There’s an art to doing my hair. It’s a skill; one that I’ve slowly been perfecting my whole life. No one else can do their hair, or mine, quite like I can.
I’m almost nervous to start. The knowledge that if I fix even one bit in the wrong position I’ll end up looking like a prat makes my fingers shiver slightly. It’s a few, anticipation-soaked seconds before I actually touch skin to the red strands.
Once there, it’s like floodgates. Sudden jerks of the brush. A twist of my fingertips. The slow swivel of my head. I’m here now, I think. What’s there to lose?
It’s all falling (well, being swept) into place. The delicate side parting I have to strangle my hair into is starting to take shape. I’m feeling smug pleasure as the last few sections submit to my nagging fingers.
It’s just… I’d forgotten the window.
One fell swoop of breath and all is undone. I’m left reeling as crimson bleeds across my vision. The pathway for sunburn across my scalp is straggled and broken, sliced into by errant fronds. My fingers are shocked still. My eyes wide and thwarted. My heart jumps in dismay.
It can be fixed. I have the time. I desperately search for my clock. Two minutes. Two minutes and I haven’t even put on my goddamn shirt.
I turn slowly to face my furious reflection. Her lips are pinched in rage; brow creased with frustration.
I glare at the pouting foe in the mirror.
Then sigh and reach for a bobble.