The next morning there was a wet and gloomy dawn, at least on the outside of our apartment. Inside the walls, activity roused early. I was eating my breakfast while watching my sisters get ready for the day. Hazel was in our only bathroom "freshening up." But we all know, that given the chance, seventeen year-old girls will spend hours in the bathroom. Shiloh bustled about trying to find her other sneaker. "At least she is getting herself prepared for work," I thought to myself, "Whereas Hazel has been in the bathroom for long enough." I spooned the last of my cereal into my mouth and headed for the bathroom. I knocked on the locked door. "Who is it?" asked Hazel. I let out an exasperated sigh. "The doughnut man! Who else could it be?" The name brought old memories of watching the show when me and my brother and sisters would watch it when we were oh, so little, to when Chester, Destiny, and Savannah took part in a radio show with one of the Doughnut Man's songs as the theme song. But my memories were cut short as I heard a soft click of the lock and the door opening. "Do you really need to come in here?" she asked, annoyed.
"Um, who is going to the hair salon, you or me?" She rolled her eyes. I liked to pester her a bit, so I continued, "That's right! I am! So what's the doing up for if you're only going to tidy the house?"
"I was done anyway," she said. She stepped out of the bathroom and I stepped in. I smiled to myself, because that's how sissies are. They pick on you, then smile.
When we got to the salon, Hazel took my place in the driver's seat as I got out. The girls were quiet about their intentions for their morning. I was sure they were thinking about how they would put to use this time, this time to themselves, without me.
"Bye," I said sweetly. Their faces betrayed their joy to be rid of me. "Bye!" And they were gone. I sighed. Then brightened. I had a date with Gia, and that was always a cause to be happy. I walked into the shop and was greeted by a black-haired woman.
"Avé! So good to see you!"
"Same here, Electra!" I was a favorite costumer, or so I'm told.
"Here for your third yearly? Or need a new style?" Her eyes sparkled, giving justice to her name. I knew she was thinking the same word I was about to say, yet I said them anyway. "I think you know,"
"Yes I do. A short cut with an elegant short style it is then!" I never said what hairstyle I wanted, so every time I come in to donate my hair they pick for me. That started after I'd been here several times and saying the same things, "Short cut." "Any style you want?" "You pick." Apparently today I was getting the 'elegant short style.' I sat down in one of their plushy arm chairs that sat in the corner, and waited for my favorite stylist.
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