Switching Heads

Eight heads might seem like too many, but sometimes I wish I had more. During the day I'll switch four or five times for different tasks, though I still don't have a head that enjoys cleaning, just one that decides the kitchen floor needs to get swept at eleven o'clock at night due to an accumulation of spilled coffee grounds. I suppose compulsion is better than nothing.

Half of the heads want to get married, but the others don't. I tried matrimony once and it didn't work, so the anti-marriage heads figure we shouldn't mess with another ceremony. The rest think Lee is perfect and worth a shot. Lee and I are both thirty-six and have been together for eight years. The anti-marriage heads say why ruin a good thing, but those are the heads I try to wear around Lee so they won't pester about a ring. This is a problem since I think he likes Four best—she's sassy and speaks her mind, but wants to get hitched.

"Why don't you wear that one more often?" Lee asks me at breakfast. "She'd be a great teacher."

"She'd cuss out the students," I say. I'm wearing Three, which tends to be diplomatic about Four's strengths and weaknesses.

"That wouldn't be a bad thing for some of them," he says.

"Staff meeting this afternoon," I say. "She shouldn't go."

"Well, I like her," he says.

"Except when she asks you about a ring," I say. Lee is in the why-do-we-need-a-damn-certificate-and-ceremony camp, and I am too. Half the time.

"I like everything else about her," Lee says, which includes sex. She's inventive. But as much as she thinks she'd like to get married, she's not the marrying type. Four doesn't compromise, or understand tact, skills that other heads tried to master when we were younger and still hitched. I probably wore Four too much then, which didn't help.

Five and Seven think we need to get rid of Four, or at least use her more judiciously, because she's short on social graces. Without Four I wouldn't be all of me, but I don't know what to do with the parts of myself that are annoying and pushy and most likely to get me fired. That would be fine with Four. She wants to start her own school, or go back to school, or move overseas and teach English in China or Thailand and have adventures. She doesn't care that this contradicts with her plans to get married.

My eight heads look the same, aside from the expressions that remains when I take them off and nestle them on the shelf in my closet. When resting they have a slightly different flare to their nostrils, curl to their lips, tension in their cheeks. They've changed temperaments over time, though some like Four are more stubborn than others. Some want yogurt and a banana for lunch, others demand a cheeseburger. I carry an extra head in a bowling ball bag, in case I need to change for a staff meeting or after-school appointment. I wish heads could be worn all day, but they weren't designed for it, though I find myself using One, Three, and Seven most during the school year. Three is compassionate, Seven has a no-nonsense demeanor, and One is philosophical, though that means she's best worn after school.

I need a range of heads when it comes to students like Justin, this kid who bangs his elbow on the radiator during fifth period. Usually it's not that loud, but two weeks ago I was talking about weather fronts and snapped at him to quit with the percussion. I was wearing Seven, which tends to be more forthright, and I know he was bothering other students, but all the kids turned to look at him. Justin quit, but was back at it the next day.

He isn't a bad kid—he...