Head Games by Jessica Klimesh

As her mother primps for a night out, Margaret watches, waiting for the moment she knows is coming, the moment when her mother will say, “Time to put my face on!” Like it’s a game.

Because it’s never just her face; it’s a whole different head. Different eyes, different cheek bones, different hair. A different smile, different teeth. Maybe even a different brain, Margaret’s not sure. Margaret has always been impressed by the ease with which her mother unscrews her head and puts a new one on, and she wonders which mother her mother will be this time. Will it be the analytical mother, the fun-loving mother, the absentminded mother, the mother who dances until dawn, or the mother who reads Margaret bedtime stories? Margaret’s gotten used to never quite knowing. Sometimes it’s a mix. They all love her, she’s sure of that, but she also wonders if one of them might love her more than the others.

It looks so tedious, changing heads, so time-consuming, but her mother says that you get used to it, that it’s just a part of life. Then, with a radiant smile, perfectly lipsticked, her mother adds, “You’ll see someday.” Her eyes twinkle.

“But which is the head you came with?” Margaret wants to know.

Her mother says that it’s a good question but that it doesn’t really matter. “People evolve,” she says. Margaret doesn’t know what that means.

Margaret isn’t allowed in her mother’s locked closet where all the heads are kept. But one day when she’s in a hurry, her mother leaves one of her heads out. No one’s around, so Margaret decides to try it on. It looks like it might be a little big, but maybe not by much. Margaret has never removed her head before, but she’s watched her mother hundreds of times, the way her wrists so elegantly turn, a flick, and the head is off. So, with her hands positioned one in front and one in back, just like she’s seen her mother do, Margaret turns and turns until she feels a gasp of pain, like a twig snapping. But she keeps going, tears rolling down her cheeks, hot anguish filling up her chest, her lungs on fire. And still she twists, her hands cramping, her lips abuzz with pinpricks. She doesn’t understand, wants to scream. To stop. But she’s gone this far, and her mother always made it look so easy.

And so, despite her agony, Margaret continues to twist and turn, twist and turn, twist and turn.

Jessica Klimesh (she/her) is a US-based writer and writing coach whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fractured Lit, Flash Frog, Gooseberry Pie, FlashFlood, and Ilanot Review, among others. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions and was selected for Best Microfiction 2025 and Best of the Net 2025. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com.