Page 9 of Molly
She pushed a pin through the layers of pattern and fabric, then jumped, yanking her hand away and sucking on her finger. She pulled it from her mouth and inspected her digit. “Yes and yes, so yay for me.”
Betsy slid the pattern and fabric away from Amanda without a word and handed her a BAND-AID from the other side of the container of pins.
“No one better be bleeding on my dress.” Jocelyn strode into the living room, the fragrance of Japanese orange blossoms wafting around her and her natural curls thick around her head like a halo.
“My finger is just fine, thanks for asking.” Amanda threw the trash from the BAND-AID at Jocelyn.
Jocelyn smiled then plopped herself down on the floor, leaning over the dress-in-progress. “This looks great guys, thanks for your help.” She reached for a pin. “What did I miss? Catch me up.”
Betsy pointed to me. “Fired and hired in one day.” She moved her finger toward Nicole. “Vegan and Sierra is starting soccer.” Next, to Amanda. “Recalcitrant client and revoking of hermit privileges.”
Jocelyn stared at me, eyes wide. “What’s going on with your hair?”
I lifted my hand, but Nicole swatted it away. “What do you mean?”
“It’s—”
“Not finished.” Nicole interrupted. She squeezed the clip and the last strands of my hair fell to my shoulders. With jerky movements, she doused the last section with dye, massaging it all together and piling it on top of my head.
Three sets of eyes gaped at me.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I scooted onto my knees to stand.
Nicole pushed down on my shoulders. “It still needs time to set.”
My legs were stronger than her arms, and I rose despite her protests. “I want to see.”
All thoughts of sewing vanished (although one project this week did not a sewing group make), and the girls followed me into the bathroom.
I blinked at my reflection.
Pink.
My brain had a hard time wrapping itself around this phenomenon. “Why is my hair pink?”
“Very trendy,” Amanda offered. “Pink hair, don’t care. It’s a hashtag.”
Jocelyn nodded, though the agreement seemed forced. “The color gives you a certain…je ne sais quoi.”
“You look like a gumball. Or Poppy fromTrolls.” Betsy’s lips curled.
She was right. My head resembled a spiral of cotton candy.
“Look at it this way.” Jocelyn moved in to give me a side hug. “What four-year-old girl isn’t going to love pink hair? You’re instantly winning in your new position.”
Nicole met my gaze in the mirror, an apologetic look in her eyes. “I’m really sorry, Molly. I must have gotten the ratios wrong or something. The henna in the dye was supposed to add a nice strawberry tint to your blonde.”
“If by strawberry you mean strawberry Starburst, then I think it worked great.”
“Hot water.” Nicole’s ample hips bumped me from the side as she lunged for the sink faucet. “Hot water will open the hair cuticles and some of the color will rinse out.” Water poured out of the faucet onto her wrist. When the flow reached the right temperature, she stepped aside.
A shower would have been preferable, but if sticking my head in the sink helped tame down this color, I’d do it. Blood rushed into my cheeks from my upside-down position, but salmon-colored rivulets of water collected in the basin beneath me. After a few minutes, the water was turned off and a towel shoved into my hands.
“Just another exciting session of sewing in SoCal,” Betsy deadpanned, and we all burst out laughing.
4
Ben
