“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?”
(“Mistress Of Vision”)
