In the photograph, bright rays of sun shine down on me like a spotlight2, and the hot dogI’m holding has a big, happy bite taken out of it. My hair is a range of gold highlights, rawsienna, wheat blond, and sweet lemon, lit by the sun. Soft, thick waves of it are blowing inlayers away from my face as a few ringlets sweep up off my shoulders. There is atenderness in my gaze, cut slightly with seriousness at the edges of my eyes.
This photo is one of my favorites from my childhood. In it, I look like a typical firstgrader on summer break. I look like I belong to somebody who knows how to look afterme. I appear well cared for. But I wasn’t.
My childhood was rife4 with neglect. There were many things about me that my motherdidn’t understand how to nurture5 or maintain—but the most obvious, most symbolic6, andmost visible was my hair.
My hair was rooted to no one. No one did my hair. No one knew how. We didn’t haveconditioner (or “cream rinse,” as it was called back in the day) at my mother’s house.
There were no pomades, wide-toothed combs, or hard-bristled brushes. There was noSunday ritual of getting my hair washed and braided; certainly, there was no greasing ofthe scalp. There was no order made in my hair. I never felt the tidiness or security ofhaving my hair done.
As a result, my hair was often a matted, tangled1 mess. And no one around me couldfully understand the particular humiliation8 of being a nonwhite little girl with unkempthair. I didn’t have the language for it, but I carried the burden of how it felt. My neglectedhair was a siren, signaling that I was different from all the little white girls—and fromlittle Black girls too. My wild, mixed, and mangled9 curls made me feel inferior, unworthyof receiving proper attention.
There was no going to the salon10, dahling. I don’t recall my mother ever going to asalon. She fully7 subscribed11 to that bohemian, no-fuss beauty philosophy of the 1950s and’60s. For her, a full beat face was eyeliner—a little cat wing, if she was being extra fancy—a swish of mascara, a touch of blush, a lip, and voilà! Flawless face. Her hair wasfabulous, either up or down. Even if she had believed in seeking professional groomingservices, for her or me, we could never afford it. And besides, there were no salons14 in thatpart of Long Island that could comprehend the contradictions of my tendrils, the sheercomplexities of the needs of my hair. At that time there weren’t mixed- textureprofessionals anywhere, really, nor were there any specialized15 products. I was livingtangled in between an Afro Sheen and a Breck Girl world.
The two constant representations of female beauty I saw on a daily basis were mymother and TV commercials. I admired and deeply desired the dark, smooth perfection ofmy mother’s long, luxurious16 hair. The contrast between how my mother’s hair lookedwhen she woke up in the morning and how mine did was profound. She would shake herhead, and thick, straight hair would tumble down like a yard of heavy silk crepe, drapinginto an elegant pool across her shoulders. I, on the other hand, had smashed-down, fuzzy,sweaty clumps17, exploding in a cacophony18 of knots, waves, and curls all over my head.
And then there was the hair I saw on TV, the magnificent, sunshine- filled, slow-motion-blowing-in-the-wind-while-running-barefoot-through-fields-of-flowers hair. I wasenchanted by those commercials, especially the ones for Clairol Herbal Essence shampoo.
It was as if Eve herself was in the Garden of Eden, bottling the thick, emerald-green nectarmade of earthly delights of herbs and wildflowers. I was convinced this shampoo wouldgive me the heavenly hair, blown by gusts19 of angels’ wings, that I saw in the commercial.
I wanted that shampoo so bad. I wanted that angelic, blowing hair so bad. (Because ofthose commercials, Olivia Newton-John, and the Boss, Diana Ross, I still am obsessedwith blowing hair, as evidenced by the wind machines employed in almost every photoshoot of me ever.)
Young and culturally isolated20, I had no idea how to manage my hair, nor the shame itbrought me. I often wonder if my mother ever saw the carelessness that my hair madevisible. Was she too preoccupied21 with her own burdens to notice? Could she not feel thedryness, and the lumps and bumps, of the gnarly tangles22 in my head? Why couldn’t shejust sit me down and brush my hair for two hours, the way Marcia Brady did on The BradyBunch? Maybe in her bohemian, sixties-loving ideology23 she thought I looked free, like anadorable flower child. Maybe she didn’t know I felt dirty.
