Being herself has never been a challenge for Nyla until high school, where bitches, boobs and boys invades the minds of everyone... Well, everyone except her, of course.
Nyla never cared much about any of the three B's until she grew conscious of h...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Aaaaaahhhh!"
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Except, it was barely my reflection at all-or what I went to bed with, at least.
This couldn't be happening. How was my hair ...
Trisha.
My blood boiled. How ... How could she?
A single tear drop rolled down my cheek as Ginger appeared in the mirror behind me.
"Yeah, it looks pretty bad," Ginger said as if that yielded any comfort.
But instead of replying, I reached up and touched my hair. I didn't even notice how much I was shaking until I saw my hand in the mirror.
This was NOT anything anyone would like to wake up and see. My hair hasn't always been my favourite attribute, but to have Trisha dishonour it was heartbreaking and, quite frankly, infuriating.
For the most part, it was okay. But there was a long, straight patch of hair hanging over my forehead, with a few similar patches everywhere else.
"No need to worry," Ginger piped, no doubt trying to cheer me up or prevent me from strangling my sister.
I mean, when Ginger woke me up, she looked terrified, and she wouldn't make a peep-which was quite unusual for her. Then, without saying anything, she led me to my bedroom mirror and well, here we are.
"Why ... Why would she do something like this?" I asked, holding onto the straightened tendril of my hair. But I already knew the answer. Exactly two weeks ago-on the day Austin and I fought-Trisha came to my room and promised she'd "give me what I wanted." Whatever the hell that meant.
But I was on my guard. And so when I finally dropped it, she attacked.
That bitch!
"Ginger, what am I going to do? I can't go to school on Monday looking like this!"
"Of course you can," she said, waving me off. "All you need is water, right?"
She grabbed my spray bottle and handed it to me. My heart soared in relief. I had been so wracked with pain, panic and anger that I forgot that my hair was far from resistant to water. This was why I needed Ginger to survive.
I squirted a few drops on my mane, grateful it was curling into its usual bouncy coils. Except, for the front.
I must've squirted half of the bottle on the patch of straight hair hanging over my face, but it wouldn't budge.
