A Touchdown for the Girl

Chapter 8

"Ouch! Sara, that hurts!"

She glares at me through the mirror and continues yanking the hairbrush through my hair. "It isn't MY fault that someone laid in bed all day without even combing their hair!"

I frown at her while trying to adjust myself on the wooden stool that has caused my butt to fall asleep, then reply with a hurt tone, "It's only like two-thirty, and besides, I was watching Supernatural. You cannot be mad at me when you didn't give me any instruction on what to do or when to do the stuff."

"You're the smart one, Blondie. I figured I could trust you," she mutters, continuing to comb out my rat's nest of what is supposedly blonde hair, none too gently either. "Whatever. Now, listen up--Dating playbook."

I look at her warily and realize that she is my one hope at not looking like a total ditz. Letting out a sigh, I say, "What do I do?"

Sara grins evilly at me. She pull the brush through my hair one last time, leaving it tangle-free but static-y and all kinky, not straight or curly, simply a mess. She pins up the top half of my hair, then grabs the curling iron and sets in on my hair before finally giving me an explanation. "The first date is what makes or breaks- it is the deciding factor of whether you guys enter into a relationship." I gulp because that sounds hella daunting. "Here's the thing, you cannot, I repeat, cannot, under any circumstances be something you're not. At the same time, you don't want him to see your absolute insanity, so you have to know when and how to direct the conversation to safe topics. Ya following?"

Instead of replying, I stare at her, indirectly, in fear. She sees my fear and sets down the iron, spinning me around, off the stool to stand in front of her. Even though Sara is a few inches shorter, I still feel as though she is my mother who is comforting and disciplining me all at once. I tug on the bottom of my large and stained 5SOS shirt that falls to my mid-thigh, attempting to comprehend, trying to make Sara proud by understanding, but alas, I am useless.

She pulls my chin up, so she is looking me in the face. Sara sighs. "You have to trust yourself, Avery. Look at it this way: it's just like you're in one of your debates. Keep the opponent from voicing what it is that could defeat you, ok?"

I look her in the eyes and see her confidence and find some faith in myself. "Ok."

She grins at me and spins me back onto the stool, immediately resuming her work on my hair. Each tendril she curls falls perfectly, landing warm against my face or neck and eventually cooling. She works through each layer of my hair, while letting the music fill the silence. It seems to me that she is trying to organize her thoughts for me so that her playbook doesn't confuse me. My playlist goes through Blink 182, followed by Green Day, then 5SOS, and lands on Fall Out Boy. I bounce in my seat, attempting to refrain myself from dancing with each song that plays, which causes Sara to giggle.

A solid thirty minutes after she started curling my hair, she is only two-thirds done. I pout upon the realization but sit there as still as possible, letting her finish. Within ten minutes, all of my hair is in beautiful spirals, but of course, Sara is not done. She holds about ten bobby pins between her lips as she forms a crown of sorts with waterfall braids. With the last pin in place, she claps her hands together, clearly proud of her work. I glance in the mirror and gasp, falling in love with my hair. The different hues of blonde all work together, flashing around from the curls, and the way the braids weave through is Hollywood-worthy. I turn around and high-five Sara, whispering 'thank you' over and over again.

"I told you-- Princess."

"You were sooo right."

She smirks at me. "I know. Ok, now I need to do your makeup. Try not to flinch like you usually do, alright?"