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I wanted to start writing. Mostly because my beloved fiction story written in my fiction class, “New Revolution” died along with the lame WD harddrive that housed it :(. After that, I was scarred and didn’t want to write anymore because I would feel so guilty for losing the story I worked so hard on during that one time in that one class in college. But I’ll try again, but this time there will be typos and grammar and punctuation issues. But I will write nonetheless! I will neither deny nor confirm the validity of this story.
"How much did you say this was?" The cashier flips the bottle of It's a 10 making it do a 360. "Oh, um, twenty-something. I can't remember." I shuffle my feet. I grabbed the last bottle without thinking too much about the price tag and only absently glanced at the sticker on the shelf. "Oh, here we go! Thirty-four bucks. Wow, that's expensive for this little thing." Crap. That IS expensive. I can't turn back now. There's a line forming at this express check out and my hair desperately needs some TLC. "Better be liquid gold in there." I mutter to myself. "Hahaha yeah! Better be!" He grins. I hesitantly hand him my credit card, but he braces himself. "You got one of those cards with the chips. Please insert it into the machine." I fumble to flip my card to the correct orientation for accurate insertion. It was about two months ago when I decided to finally bleach my hair. I've always wanted to do it, but only recently acquired the guts-metaphorically because I definitely have those physically. The entire process took two months time because my hair needed rest between bleachings. Well, let's just say that didn't help. My hair officially has the texture and dryness of hay. I used to joke about my hair being hay, but this time, the struggle is real. The local ranch called and they wanted my hair to feed their cattle. Dry brittleness isn't the only thing my newly bleached hair has bequeathed on me. My friends have started calling me an ABG which I find extremely offensive. ABG's are hot and they hang out with gangsters. They also have tattoos. I'm Shamu's younger neglected sister who hangs out with the party host's pet and the closest thing I have to a tattoo is my oddly shaped possibly cancerous mole on my neck that people often mistaken for a fleck of lint. Having bright unnatural hair -unless you're old or have that genetic thing where you get white hair at 18- is not easy and it comes with great responsibility. I slam my Target bag against my bathroom countertop. My eyes dart up and down my hair analyzing the giant peachy white mass of death. Without losing my gaze, my hand fumbles in the bag for the liquid gold in a bottle. I bring it up to my face. "Sahara desert...meet the Amazon rainforest," I smirk to myself like the way the hot heroes do in the movies when they have the upper hand against the villain. In a dramatic fashion, I dart to the shower with the liquid gold still in my hands. But everything happens in a flash. The plastic bag had fallen on the floor and my wannabe nimble foot caught in the bag making me flail in the air and face plant onto the bathroom rug, which, might I add, was still moist from my housemates shower earlier on that day. THUD! I see the liquid gold spray into the air flying past my face in slo-mo. I don't know if I'm more disappointed that I probably lost seven bucks right there to the bathroom floor or that the conditioner wasn't gold at all. It was murky white kind of like my hair. "Patty what happened? You okay?" The muffled call from my housemate snaps me out of my daze. "Huh. Yeah, I'm fine! Just dropped something!" "Felt more like an earthquake" she teases. Oh Ha Ha. Original, Becka.
to be continued whenever I feel like it...