And The Oscar Goes to...
1994 – Cher
Dorothy Chandler Pavilion
Bathroom Attendant
3 strands
black/curly/synthetic
The hairs flash like a beacon on the bathroom’s white marble tiles. I wrap them in a square of toilet paper and slide them into my uniform pocket. While the who’s who celebrate at their glitzy after-parties, I limp home to the platonic double bed I share with another bottle-blonde twenty-something aspiring actress.
Keeping quiet in a shared studio is hard—but they don’t even try. My boyfriend grunts like a pig on the Oklahoma farm he’s run from, and my roommate squeals her gratitude so loud they don’t hear me open the door. I pour what is left of their $3 bottle of pinot onto their heaving backs—separating them like feral cats. Cher’s hair cheers from my pocket.
1998 – Kathy Bates
Shrine Auditorium
Seat Filler
8 strands
grey/straight/coarse
The hairs are snagged on the corner of the velvet seat. I slip them into my pocket and slide into my spot in one fluid motion, just as I practiced earlier in the day when the assistant director screeched at us from the stage. He singled me out, said I was perfect for the front row—small and forgettable. After the show, he corners me backstage, pressing me into a dark corner. He plunges his thick tongue into my mouth. The hairs, tucked in my drugstore compact, rage with me as I lift my sequined knee to his balls.
2004 – Halle Berry
Dolby Theatre
Guest
1 strand
black/curly/natural
My husband would rather walk this scarlet carpet with his mistress—I think she’d be embarrassed to be photographed on the arm of a cinematography nominee. We are in the tenth row, peasants hungry for scraps of camera time in an audience pan. During commercial breaks he scampers to the front, dragging me along—a poor replacement for the golden idol he didn’t win. His desperation turns my stomach as he vies for his turn with the elite. The hair pokes through her mesh dress like a loose thread and I pluck it unnoticed. The tight coil bounces with excitement when I bring up divorce in the limo on the way home.
2017 – Heidi Klum
West Hollywood Park
Elton John AIDS Foundation Oscar Viewing Party
Benefactor
2 Strands
brassy/straight/synthetic
A drop of soup spreads on the bodice of my vintage Chanel gown like baby vomit. I dab at it with a napkin to the disgust of my eleven-year-old daughter. Across the table, a Real Housewife side-eyes a former Disney Channel star while she pretends to eat the salmon tartare. My daughter is captivated by the glamour of these almost-celebrities.
A million dollars of our Silicon Valley money couldn’t get me into the big show, so this viewing party is my consolation prize. The supermodel peppers me with German-accented double cheek kisses then mispronounces my name in her thank-you speech for my generous donation. Strands of her hair cling to my shoulder. I slip them into my sequined clutch.
2023
Dolby Theatre
Guest
I run my thumb and forefinger over the tangle of hair. I’m acting my role of a lifetime: proud mother. Beady eyes assess my daughter like livestock. They double kiss my cheeks, praise my genes. She flings her winner’s arms around me, and I run fingers through her hair, and clutch the pale strands. My golden girl thanks her agent, manager, baby Jesus and me.
The bathroom attendant doesn’t meet my eyes, keeping her gaze on my designer gown. I wind a strand of my own hair around my muses’ locks and whisper my acceptance speech. The hair floats and bobs. I flush it away.
Christy hartman
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is an NYC Midnight winner. She has been published by Elegant Literature, Sci-Fi Shorts, Fairfield Scribes, and others.
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