801. Hair Scare

While I slept peacefully, my hair had an emergency meeting just after midnight last night. 

“Hey, Roots!” shouted Split Ends like a drill sergeant.  “We need you!  You know how she prefers blond?  I don’t like it.  We gotta let people know her age.  GRAY!  Gray is what we’re after.”       

Roots agreed.  “And what about Frizz?  Frizz, you make her look like a sad, deformed chicken.” 

Frizz guffawed.  “I’m glad you noticed.  Hey, she was talking about doing some family photos this week.  This is the time for us to give her a scruffy look.”   

“How about breakage?” said Follicle.  “I think that would be upsetting.  Or some of us could just fall out all together?” 

The rest of the group nodded and cheered.  Bangs spoke up for the first time:  “She’s never liked me anyway … how about I do that sticking-up-thing, you know, out to the side?  Even after she tries gel or hairspray.” 

“Genius.” 

“Brilliant.” 

“Bloody perfect.”  Random Curl always used British phrases with her phony accent.

I woke up, still oblivious to their clandestine meeting and their recent mutiny.  I inadvertently glanced in the mirror as I was brushing my teeth;  I choked on my toothpaste.

The second the clock reached 10 AM, I reached for the phone.  I made two calls.  The first, to reschedule the photos, and the next ...       

“Hi, when can you squeeze me in for a cut and highlights?” 

MOV
(“Mistress Of Vision”)