Beatle

Chapter 1 (Beginning)

Hi guys! This is my first time writing a story of this length (I'm planning it to be kinda long) so any and all feedback you could give me, positive or negative, anything I may have missed, would be hugely appreciated.  I really hope you like this; I'm writing about something that is a great passion of mine, and I hope that reflects through into the story.  Enjoy; I really hope you like it!

P.S. I forgot to add this in, but I don't own anything pertaining to the Beatles, this story just came from my love for them and their music.  Any references that I make that they have said are theirs; I'm not taking credit for writing them.  Ok.  Read on...

Chapter 1: She’s Leaving Home

          The airline attendant took my passport between her finely French manicured nails and studied the information on it, her eyes flicking back and forth between the picture and my actual appearance. 

          “It’s the hair,” I thought.  “Stupid haircut. Stupid mother.”

          I had only gotten my hair cut a few days ago, but it felt like it had been short forever and I was sick of it.  My mother had asked for seven whole inches to be chopped off, maybe a bit more, which turned my long, thick brown hair into an equally thick (and slightly curly) bob.  After growing up with relatively long hair, it was needless to say this change was horrifying to me. I didn’t like change to begin with, and it sure didn’t help when my mother tried to make light of it.

          “It’s all the rage these days hon!” she had said once the hairdresser had snipped off the last piece, my last tie to my childhood.  “You’ll be the envy of all the girls at school.”

          “Yeah right,” I thought bitterly.  “What will Meredith say? Oh I’ll never survive she’ll make so much fun of me!”

          “And look,” she pointed out helpfully, “it’s absolutely adorable!”

          That was her excuse, the best one she could come up with at least.  The truth was, despite trying multiple ways of styling my hair, my mother hated my hair long and whatever I did with it.  And though she’d never admit it, she’d also had it cut because she wanted to make me more “traditional”-looking like hers.  And let’s just say that her traditional cut was not going to impress any of the girls at school.

          “At the rate I’m going, I’ll never get married,” I thought grimly, still waiting for the flight attendant to hand me back my passport.  “How long does it actually take to check one of these things?” I thought impatiently, feeling embarrassed of the long line of people gathered behind me. The woman kept glancing between me and the picture, as if agreeing with my previous prediction for marriage by giving a little smirk. It almost seemed as if she were privately enjoying her generic perfection in comparison to this awkward thriteen year old with the unfortunate hair job.

          “She is rather perfect,” I said in a grudging voice to myself. “But then again, would you expect anything less from a Pan Am stewardess? They’re meant to be perfect.”

          And indeed this woman was, with crystal blue eyes, flawlessly done makeup, and her hair curled to perfection, each precise auburn ringlet beautiful in its own right. 

          She smiled at me, flashing her annoyingly spotless white teeth, and said pleasantly, but in a way she didn’t mean, “Thank you for flying Pan Am, and have a safe trip to England.”

          “Thanks,” I said hurriedly, wanting to get out of everyone else’s way as soon as I could. The last thing I needed was an embarrassing episode at the airport; my parents would never let me travel by myself again.  I picked up my small carry-on canvas bag, took back my passport from the stewardesses waiting hand, and turned once again to wave good-bye to my family.  My father and mother waved in unison, my father Thomas looking anxiously out from behind his wire-framed spectacles.  I faltered for a moment, knowing he had been nervous about my solo flight, but I knew that it was something I had always wanted to do, so I pushed my anxieties and my father’s mental doubt away.  My mother Mary, on the other hand, was in tears, weakly waving and blowing her nose with a handkerchief at the same time.