Holly's Heart Collection Three (3 page)
The hairdresser tried to smooth things over. “Don’t worry, your hair will tame down, Holly. If it’s like most newly permed hair, it should be quite manageable in about a week . . . with these.” And nonchalantly, she dumped a handful of conditioner samples into my purse.
A week?
She acted as though there was absolutely nothing wrong with that amount of time. I started to say I wanted my money back . . . no, what I really wanted was my old, straight hair back. But she was too busy greeting her next customer to notice my panic.
Frustrated, I paid and left. The instant I arrived home, I called Andie. “You have to come over!”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Just hurry,” I pleaded, filling her in on the horrid details.
She came over. Faster than ever before. With her makeup bag and scissors in tow.
When she started pulling the scissors out and snipping the air around my hair, I backed away. “Wait!”
“A little trim should help things.” She seemed to be dying for the opportunity to whack away.
I peered into my dresser mirror. My hair had turned wild, all right.
Carrie, my flesh-and-blood sister, almost ten, poked her nose into my room. Stephanie, age eight, my youngest cousin-turned-stepsister, was right behind her. “Hey, who fried your hair?” Stephie asked.
Carrie and Stephie stood there, staring at me, their eyes growing wider with each second. “Eewie, reminds me of some wild animal!” Carrie shouted.
I reached out to grab her, but Uncle Jack, my stepdad, appeared in the hallway. (He wasn’t a blood relative. The uncle part came from the fact that he’d been married to my dad’s sister before she died.)
Carrie yelled, “Don’t touch me!”
I slammed the door. Muffled, anxious tones floated through the cracks, but I held my breath, hoping nobody would investigate. No one did.
Turning around, I pleaded with Andie for moral support.
“You’ve got to do something before tomorrow,” she advised. “And fast.” She’d situated herself on my window seat, stroking Goofey, my old tabby cat.
“So . . .” I began. “Besides cutting it all off, what do you suggest?”
“A light trim will do.” Andie got up and pranced over to where I stood fussing with my mane. She held up her scissors. “Show me how much to trim.”
I frowned and held my fingers about an inch apart. “This much?”
Andie shook her head. “Nope, that won’t even cut it.”
We both burst into giggles. Mostly nervous ones.
“Honest—I didn’t mean to make a pun.” She waved the scissors at me.
I pulled a piece of hair forward, let it brush against my face, then let it fall. The texture was unbelievably coarse. Even with the sample moisturizers from the beauty salon, I couldn’t imagine ever getting my hair back to its normal, healthy sheen. “It’s perfectly hopeless,” I whispered.
“Not if we get the dead, dry ends off.”
I sighed. “How many inches?”
She fooled with the back of my hair. After a few seconds she said, “At least six.”
“Six inches?” I whirled around. “No way!”
“Don’t freak,” Andie said. “Now turn around, and I’ll tap on your back where your hair would come.”
I could feel her hand bumping my spine below my shoulder blades. “I don’t know,” I muttered. “Feels awfully short.”
She picked up a strand of hair and held it high. “Look at this mess. Cutting it is the only possible remedy. And it’s not the end of the world,” she reminded me. “Hair always grows back.”
She had a point. Only I didn’t want to think about waiting for my hair to grow. “Cut no more than three inches,” I commanded, watching nervously as she wielded her scissors.
Without another word, Andie began to snip away.
FRESHMAN FRENZY
“So . . . what do you think?” Andie asked when she was finished.
I reached for a hand mirror and turned around, checking the back of my hair. “It’s still too bushy.”
“But you have to admit, it’s better.”
I combed through. “It’s uneven, though—look!”
She inspected it. “You’re right. Here, hold still, I’ll straighten things out.”
I was nervous. In fact, I shook with fright. Maybe having Andie cut my hair wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should call a halt to things right now. Have it cut professionally . . .
“Uh, wait, Andie,” I ventured.