Having one Black and one white parent is complicated, but when you are a little girlwith a white mother, largely cut off from other Black women and girls, it can beexcruciatingly lonely. And, of course, I had no biracial role models or references. Iunderstand why my mother didn’t understand how to manage my hair. When I was a baby,it was, well, baby hair, mostly uniform, soft curls. As I got older it got more complex, withdiverse textures24 arising out of seemingly nowhere. She didn’t know what was happening.
She was confused and randomly25 started cutting tragic26 bangs in my hair (believing bangswould behave in biracial hair is brave).
It was a disaster, and I felt powerless. At seven years old, I really thought maybe if shewould just wash my hair with Herbal Essence, a hair fairy would come at night, and Iwould wake up and poof! I would have perfect hair like my mom or the girls in thecommercials.
It took me five hundred hours of beauty school training to know even Marcia Brady’shair wouldn’t blow with abandon with just shampoo. It takes professionals, products, andproduction, dahling—conditioners galore, diffusers, precision cuts, special combs, clip-ins, cameras, and, of course, wind machines. It requires a lot of effort to achieve effortlesshair.
What I really needed was any Black woman, or anyone with some kind of culture,cream, and a comb! But even that wasn’t that simple.
One time my father’s half sisters staged an intervention27 of sorts, determined28 to “dosomething about that chile’s hair.” It was going to be an event. I was in the second gradewhen my father took me to my grandfather and Nana Ruby29’s house in Queens.
Humor was a tool I used to cope, disarm30, and defend myself. I also used it to expressmy point of view when I had no control. It was a tool I began to sharpen quite early and,to this day, utilize31 frequently. In the backseat of the car on the long drive to visit myfather’s family, I overheard Alison, seated up front, grumbling32 to him about how I wasabsorbing my mother’s quirks33 and eccentricities34 (particularly those associated with whiteprivilege). I think she thought I was out in the world “passing” with our white mother (asthough a child could make that distinction).
And then, as if I weren’t there, she went on a tirade35. I continued to stare silently out ofthe window at the dilapidated neighborhoods we had been driving through to get toJamaica, Queens, from Long Island. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. Achieving an (Ithink) impressive impersonation of my mother, especially for a six-year-old, I groanedsarcastically in her characteristically slow, low, opera diva tone: “I see we’re taking thescenic route!” At which Alison snapped her head toward my father with an exasperated“See?” expression on her face. He stiffened36, gripped the steering37 wheel a little tighter, andkept his eyes forward. For effect, I didn’t break my bored stare out the window. No onewas entertained by my little impersonation. I tried.
Sweet Nana Ruby was my father’s father’s second wife, with whom he had a wholelotta kids, half aunties and uncles to me, who subsequently produced a gang of cousins,some of whom were around my age. My father and his father, Bob Carey, had acomplicated relationship. Bob’s mother was from Venezuela, and it is believed his fatherwas Black—mixed with some undocumented lightening factor, as he too was on the fairerside of what was then called the “Negro spectrum38.”
Until I was about six years old, my father hadn’t spoken to his father in years. He wasan only child and had a different mother than my grandfather’s other children, and aswarm and as welcoming as Nana Ruby and her house were—and from what I could see,she showered my father with love—still, she was not his mother, and perhaps he felt like abit of an outsider with them. I think he made the effort to mend things with his father forthe sake of his own children as well as himself. He must have realized how isolated I was,living with just my mother in an all-white community that was becoming increasinglyhostile to me. I needed to know some family.
And I am forever grateful for it, because that house was a warm place bustling39 withfamily life. I loved it there. The whole neighborhood loved my grandpa. He was a regular,fun-loving guy with a hearty40 laugh, who wore crew socks with his slide sandals. He had alittle urban vineyard in his backyard in Queens. He grew sour grapes from which he madesweet homemade wine that he stored in the basement. Nana Ruby and my aunties alwayshad something cooking in the tiny kitchen—chicken, greens—but the standout staple41 dishwas rice and beans. I could eat whole plates of it. There was the clamoring of comfortingnoises: pots clanging, soul music in the background, the hum of the TV, conversations,giggles, doors opening and closing, feet running up and down the stairs. It was alighthearted space. There were people just hanging out together, connected to one another.
Being there was the closest feeling I had to having a big family, a normal family, a realfamily.
