WINDBLOWN IN LIVORNO

(A short story loosely inspired by real-life events)

Glimpsing her distorted reflection in the polished brass railing, Bianca wanted to cry. Or scream. Preferably both.

Out on the Europa’s main deck, surrounded by crowds of passengers, she felt painfully conspicuous, convinced almost every eye was trained on her horrendous hair. She resisted the urge to claw at her itching scalp, afraid they might think she had lice.

Letting her mother talk her into a salon appointment on their last day on board had been a monumental mistake. She was seventeen, not thirty-five, and big hairdos were so last decade. No one wore beehives in 1974—especially not with tiny pearls pinned into each intricate swirl like decorations on a wedding cake.

The ship’s stylist clearly hadn’t received the memo, and neither had her mother. Three weeks at sea can wreak havoc on your hair, her mother had insisted. It’s important to look polished and feminine, even if you’re just returning home.

And now it was too late to undo the disaster. The Europa was fast approaching Livorno, where families crowded the pier, waiting to greet their loved ones.

The cruise director’s voice crackled through the loudspeakers, instructing passengers to assemble on the lower deck for disembarkation.

Her parents and brothers caught up, lugging their bags.

“Look, the welcome committee’s already here,” her brother Marco said, pointing toward the clusters of people waving from the pier.

“Come on, honey, we need to leave,” her mother urged.

Fighting her frustration, Bianca shoved her sunglasses higher on her nose and leaned over the railing. The salty Mediterranean breeze slapped her face, whipping the lacquered monstrosity on her head like a sail in a storm. One pearl-studded clip sprang loose, bounced off her shoulder, and vanished into the foaming wake. She closed her eyes, praying the rest would follow and unravel the sculpted nightmare into something vaguely normal.

“Look, there’s your Aunt Rosa!” her mother squealed, pointing.

“And Uncle Paolo—our cousins too!” Riccardo added, waving furiously.

Bianca squinted toward the pier and groaned. Sure enough, the whole clan was there. Her mother’s sister and brother-in-law stood waiting with their six children. Great-Aunt Lidia leaned on her cane, Bianca’s grandparents next to them. You’d think they were welcoming war heroes instead of a family returning after four years of missionary work in Africa. She half expected a marching band to strike up a tune.

Her father said something about heading out, but Bianca barely heard. Someone on the pier had caught her attention—someone oddly familiar, standing apart from the group. She leaned in, shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare.

Was that—? No. It couldn’t be.

The ship drew closer. The figure sharpened into focus. A man—tall, lean, broad-shouldered. He waved, smiling up at her with the roguish grin of the boy she’d never forgotten.

Luca.

A rush of memories flooded her mind, swirling like a heady cocktail of nostalgia and longing.

Luca carrying her bookbag after school. She and Luca riding their bikes to the beach, a bag of snacks dangling from the handlebars. Luca, her best friend in the world—the one who had hugged her goodbye on a rainy Sunday morning before boarding a plane to England with his family.

She couldn’t believe he was back.

Mortified by the teetering tower of lacquered hair on her head, Bianca grabbed her suitcase and bolted for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” her mother called after her, alarmed.

“I . . . I forgot something in the cabin!”

“But—”

She ran. Past the lingering passengers, past the startled stewards, through the maze of stairs and passageways until she reached their cabin.

Only to realize it was locked. Her father had taken their key cards, intending to hand them in.

Heart racing, she fought to stay calm. Then she remembered the restrooms at the end of the hall.

Dropping to the carpeted floor, she unzipped her suitcase and fished out her toiletries bag. Moments later, she was in front of the restroom mirror. Narrowing her eyes at the towering hairdo, she raised her brush like a sword.

“All right, beehive, your tyranny ends now.”

*

“Calm down, Mrs. Borelli. There’s no reason for a page announcement.”

“But my daughter—”

“Your daughter isn’t missing. She disembarked just moments ago.”

Anna stared. “She what?”

She and her husband exchanged puzzled looks.

The clerk offered a confident, mildly amused smile. “Can’t say I’ve seen anyone more eager to check out of a three-week cruise.”

Still baffled, the family hurried to the gangway.

Then Anna saw her.

Her daughter—head thrown back in laughter, chestnut hair flying in loose sunlit waves—was twirling in the strong, sure arms of a young man.

“Isn’t that—?” her husband began.

“Luca,” she said, her voice catching.

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Author’s Note: When I first started applying for jobs in my late teens, my mother insisted I have my hair professionally done before every interview. She claimed it would make me look older—though I suspect she really meant taller. I did, after all, dream of becoming an air steward (back then they were still called air hostesses). For my mother, having your hair set for any special occasion was essential to making a good first impression. Unfortunately, my confidence never quite rose to the same level as my hair.

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