She stopped cutting and looked at me in the mirror. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t think you should cut off any more,” I said.
“Do you really think I’m going to let my campaign manager run around looking like Einstein?” she said, laughing it off. “You’ve got to look cool if you’re going to help me solicit votes.”
“Right.” I’d almost forgotten about managing her campaign. It seemed so trivial at the moment. “Look, maybe it would be better to have someone professional even it up.”
“It’ll be okay,” she insisted. “I’ll be careful not to cut off too much. I promise.” I held my breath again, cringing with the sound of each snip of the scissors.
At last she was finished. A wave of relief rushed over me as she placed the scissors on the dresser.
“Now it’s lots better,” she said with delight.
I looked in the hand mirror, inspecting the trim job. My heart sank as I stared in horror. My hair, my beautiful hair, looked like a brier thicket. And the length? It came to about mid-back. My greatest fear had come true!
In order to nurse my wounds, I asked Mom if I could eat supper in my room. No sense exposing myself to snide remarks from my brousins. Stan, nearly sixteen, Phil, just turned eleven, and Mark, age nine, were sure to find my frizzle-frazzle hair a target for jokes.
“Aw, honey, just pull it back in a braid or something,” Mom suggested.
“And what do I do with the rest of it?” I said, referring to the puffiness on top of my head. “It’s like a bush!”
Mom tried to be helpful. “I’ll run to the store after supper. Maybe I can find a hair reconstructor . . . something to treat the problem.”
I sighed. Now my own mother was calling my hair a problem! “But is it okay if I eat in my room?” I pleaded.
She set the salad bowl down, her eyes squinting. Uh-oh, she was upset. “You should know better than to ask that, Holly-Heart. We’re one big, happy family around here.”
Happy for her, maybe. She hadn’t been the brunt of constant teasing. And pranks. From the minute my uncle Jack married Mom last Thanksgiving, my cousins—his four kids—had seized every opportunity to make my life miserable. Starting with little miss snoopy Stephie and my diary. And Mark and Phil were constantly trying to get out of kitchen duty, not to mention hiding the TV remote so they could concentrate on their nonstop computer games. Last, but not least, was sneery Stan, who at his age should’ve known better than to humiliate me at every turn.
This was happy?
“Oh, Mom,” I groaned. “Please let me?”
But she pointed to the dining room. “You heard me. Supper’s on the table.”
I ran upstairs to tie my hair back, steeling myself against insults sure to come.
And come they did. Beginning with the way Phil prayed over the food. “Dear Lord, bless this food to make us healthy and strong. And while you’re at it, could you bless something else, too?” He paused dramatically. I could feel it coming . . . right down to my fried follicles!
Phil, of course, did not disappoint me. He barreled right on through. “Please, dear Lord, do something quick to help Holly’s, uh . . . hair.”
“Mom!” I blurted.
“Philip Patterson!” my stepdad said.
The prayer was over; that fact was obvious. Uncle Jack reprimanded Phil sternly, even made him apologize to me. Still, I resented being present at the table with everyone staring—or trying not to stare.
After supper, Mom was kind enough to let me off the hook for kitchen cleanup. I snickered when she chose Phil to take my place scraping dishes. Justice!
I reached for an extra sugar cookie and headed for my room, even though I longed to sit out on the front-porch swing. But it wasn’t worth the risk. You never knew who might stroll by on an evening like this.
Back in front of my dresser mirror, I gawked at my mop. I couldn’t remember spending this much time in front of a mirror . . . not ever.
I reached back and took out my hair band, then started brushing. Would the natural oils in my scalp kick in after a hundred strokes? Two hundred?
I brushed vigorously, then stopped to check. No oil, no nothing. After three hundred brush strokes and a very sore arm, I knew this frantic approach wasn’t doing the trick. In fact, the brushing made my hair stick out even worse.
Then I remembered the sample conditioner packets and found my purse. “These better work,” I mumbled to myself.
My image was on the line. Tomorrow was my first day as a high-school freshman.