My favorite cousins would come from the Bronx and boy, did we play! We were acreative and mischievous42 bunch. Sometimes we would hang out the second-story windowand drop water-balloon bombs on folks passing underneath43. Then we’d duck down out ofsight and shake in muffled44 hysterics. And of course, I loved anything that involvedperformance. My favorite was reenacting “Mrs. Wiggins” sketches46 from The CarolBurnett Show. Unsurprisingly, I insisted on playing the lead role. I had her signature walkdown pat. I stuffed my little booty with a pillow, sticking it way out, acting45 like I had on atight pencil skirt. I pranced47 about on my tippy-toes (maybe this is why I still walk on mytoes), taking tiny steps. I’d smack48 imaginary gum and pretend to file my nails, and speakin the ditsy, nasally voice I had down to perfection. I specialized in character voices veryearly.
“Oh, Mrs. Uh-Whiggins!” one of my cousins would say in a silly, skewed Swedishaccent. I’d snap into character and we’d launch into a full-on improvisation49. What I lovedmost was all the rambunctious50 laughing with my cousins. I loved the sound of my laughteras a small part in the chorus of other kids who were kinda like me.
Inside the house with my cousins I may have felt a part of something, but outside withkids in the neighborhood was a different story. It’s always a different story with me. Eventhough my cousins didn’t live on this mostly Black and Hispanic block in Queens, theywere known because our grandpa was “that guy” in the neighborhood. When we wereoutside playing, they’d introduce me to the other kids as their cousin, and some kid wouldinvariably say, “She’s not your cousin. She’s white.”
“Yes, she is our cousin!” they would snap right back. Who my mother was, who myfather was, to whom I belonged, was always in question. But hanging out with my cousinswasn’t as heavy. I was part of a group. I was part of them, and they defended me. Yes, sheis. It was that simple. And it was so important. My Black cousins were the only cousins Iknew when I was a little girl. Because my mother’s side of the family, the white side, haddisowned her, I had no way of having a real relationship with any of them as a child.
My cousins were well put together because their mothers were very well put together.
One auntie in particular was younger, juicy, and just gorgeous. She looked ready to twirldown the Soul Train line on TV. Her makeup51 was consistently impeccable, lips glossed52 uplike glass. She wore funky-chic ensembles53, and her hair was always in some superb slick,snatched-back style, so she could feature face. She was giving you trendy, sexy, andcoordinated at all times, almost as fab as Thelma on Good Times (but a little bit thicker).
This foxy auntie sold makeup at the department store counter—now that was fabulous13 tome. Once, she gave my favorite girl cousin and me a faux facial evaluation55. As she wasexamining our little faces, she told Cee Cee, “Your lips are good.” Then she turned to mewith a puzzled look and paused. I was wondering, and worrying, What’s wrong with myface? Me?
“Mariah, your lips aren’t full enough,” she said with a sigh.
I didn’t know what they weren’t full enough for, but I fully accepted her analysis asfact. A few years later, I was about twelve years old and hanging out with a whitegirlfriend at a department store on Long Island, where they were offering free makeupdemos at one of the counters. My friend, by local standards, was a beauty: big blue eyes, athin nose, and very thin lips. I, no doubt, had on some haphazard56 ensemble54, and whoknows what the hair was doing that day. Clearly looking our age, we sat down to have ourfaces done. Maybe the saleslady thought we had money to buy some makeup, or she wasbored, or she simply took pity on us. Whatever the case, she began the process.
As my auntie had done, she studied the contours and angles of both of our faces andreported to me, “Your lips are too full on top.” Wait, I thought. I knew I had a thin upperlip—but not as thin as my white friend, whose lip size was the “standard” at the time. Iwanted to say, “Actually, I really want my lips to be bigger”—which I did, ever since theday of my auntie’s evaluation—but I held my tongue. Thus I was given two polar oppositeprofessional opinions about my lips as a girl; they were too full for a white beautystandard and not full enough for a Black one. Who was I to believe? It was like mycomplexes had complexes. And there was no one to tell me, “Mariah, you are good.”
Period.
And now here we are in a world where white and Black women are filling up theirbutts and lips like water balloons. I guess I should’ve had my lips injected ages ago, butit’s too late. The whole world knows what my real lips look like, so why bother? Whywould I do that now, when I can just accentuate57 them with lip liner, dahling?
