Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
The Shampoo
They wanted a reaction. All I gave them was: “I don’t know.”
There was a moment.
At the counter.
A question tossed out,
like bait.
“What shampoo do you use?”
Not because they wanted to know.
But because they wanted
to see.
See if I’d flinch.
See if I’d respond.
See if I’d reattach.
I didn’t.
I said,
“I don’t know. A friend uses it and likes it.”
No rise. No investment.
Not cold — just clear.
The question kept circling.
Repeated. Reworded.
Escalated into health, into hair, into heredity.
“We don’t do well with that,” she said,
like reciting family prophecy.
I nodded. Didn’t engage.
She watched my face.
There was nothing there.
Even the quiet one chimed in.
“I don’t remember that night.”
Translation:
Let it go. She’s not playing.
Someone else stood at the door,
waiting to be handed shampoo.
An adult. Silent.
Trained to receive.
I looked at him.
Said nothing.
He felt it.
They all did.
No one yelled.
No one cried.
But something died —
quietly, politely —
at that counter.
And when it did,
I didn’t mourn it.
I just walked by.
—
Sometimes the most devastating answer
is “I don’t know.”
Because it means:
I don’t care.
And worse —
I don’t need to.
Legal Note:
This is a work of fiction inspired by emotional themes. Names, characters, settings, dialogue, and circumstances are entirely imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events, is purely coincidental and unintended.