With faint hope, I trudged to the bathroom.
FRESHMAN FRENZY
Tuesday, September 3—2:00
A.M.
: Here I am, sitting on my window seat in the middle of the night, waiting for the tenth dose of moisturizer to actually work on my hair. It’s so quiet in the house, and it’s strange being the only one awake. Shoot, I have to be up and ready for school in five hours. What a nightmare!
Andie, Paula, and Kayla will probably be wide awake and alert tomorrow, looking perfectly stunning in their new school clothes, having spent just a few minutes on their hair. . . .
I’m reading the back of the sample packet, and it honestly guarantees that rich botanical reconstructive ingredients will repair hair to its smoothest, shiniest, and most manageable state of health.
Yeah, well, I can only hope.
I’m going to leave this smelly goop on for another five minutes, and if it doesn’t work, I’m shaving my head!
I can see it now—Andie freaking out. “How could you DO such a stupid thing?” she’ll say.
“But . . . isn’t slick bald in?” I’ll answer, acting naïve, which I sort of am anyway.
Her eyes will do their roller-coaster number. “You can’t be serious, Holly.” She’ll probably avoid me for the rest of the year. (And all I wanted to do was get a HEAD start!)
Enough—my humor is sick and so is my hair. It’s time to go back to the bathroom and rinse this stuff out. I can’t wait to see if this is the end of the fuzz. Here’s hoping!
FRESHMAN FRENZY
Mrs. Hibbard was outside sweeping her front walk when I passed her house the next morning. “Holly, your hair looks lovely,” she called. “You must’ve gotten a good perm.”
“Thank you,” I replied, ignoring her comment about the perm being good. A power-perm oozing with oomph, able to leap long follicles, was a better way to describe it!
But, miraculously, my hair had turned out semi-okay. Thanks to a night spent applying a zillion moisture treatments. This morning I’d used Mom’s hot styling brush. My hair was still a little too fluffy, but the shine and flexibility had returned. I was a walking, breathing hair reconstructor ad.
Mrs. Hibbard hadn’t said anything about the bags under my eyes, but I knew they were obvious. What a way to start my freshman year. I’d grabbed two cans of caffeine-packed pop on my way out the door and stashed them in my schoolbag. The caffeine would keep me going at least till lunch.
As I boarded the bus, I searched for Andie, Paula, and Kayla. Mostly older kids—upperclassmen—sat in the back of the bus. I found a seat close to the front, wondering if my friends had gotten a ride to school.
Stan had.
Somehow, my stepbrother had talked Mom into letting him catch a ride with an older friend for the first day of school. But had he included me? Guess that’s what happens when tenth graders get pushed up to the second rung of the high-school ladder. One rung higher made a big difference—in attitude.
What if . . .
I daydreamed about how things might’ve been. This moment, I might be riding off to my last, fabulous year of junior high. Top of the totem pole. Right where Andie and all the rest of us cool freshmen belonged.
The bus came to a stop across from Dressel Hills High School. As I waited to get off, I noticed the Miller twins standing on the school steps with Danny, Billy, and Andie.
Andie spotted me as I came off the bus. “Holly!” she called, and I ran across the street to meet her. “Wow, your hair looks great!”
“What you really mean is it looks poofy.”
“C’mon, Holly, it’s not that bad.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but you won’t believe what I went through to get it semi-manageable.”
She cocked her head and studied me. “You look wiped out, girl.”
“You’d be tired, too, with just five hours of
Z
s.”
Andie grinned. “You’re here; that’s all that matters.” I sighed, glancing at the twins heading up the school steps. “Getting stuck riding alone on the bus the first day of school when your best friend is—”
“Don’t give me grief over that,” Andie interrupted. “It wasn’t my idea.”
I felt foolish for saying anything. “Just forget it,” I muttered. And we turned toward the steps of the enormous old high school. I, for one, was definitely not looking forward to this day.
