by Grace Bialecki
Let’s blame Colette, or actually Kiera who played her in the biopic. Careening through Paris, writing scandals in her pantsuit and shorn curls. Bien sûr, I took my same ambitions to the coiffeur. Un coup à la garçon? The owner verified, eying. Neither she nor The French Husband thought I would dare. Tu serais moins jolie, he’d said to me. As if that shoulder-length straw was my most laudable feature. Je suis jolie à l’interieur. But my counter-attack was futile against the citadel of his normativity. The coiffeur started with a rough hack, each falling lock freedom. Though I didn’t know that I was cutting off The French Husband. Soon my resistance clashed with his barricades: brooding distance, lack of caresses, The French Husband not even touching my tresses. Surely Colette would’ve plotted an exuberant escape, but it took me months to make my break. My medicines, my papers, my bookshelves were all tied to that man — without him I was just another queer American. Stumbling through the city of beauty and patriarchy, moins jolie, but finally me.
Grace Bialecki is a writer, meditation teacher, and workshop facilitator who inspires artists to be present in their lives and with the work. Her writing has appeared in various publications including The Millions, Catapult, and Epiphany Magazine where she was a monthly columnist. Grace has performed her poetry in Detroit, Paris, and at New York’s KGB Bar and Salmagundi Club. She is the co-founder of the storytelling series Thirst, and the author of the novel Purple Gold (ANTIBOOKCLUB).
Emerge Literary Journal 