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feeling.
Anonymous says...
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Ooh, little Raynie has Daddy issues. No wonder you've turned out ouch a LOSER.
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9
MONDAY, JUNE 4, 8 p.m.
Black Is the New Black
So want to hear the good news or the bad news? Oh, forget it. I hate when people ask that stupid
ques-tion, anyway. It's not like they really want you to choose. They've already got a preferred
news-telling order in their heads. They're just trying to prepare you for the shock/horror of the bad news
which is ALWAYS in these cases worse than the good news. Examples:
GOOD NEWS:You got an "A" on your history paper.
BAD NEWS:You have to read it aloud in class.
GOOD NEWS:The Arctic Monkeys are coming to town.
BAD NEWS:It's a twenty-one and up show and last week some bar confiscated your fake ID.
GOOD NEWS:There's a sale at Hot Topic.
BAD NEWS:It's only on candy-colored big pants rave gear, not that amazingly cool red velvet corset
you've been eyeing.
ANYWAY, my good news is that I did it. I went and dyed my hair black. This beautiful ebony color
that's so dark and rich it looks almost blue. Now no one will ever mistake me for Sunny in three billion
years.
Cheer!
Bad news? Uh, Mom totally flipped when she saw it.
"What did you do to yourself?" she cries when I walk out of the bathroom. (Yes, it was a
"do-it-yourself" project I'm not spending $100 at the hairdresser when they sell the stuff in the
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drugstore for $8.99.)
"I dyed my hair black," I reply, though I'm pretty sure it was a rhetorical question on her part.
She grabs a chunk of hair, her expression as distraught as when I told her I had pierced my tongue last
year. "But you had beautiful blond hair. Why would you do this?"
"Mom, I'm sick of looking exactly like Sunny," I say.
"Everyone keeps mistaking me for her and it's getting annoying."
"How can people mistake you two? You dress completely differently," she says, gesturing to my current
ensemble of black on black on black.
"I don't know." I shrug. "I agree my superior taste in clothing should tip them off, but evidently not so
much. I'm an individual, Mom. I'm my own person. I need to express myself."
"No, you need to obey me. That's what you need to do," Momreturns. Her hazel eyes flash fire. Wow. I
haven't seen herthis mad since Sunny went vamp and started missing curfew on a regular basis. (Which is
SUCH a bigger deal than a littleClairol #70, IMO.) "And you know very well I don't want you dyeing
your hair."
"But, Mom "
"Do you know what kinds of chemicals they put in those dyes?" she demands, hands on hips. "Stuff that
can cause cancer in lab rats. And if it can cause cancer in lab rats, what do you think it can do to you?"
I groan. I should have guessed that she didn't really care about the look. After all, she's a pretty
unconventional dresser herself. No, my mom doesn't worry about what the PTA will say. She's too
wrapped up in her government con-spiracy theories in which Men in Black are developing evil hair dye
to sedate the human race while the Illuminati take over the world.
Sometimes I wish I just had a normal mom. One who didn't think hairdressers were really the Antichrist,
at the very least.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I guess I wasn't thinking."
"Come to me next time if you want to change your look. I've got a great all-natural henna coloring we
could have used. Stuff that's made of plant products and is perfectly safe."
"Sure, Mom. I will." Yeah, right. I'm so not getting my hair dyed with henna. Maybe I'd consider a henna
tattoo, but that's where I draw the line. After all, let's face it. Safe and effective or not, henna is for
hippies.
She reaches over and gives me a hug. "I'm sorry, Rayne," she says. "I don't mean to yell. I just worry
about my girls. I want them to be safe."
"I know, Mom. And I'm glad you do," I say, squeezing her back.
I mean it, too. Though she drives me crazy at times, overall when it comes to moms, mine's about as
cool as you can get. She's like a "friend mom." Sunny and I can talk to her about pretty much anything
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(besides hair dye and vampires, of course) and she's completely nonjudgmental. She doesn't sneak into
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