Page 41 of Late Bloomer
Stepping closer, I look at my hair. The bubblegum pink has faded to a grayish hue, the roots growing in as a mousy dark blonde. Stone-cold fox right here.
An idea, one that always makes me feel good and fresh and excited, grips me tight, and for the first time in hours, I feel a small swell of relief. At least there’s one thing I can control.
I slide across my messy bedroom floor, fishing out my duffel bag of goodies from under the bed. I rip it open, flicking through the various neon packages until I find one that feels right. With a triumphant yip, I yank off my T-shirt, throw on an old white one covered in paint stains, and dart across the hall to the bathroom.
I tear open the box, flicking away the directions. I know the deal.
With the care of a chemist, I mix the hair bleach into my trusty plastic bowl, stirring and scraping until it’s a consistency I’m familiar with. Giving myself a mischievous grin in the mirror, I start to paint it on, lathering the goop from root to tip until every strand is covered.
I want to bleach the stupid from my head, but my hair is an okay starting point. Setting a timer, I play the waiting game, the anticipation growing as I sit on the closed toilet and scroll through my phone, leg bouncing.
I always keep a decent supply of hair dyes on hand, the sudden need for a change not one that’s particularly patient with trips to Sally Beauty Supply.
I love the smell of the chemicals—sharp and vibrant—a fresh start in a bottle. I love changing my hair, using it as a canvas when other ones are uncooperative. In almost every avenue of my life, I don’t feel fully myself. Not in relationships or friendships or online or jobs. It’s like there’s some part I’m supposed to play, but no one bothered to give me a description, yet they’re disappointed when I show up as someone else.
My hair and its changing colors are my little act of rebellion. The thing I do fully for me.
When my timer dings, I turn on the shower, giving my hair a thorough scrub. I watch the dirty, faded pink circle the drain, being replaced by an icy, platinum blonde. I can’t wait to see the result. Cool. Aloof. Tough and impenetrable. Sleek light strands showing the new me. Or, rather, the me I wish I could be.
Stepping out of the shower, I rub a towel over my head, then grab my brush and plug in my hair dryer, flipping my head upside down and getting to work. The mirror is fogged but it doesn’t matter—I could do my hair with my eyes closed, I’ve tortured the strands so frequently.
When it’s dry, I drag my fingers through it. It feels… Well, honestly, it feels a bit crunchy. But that’s okay. Nothing I can’t deal with. I wipe down the mirror, smiling as my face comes into view.
My cheeks are bright red from the heat and excitement, eyes scrubbed free of makeup.
And my hair…
I lunge at the mirror, one hand slapping the glass, the other knotting in my hair.
No.
No no no no.
No.
No.
Please God No.
My hair. Myhair.
It’s… it’s…
Bright. Fucking. White.
I look like a dandelion with half the fluff blown off. A tiny howl of agony tears from me, and I hear the stairs creak below.
“Opal? You okay?” Pepper hollers.
I shriek again in response, then clear my throat. “Fine,” I yell back. I hear another step creak.
“You sure? You keep, er, screaming…”
Instead of answering, I spring open the door and tear across the hall to my room.
I start pacing, towel clenched around me, wet footprints marking my chaotic path. What do I do, what do Ido? I can’t just go to this party looking like Gene Wilder inYoung Frankenstein.
The thud of feet running up the stairs has enough bass to be a soundtrack to a horror movie.
