I find myself in the backstage area of an enormous proscenium theatre, complete with 1,000 pound crimson curtains and an inch-thick coat of black paint on all the brick, walls, doors, etc. There is some high-production show going on, and I seem to be a part of it, although the cast indicates differently. I see mostly high-schoolers, specifically, those I knew all throughout my childhood.
While preparations are being made for opening night, or a stressful wet-tech, some insufferable girl I’ve known since kindergarten is tasked with cleaning up my neckline. I remember this one sported bobbed hair since before 9/11, and her personality came of age with her hairstyle. She was a prototypical bitch, entirely convinced she was a perfectly nice person. Anyway. She held clippers to my hair, so naturally a fuck-up was in store for me.
She sheared off her own personal runway of hair, from the base of my neck all the way up to the crown of my head. I heard her eke out a mouse-giggle from behind me as she observed her work.
Embarrassed, I proceed to verbally mutilate her, with the entire cast as my audience. The whirr of pre-show movement and nerves arrests in time to watch my work. No dream-impotence here, I work with precision and detachment. My embarrassment defected, detonating its new handler from inside. Oh, and it is sweet. She is broken, and storms out crying.
The rest of this dream is spent wondering around the theatre, taking everyone’s pulse on my berating. Being back in high school, I am eager to learn of how my retribution will affect my reputation amongst my peers. Some approach me, giving me props for doing what they wish they could have. Others look at me as if I had shot their dog. The alpha of the show, our director, belongs to the latter camp.
He is my old speech and debate coach, a well-respected and flamboyant educator. He was the kind of teacher defined by his contradictory nature. Irreverent but touchy, callous but kind, diligent but lazy. He was unforgettable for his appearance too: he had the proportions of a swollen bean bag, with tiny feet and hands to accentuate his obesity. He had a profound impact on my waking life.
I sought him out, hoping for some reassurance that I was not a piece of shit for dismantling my amateur hairdresser. Instead, he is furious, insistent that I ought to have taken the high road. You know better than to lash out. Shame on you. I wake up soon after.