and voices and glasses clinking. Then she saw me, and her eyes went wide. She seemed like she was in trouble. So I quickly set down the beer glass that I didn’t realize I was still carrying and spoke softly. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes had fixated on the movement of my hand, and she seemed to become smaller and thinner, pulling back into her seat. “No.”

I was careful to not move a muscle. “Do you need help? Are you hurt?”

Again, a simple, flat, hard “No”. 

And suddenly I felt like there was a reason to stay. I couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that she was not part of the noisy crowd. I won’t lie- she was pretty, and that probably played a part in my decision. But really there was just something about her that made me want to talk to her. She was in a place where she didn’t belong (and judging by her clothing, hadn’t planned to be) and yet she wasn’t moving. Again, like a cat, cornered and agitated and assessing the situation. And the fact that she was interacting with me and not, apparently, withdrawing from me, meant that she accepted me on some level. “I’m going to sit.” But what I did, in deference to her agitated state, was turn a chair around at the closest table and sat there. So we could talk without me intruding on her space. 

“First time here?” It sounded dumb coming out, but how else to start a conversation with someone you don’t know? 

“No,” she answered. I started to wonder at that point. The third solitary, hard, flat ‘no’. But then she turned her head slightly towards the people I’d walked in with. “Your friends.” It really wasn’t a question. It seemed more of a challenge. A statement.

“No. Well, work friends. You know, I don’t really know them outside of work. If I didn’t work with them, I wouldn’t know them.”

“I watched you,” she said, still sounding as guarded as her repeated ‘no’. “You didn’t want to be there. You nursed your beer and left quickly.”

“I really didn’t want to come. But people pull you in.”

“They’re noisy. I wouldn’t want to be with them either.” She was watching me, as if for my reaction. 

As if to underscore her observation, there was a sudden crash of glasses as a tray overturned, and her head moved sharply to track it. A flash of strobe glinted off her eyes, lighting them for a moment like a cat’s eyes caught in a flash. Her hair reflected the same light, and my eyes were drawn to the unusual effect. Her pupils suddenly dilated as if I’d become a target. Almost a potential threat. “Why are you watching my hair?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen hair like yours. It’s so reflective. Like black glass.”

Her pupils narrowed, which had the unusual effect of softening her appearance. “It’s just hair.” I got the impression that she was evaluating me at that point. Wondering if she could trust me. Then she smiled- but only for a second. Like a switch being turned on then quickly off. “You can touch it if you want. Only one hand.”

I stood carefully, as I was hesitant to break the moment of trust and openness. As I moved very slowly towards her, hyper aware of the movement of my hand raising slowly, I watched her eyes. They were dilated again, focused on me, tracking my movement- not just of my hand, but my eyes, legs, and torso. As if she half expected to be attacked. So I kept my hand as far from her head as I could. Towards the uneven ends of her extraordinary hair. Where it fell loosely and randomly (that was the only random thing about her. Everything else was controlled) across her shoulders. Rather than take her hair between my fingers, lest she see that as an attempt to control her, I ran them carefully through the black locks. And I was surprised to find her hair not silky, as it looked, but brittle. Like straw. 

She must have seen a reaction in my eyes, because she pulled away from me, sinking even further into the chair. “So what? Yours is no better. Who cares what you think anyway?”

“No, it’s beautiful,” I replied as I sat back down. “I’m sorry. Please don’t-.”

“I don’t care. I really don’t. Everyone says the same thing. I was made cheap, that’s all.” That seemed such an odd thing to say that I was dumbstruck. She seemed to sense my confusion. “That’s why I don’t have any friends. Why I’m stuck here, putting up with strangers wanting to touch my hair.”

That sudden turn to cruelty seemed so purely defensive that I wasn’t insulted. But I also didn’t want to accidentally hurt her again, so I stood and began to turn towards the door. “Look, I’m sorry. I hope you-.”

“No, don’t, please.” Her eyes narrowed again- her face softening and her voice pleading. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just hurt. And I can’t-. I can’t-.”

I sat back down, but didn’t know what to say to her. “What? How can I help?”

“You can’t. It’s okay. Please. I really don’t have any friends. I can’t afford them. You should probably go. But you can stay if you want. Really, I’m fine.  I just need-.”

Her words stopped there. Her eyes were wide open and dilated again. They were locked on me . But as I shifted in my chair, waiting for her to continue, I saw that her eyes had stopped tracking me. I stood again, slowly and carefully. Her eyes were still directed where they’d been when she stopped talking. “Hey? Are you okay?” I was ready for another defensive insult, but she was still and silent. The only movement was the play of reflected light on her incredible hair. “Hey!” Still nothing. So I reached out to her arm, and it was as I’d feared. Cold and hard. I moved my hand gingerly down towards her hand, finally pulling the sleeve gently up past her wrist. And what I found was confusing but at the same time somehow not surprising. She was made of wood. Real wood. Beautifully hand-carved. Smooth, except for where someone had tried to burn her. And further up the arm, they’d managed to cut into her. It was jagged and ugly and cruel, and as I sat there gently rubbing her beautiful yet scarred arm, I caught a splinter that drew blood. I pulled my hand back, gasping. How fragile and beautiful she’d been.