But I digress. That day at Grandpa and Nana Ruby’s house when I was seven, the timehad come for my cousins’ main event. My aunties had decided58 it was time to put metogether. Some of them were gathered upstairs in Nana Ruby’s bedroom, and theysummoned me up. My cousins and I went upstairs toward the master bedroom, which wasjust right of the bathroom. I spent many moments exploring that little bathroom, fascinatedwith all the greasings and slatherings it contained. There were endless creams and lotionsfor the skin, and dressings60 and pomades for the hair. Imagine: skin lotion59 and hair grease!
In this bathroom every cabinet and free space was filled with mysterious potions andproducts.
I rarely went into the master bedroom, but it, too, was small, cramped61, and comforting.
It was humid and smelled like a hot candy store. A large bed, covered with a shiny, quiltedwhite-and-maroon paisley bedspread, with ruffles62 at the hem12, took up most of the room.
There was a full-length mirror attached to the back of the door and a low dresser draweron which my aunties had everything laid out. There was a hot plate cranking. Upon itssizzling surface was some foreign object that resembled a garden tool, with a dark woodenhandle like a hammer, with teeth. Though the metal part was blackened, traces of itsoriginal gold color could be seen underneath. This mysterious hammer- fork thing satmenacingly on the plate’s surface, getting hotter and hotter. As I crossed the threshold intothe bedroom, I felt as though I had entered an alternate universe, a secret chamber—one ofBlack-girl beauty.
My aunts motioned for me to sit on the side of the bed. I didn’t know what kind ofritual was ahead, but I sure was excited. As I settled in on the edge of the bed, feetdangling off the side, I could feel many hands exploring the wild garden of knots, curls,and straight bits that made up my head of hair. My heart was racing63. I felt like a long-lostprincess sitting in her chambers64, hoping this could be it—the moment of coronation, whenmy hair would finally get done and I would be transformed, presented to the world withnewfound power and grace.
Finally, I thought, maybe my hair would fit in. Maybe it would fall into sleek65 andshiny ringlets, and I would look like my cute Black girl cousins and friends who gatheredin Queens. Or maybe it would lie down flat and bone straight like the hair of the littlewhite girls I grew up among on Long Island. Either way, I was just thrilled that my hairwould at last be cared for by someone who knew what to do.
The action started at the back of my head, with some pulling and separating, and alittle sharpness from knots coming undone66. The next thing I felt was something I’ll neverforget. First, there was a heavy tugging67 and burning sensation near my neck, followedimmediately by an alarming searing and sizzling sound and an unfamiliar68 and vicioussmell, like a dirty stuffed animal set on fire. Along with significant smoke, a faint panicbegan to waft69 through the room. I couldn’t make out much of what was being said, but Icertainly heard, “Oh shit!” and “Stop, stop!” several times. And then it did stop. Abruptly70.
The excitement, the ritual, and the fixing all stopped. I stayed motionless and quiet, asmall patch of hair at the nape of my neck still smoldering71.
My aunties were apologetic. “Sorry, baby, the hot comb is too strong for your hair,”
my aunties explained. Sorry, baby, and that was the end of it. There would be no rites3 ofpassage into Black- girl hair society that day. I didn’t emerge transformed into apresentable little girl for Harlem, Queens, or Long Island. I was still a wayward littlemisfit who wore a disobedient crown on her head—only now with a patch of rough,burned, uneven72 (and noticeably shorter) hair in the back. I was far from done.
On rare occasions, my mother, brother, and I would take a drive to Jones Beach as afamily. (Proximity to the beach was one of the few perks73 of being stranded74 on LongIsland.) One summer morning, the three of us kids, along with one of my brother’sbuddies, piled into my mother’s clunker on wheels and hit the road to the beach. It was aclear, bright day; you could see the ocean in the sky. It was a perfect day for the beach.
My mother, sporting a light- blue cotton summer caftan with thin green stripes, wasdriving. All the windows were rolled down, giving the car a faux convertible76 feeling; mymother’s bell sleeves flapped slightly in the breeze. She had on her signature bigsunglasses, and her hair was customarily carefree. My brother sat next to her, shirtless, hisbig, fluffy77 Afro bouncing gently.
I sat in the backseat next to my brother’s friend, quietly looking out the open window,letting the warm, salty air wash over my face. I was trying to be nonchalant, not to let on Ihad an enormous crush on this teen-star-looking boy. His silky hair was strawberry blond,with perfect natural highlights, laid out in delicate, feathered layers and parted down themiddle. Every dreamy strand75 rested in its perfect place. The car was quiet as we allenjoyed a rare moment of contentment.
