How Green Becomes Wood

Not knowing what to say to that, Sloan fell silent for a little while, not reaching into the glove compartment for the pain medicine. She really struggled to believe he understood despite truly appreciating his efforts. There wasn't much she knew about their biological mom, and it wasn't something she ever quite felt comfortable asking about, but she very much doubted either of his adoptive parents judged him particularly harshly for how he looked. Xander could probably come home with a face tattoo of someone else's face and be praised for his commitment to creative authenticity.

"I know that she cares," Sloan finally answered, looking back out the window, "and I'm sure she was scared. I just don't know if that's enough. This is the woman who first started taking me to get my eyebrows waxed when I was, like, eleven. And who tells me I shouldn't wear a certain pair of pants because they make me look too 'bulky' when I'm literally just strong. I wouldn't be so pissed if it was just this and not a pattern. And she said today if I eat too many of those cupcakes I won't be fit to go back to the gym, when I literally only eat the one a day."
 
"Damn good cupcakes," Xander remarked. He shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. After a bit, he said, "I guess you have three options. 1. Roll over, take it, say nothing since you'll be moving out for college real soon. 2. Accept that this is who she is, make peace with it, embrace it and all of that, and go on your way. 3. Tell her she makes you feel like absolute trash and question what you've done to her to deserve being treated like a thing you stepped on with your new shoes. Write a letter, maybe, or a poem. I bet she'd read a poem. If nothing else, you can sit there and tell me everything she's done." He reached into the back, pulled out a bottle of water, and handed it to her. "Eyebrow waxing at eleven? You're yanking my chain, right? What's with that?"
 
"A poem?" Sloan asked dryly, "When's the last time you communicated your feelings to someone through poetry?" After opening the bottle and taking a sip from it, she said, "My mom said they needed shaping. I grow like... three maybe four hairs between them, but they're brown so you can see them. Plus all the sparse hairs beneath the arch."
 
"Who the hell is going to notice that?" Xander demanded, genuinely confounded. "That's like nothing! Maybe if you had like a full-on caterpiller I could maybe see considering something like that, maybe, but at eleven? For a dozen hairs?"
 
"That's just the kind of person my mom is," Sloan replied, "I've told you before about how she expects me to want a nose job. Her mom let her get hers at sixteen. It's generational hell."
 
"Sixteen? That's practically child abuse!" Xander said, genuinely horrified. "What the hell? Hell within hell! You're still coming to terms with the idea that you've got hair where you didn't used to at that age."
 
"It's not all that uncommon, especially among people my mom's age or the generation above her. I guess it used to be pretty much ubiquitous until the whole 2010s body positivity movement got really big and people started questioning it." She shrugged, "Some girls at temple still got theirs as a teenager. Some are still planning it for later. A lot of us don't want it, though."
 
"I'm probably going to get into trouble for saying this... but it's like they want to hide their heritage. Like they are ashamed to be Jewish or need to hide it for safety reasons," Xander remarked. "It probably isn't, but that's what it sounds like from a way outsider's perspective."
 
"I figure that's probably it, at least originally. Plus beauty standards or whatever," Sloan replied, "That's why my mom always gets her hair straightened too, I think. But like, our last name is Appelbaum."
 
"I guess you could always tell your mother you are making your own fashion standards and celebrating your heritage next time she brings stuff up," Xander suggested with a faint smirk.
 
"I guess," Sloan shrugged, "I don't think she really believes in the notion of making your own fashion standards. I'm terrified to think of what it'll be like prom dress shopping with her."
 
Xander snorted a laugh. "You're going to have to get two: one with her, and a secret one you buy yourself. I mean, I never really got prom dresses. So much money for one dress you wear once, and not for a wedding? But, hey, if that's what you want, I'll take you shopping."
 
Xander hesitated, holding up a finger as if trying to find a way to argue. "Good point," he relented. "I cannot argue that. I guess I'm in for four hours. But only if there's food involved!"
 
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