The Impossible Miss Blue

Tuesday, November 11th

I stared at myself in the mirror. 

God, I thought, what would mum have said about this?

She’d probably ground me for the rest of my life at the sight of my blue hair. Was this just a phase of mourning? I bet it was. It’s when you can’t look at something without it reminding you of what or who you lost so you change it—or get rid of it. My straight, blonde hair reminded me too much of my mother. I had thought before getting it done: to hell with it! 

Oh, god.

It wasn’t that bad, I guess. It fit with the main things in my features. My pale blue-green eyes, which popped tremendously even though I had only a layer of mascara and a thin line of eyeliner on (like usual; I don’t really like make-up). My nose was slim and slightly stubbed-looking at the end, but I have a feeling it would look weird if it were another way. My face was almost freckle-free, except for a few that were here and there. I had natural pink lips that were the shape I think lips were supposed to be; the top was slightly smaller than the bottom. Literally no cheekbones could be seen in this face. I looked okay. 

A tired, moody, lonely teenager with blue hair.

I stood in the bathroom and stared at my reflection, thinking long and hard about life for who knows how long before someone knocked the door. It was Aaron. “Are you doing okay in there, sis?” He asked. I then noticed that I was crying. I quickly wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. “Um, yeah—I’m okay.” He has been concerned about me for a while now. Well, ever since Mum died; that was two years ago. My brother had become my legal guardian less than a week after that. It was a humungous change for us. We didn’t have the money, the parents, anything. My brother started to work at a small shop named Maggie’s Sandwiches, while I got a job at a local pub: Time Out. My brother  hated where I worked. All the sleazes and creeps, the fighters, the junkies, et cetera. I agree that it’s not the safest job in the world, but I’ve been fine so far.

My dad might of encouraged it. My parents got a divorce when I was 2 and Aaron was 4. He became an alcoholic shortly after. I wanted to assume that he was one before they had split, seeing that he had adjusted to that amount of toxins in him so quickly. Maybe it was in his blood—my blood. I shivered. I hoped not.

Another knock on the door had, fortunately, pulled me away from my reverie. I opened the door, wondering what my brother would say to my sudden change in appearance. I watched him do a double-take and I smiled at him. “Your hair—Your hair is blue, you know.” He stuttered. I laughed, “I’m aware, thanks.” We stood in silence for a few seconds. “I wanted to tell you that you were going to be late to work. You’re going to have to leave in about 10 minutes.” I nodded, sidestepping around him to get to my room. I changed into my slightly (and uncomfortably) revealing uniform.

“Luna, you’re almost late.” My boss, Ross said sternly. He isn’t that nice, but he’s not that mean either. But no one would ever stand up to him; his brown eyes looked pitch black, and they watched everything like a hawk. It made him seem very “tuff.”

I quickly apologized and went behind the bar. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, I’m the upstairs bartender. On Mondays and Wednesdays, I work downstairs. That is where the gambling takes place. I don’t really like downstairs.

I tied the apron that had been sitting on the counter for me around my waist. A few groups of men, a few groups of women, and a group of mixed were already here. Some sort of dubstep music was playing through the speakers loud enough to make the walls shake. Tables and booths lined against the sides of the room and people could dance in the middle. I don’t really like the middle either; a lot of stuff happens there that I’d rather not see.