Gradually, though, I became aware that my hair had started to move. But it was notfrom the wind. Instead, it was from what felt like fingers. There were fingers searchingthrough the wild, tangled bush that was my hair. I didn’t dare move or speak. But the boy,he was gently plucking at my hair! Surgically78, he worked on the smaller, tighter, mattedbits at the ends with the big black plastic comb he kept permanently79 ensconced in his backpocket. He was using the very same comb that he ran through his field of perfect goldenstrands on my disheveled head! He pulled the comb from scalp to end in small sections. Aseach portion was released from the weight of its former twisted entrapment80, it would floata little bit.
Over the course of the ride, without a single word exchanged between us, he removedall the knots and confusion from my hair. By the time we arrived at the beach, my hairwas no longer a burden. It was liberated81. I dashed straight to the water—oh, how I love theocean, a gift from my mother—and as I ran I could feel my hair, buoyant and blowing inthe wind for the first time. Hallelujah! My hair was actually blowing like in thecommercials!
I dived into the first wave I could and rode it back to shore. When I stood up andtouched my hair, it was not the haphazard mix of textures I was accustomed to. Instead Itouched orderly, coily, elongated82 curls! For the first time, my hair felt pretty. I felt pretty. Ifelt soft and light, as if the shame I’d been carrying had been plucked out of me andwashed away.
As I stood in the waist-deep water, reveling in the newfound confidence brought bymy liberated curls, a sudden wall of ocean appeared, crashing down, pounding against myback. My feet were swept up off the sandy floor and over my head. My tiny body wastossed like a rag doll in the strong waves that had suddenly kicked up. I had no sense ofequilibrium or orientation83, but I knew I was being pulled down, tumbling in surging, darkwater mixed with frothy white foam84 and grit85 that was beating against my body like boxinggloves made of sandpaper. Even if I could tell which way was up and how to get there, Iknew I was not strong enough to overcome the powerful currents, so I relaxed my bodyand went with it. I surrendered.
By what I believe to be God’s grace, the ocean decided to give me back to the earth. Ilay motionless on the grainy, wet sand, winded and salty. When I realized I was alive, Istood up to look for my mother. I spied her and my brother lying on an olive blanket in thedistance, shades on, nonchalantly sunbathing86. Oblivious87. I released a mighty88 wail89, whichdevolved into hysterical90 crying, finally catching91 my mother’s attention. Yet another closeencounter with death.
To calm my shattered seven-year-old nerves, someone took me up to the boardwalk, tothe hot dog stand. I was a wreck—but my hair wasn’t. It was still in wavy92 ringlets. I hadachieved perfect beach hair. That day I almost died, but my hair was done.
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1
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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spotlight
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| n.公众注意的中心，聚光灯，探照灯，视听，注意，醒目 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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cacophony
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| n.刺耳的声音 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ideology
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| n.意识形态，(政治或社会的)思想意识 | |
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textures
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| n.手感( texture的名词复数 )；质感；口感；（音乐或文学的）谐和统一感 | |
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randomly
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| adv.随便地，未加计划地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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quirks
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| n.奇事，巧合( quirk的名词复数 )；怪癖 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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spectrum
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| n.谱，光谱，频谱；范围，幅度，系列 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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42
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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rambunctious
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| adj.喧闹的；粗鲁的 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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glossed
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| v.注解( gloss的过去式和过去分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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ensembles
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| 整体( ensemble的名词复数 )； 合奏； 乐团； 全套服装（尤指女装） | |
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54
ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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evaluation
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| n.估价，评价；赋值 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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dressings
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| n.敷料剂；穿衣( dressing的名词复数 )；穿戴；（拌制色拉的）调料；（保护伤口的）敷料 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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perks
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| 额外津贴，附带福利，外快( perk的名词复数 ) | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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convertible
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| adj.可改变的，可交换，同意义的；n.有活动摺篷的汽车 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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surgically
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| adv. 外科手术上, 外科手术一般地 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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entrapment
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| n.（非法）诱捕，诱人犯罪；诱使犯罪 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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orientation
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| n.方向，目标；熟悉，适应，情况介绍 | |
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84
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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85
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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sunbathing
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| n.日光浴 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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90
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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92
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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