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"Ow." Ivy screws her face up, resisting the urge to flinch away and worsen the tension on her scalp. Her momma's hands carefully finish unravelling another scrap of cloth, letting the tightly wound corkscrew of hair fall down Ivy's back before sharply flicking the top of Ivy's ear.
“Hush,” Her momma’s measured reprimand has her mouth snapping shut, but does nothing for the pout that reminds as the older woman nudges her with a knee. “Sit up straight.”
Ivy does so, already feeling a building tension in her back and shoulders from the strain of sitting in the same position for too long. It feels like she’s been sitting for ages, letting her mother undo each curl and twist it around practiced fingers to make sure it falls correctly. Even with only the weak morning sun leaking in through the windows of the trailer, Ivy can see her reflection in the blank television screen across from her. It’s a strange, inverted mirror of the night before; her sitting on the floor of their dingy living room, her mother behind her rolling damp strands of dark blonde hair around rags and ribbons before tying each off tightly at the root.
Ivy’s mother had been bare-faced then, hair soft and undone. The pretty silk scarf she had tied around her daughter’s hair last night to protect it while she tranced sits next to her now, the delicately embroidered edges of it crinkled from the neat knots used to make sure it wouldn’t slip in the night. Ivy’s pretty sure she’s heard her mother mention it was from her grandmother’s grandmother, an authentic relic of the beauty of Sylvaire. Then again, Ivy’s heard more than enough to know not everything her mother says is true.
Another wince inducing yank as her mother works at a particularly well secured knot. Ivy’s sure by now there must be only a few more curlers left and she’s looking forward to taking a break before her mother starts in on her again. The weight of her hair strains the muscles in her neck and even curled as tightly as it is, the length of it still drags down her spine. It’s not worth asking to have it pinned up, to have it pulled out of her face and out of the way, not when her hair is something to be so proud of in her mother’s eyes
Finally, Ivy feels her mother press a soft kiss against the top of her head, the cool, evergreen feel of her mother’s magic soothing the ache across her scalp.
“Like spun gold,” she hears her mother murmur before gently, delicately pulling all of Ivy’s hair back with the same silk scarf from earlier, careful not to crush any of her hard work. “Go on, pretty girl. Go wash your face.”
Ivy rises, resisting the urge to stretch and pop her back, already knowing the look her mother would give her if she did. She leans down to press a kiss to her mother’s cheek.
“I’ll be right back, Momma.” The linoleum flooring of the trailer is warm under her feet, the heat of August not quite at a peak yet but the little AC unit in the living room not enough to reach this far. The bathroom is tiny, barely big enough for the shower and sink squeezed into it, but Ivy's mother has still somehow managed to lay out multiple soaps and lotions along the fake ceramic basin. It's a routine Ivy’s used to, the ritualistic practice of getting ready, every step laid out by her mother to make sure Ivy always looks her best. She’s seen the way her momma inspects her own skin, looking for the faintest hint of lines or wrinkles. She doesn’t get it; they're elves, they shouldn't have to worry about that kind of thing.
She knows other girls her age don't do all this; the girls in middle school had made that abundantly clear to her, when the shine of Ivy being pretty and new was no longer enough to make up for her abysmal Common and social bluntness. Then the effort to look nice, to make sure she was presenting her best self, became something to mock. It’s not anything she can change anytime soon, though, not unless her mother goes back to work again and Ivy gets a chance to get out from under her thumb.
Routine finished, Ivy heads to her room to grab her clothes. The heavily embroidered dress had been laid out for her days ago, the care her momma put into evident. It’s pretty enough, if Ivy was the kind of girl to pick out a dress on her own it might even be the kind she reached for, but she dreads wearing it anyway. The hem of it sits too high on her thighs for anything that isn’t standing around and the stiff cotton sleeves mean she can barely lift her arms higher than her shoulders. The lacing up the back means Ivy can’t get in or out of it on her own. The thought of how Ivy’s expected to use her bow probably never even crossed her mother’s mind.
Ivy grabs the dress and everything she needs to go under it and heads back to the living room, catching the tail-end of her mother finishing up her make-up, little compact in hand. She’s always liked this part, the practiced way her momma paints colors and shadows across her face, never needing more than that tiny mirror to know where things go.
Ivy doesn’t think make-up suits her the same way, doesn't look as delicate and intentional. Maybe because Ivy’s still growing into her looks or whatever the ladies at the grocery like to say. Ivy’s momma always blames the problem on the features she got from her daddy.
She continues into the kitchenette, hanging the dress off the door of a cabinet to wait while Ivy’s mother finishes getting her ready.
“Momma, I’m grabbing breakfast. You want anything?” Ivy calls, unsurprised when her mother responds in the negative. She can’t remember the last time she's seen her mother eat a meal outside of family dinners. There's eggs and bacon and milk in the fridge, but Ivy knows she both doesn’t have time to cook and doesn’t have the patience to deal with what her mother will say about her choice of food. The clock on the microwave blinks blearily back at her, flashing still from the last time their power got shut off and it reset. Ivy sighs and turns her attention back to the counter. There’s always fruit available, and it takes barely any time for Ivy to slice an apple and grab a jar of peanut butter. The look her mother gives her when she returns isn’t exactly approving but it's not reprimanding either.
She settles down in front of her mother again, reluctantly ready to deal with the rest of her momma’s fussing. The morning sunlight reaches far enough across the trailer to catch Ivy's messenger bag, gleam off the brass attachments on her quiver. It’s her prized possession, the one thing from Oisin besides the jewelry she never takes off that she’ll bring into the trailer. She's long since learned what happens to nice things she brings home.
She takes a deep breath, relaxing into her momma’s hands. They’ll finish her hair and she’ll get dressed and Oisin’s driver will pick her up because he’s bougie like that. She’ll remember to switch to Common instead of the Sylvan she was raised on, instead of constantly forgetting like she did in grade school. She and Oisin will find a party and it will be fine.
How hard can high school be, really?