MasterCard need issue a warning. They’re the ones who’ll suffer the longest.
‘Get rid of it, hey? Why, what’s going to happen if I don’t?’
‘Oh, honey.’ She wiped at her suddenly wet-looking eyes. ‘Bad stuff. Real bad stuff. I consulted the Tarot and the Hermit came up, which means take extreme caution. So, to be safe I also consulted the Runes and Thurisaz came up, which means danger, possibly wildfire and a giant ogre …’
‘Mum, you can’t be serious!’ I couldn’t help laughing. ‘A giant ogre? What, like Shrek?’ She took things so seriously it was hard to keep a straight face.
‘This is no laughing matter! I also did your numbers and the outcome was not good. The only way to fix it is to change your name. The numbers don’t lie!’
‘Change my name? Mum, have you been smoking a bit too much incense lately?’
‘I know you think I’m cuckoo, so I took one of your handbags to a medium I know. She holds the item and can see into the future, your future, and she saw,’ she starts to sob, ‘you get hit by a car!’
‘Oh no!’ I cried, enraged. ‘Which handbag?’
‘Never mind which bag, the problem is you’re surrounded by bad karma. It’s written all over your aura.’
‘This has been fun. We should do it more often,’ I said, as I picked up the kimono and headed for the front door.
‘What about dinner?’
‘As tantalising as vegetarian bolognese sounds, I already have some cow defrosting on my sink. And we wouldn’t want to waste those carbon emissions by throwing Daisy in the bin.’
My mum looked at me with her tear-stained face. ‘You’re a bad girl sometimes. Please heed my warning, heed…’
I grabbed her in a bear hug and squashed the heeding out of her. ‘Love you.’
***
I was looking out of my apartment window, swirling a nice big glass of Shiraz and doing a little Japanese-inspired dance. Swathed in the antique kimono, I tried channelling my inner geisha. I definitely felt thinner with it on.
I was having a great time dancing to some random Japanese music I’d downloaded from iTunes, when I made a ‘poor choice’, as my mother would say. Honestly, I don’t smoke any more, it’s for chumps, but I do have a couple hidden around the house for those odd moments when you crave something other than chocolate or wine.
I reached under the lounge cushion and removed a small silver cigarette case I had taped under there. (I did try to hide them from myself: the three D’s. Drink, delay, do something else).
Being a non-smoker, I couldn’t find a lighter anywhere so I resorted to lighting the cigarette off the stove. No sooner had I taken the first puff, I smelled a horrible burning plastic stench. It took me a few seconds to realise my hair was on fire. I dropped the cigarette into the sink and swatted at my head with a tea towel while screaming and jumping like, well, exactly like a person whose hair is on fire. I didn’t actually feel any pain, only separation anxiety; those black lustrous locks and I had been through some tough times together. Now, in an instant, they were gone. Not even a goodbye.
I raced into the bathroom to assess the damage. Oh. My. God. If I looked to the left, nothing had changed. When I turned my head to the right, there was a cropped-haired bogan staring back at me. This was a disaster. I had the kind of oval face that did not suit short hair.
***
‘I’m here, show me this emergency then!’
Out of sheer necessity, I’d called my ex-BFF Kylie. She was a hair psychologist. Usually I didn’t trust her with my hair (hence the ex-BFF status), but I figured the damage was done, and where else could I find a hairdresser this late at night?
She put her bag down and walked into the small kitchenette where I was guzzling wine to cheer myself up. I must admit at that stage I gazed lovingly at her Dita Von Teese curls and colourfast red lips. It wasn’t often Kylie looked more immaculate than me.
‘Argh! Holy moley! What the hell happened?’ she said, as her eyes widened.
‘A small fire happened. Can you fix it?’
‘Oh, so now I’m qualified enough to cut your hair, hey? Fix your F-ups?’
‘F-ups?’
‘Swearing doesn’t become me. I’ve changed since we last saw each other. I’ve grown. Developed as a …’
‘Argh, you sound like my mum!’ I said, breaking off what I knew would turn into a monologue.
‘Your mum is actually an extremely switched-on lady. You should listen to her once in a while. She noticed my chakras were out of whack …’
I interrupted again. ‘You traitor!’
She hoisted her hairdressing bag over her fuchsia-clad shoulder and replied huffily, ‘Do you want me to fix your hair or not?’
Imagine making friends with my mother. Kylie must have been all sorts of desperate. I bit my tongue because, really, what choice did I have? I didn’t like it, though. Not one little bit.
‘OK, fine. Do you think there’s any hope?’ I pointed to the bogan side of myself.
‘It’s not going to be easy. Maybe you should go blonde, you know, create a whole new you.’
I eyed her dubiously. ‘Let’s just fix the style first.’
Kylie set to work, her mouth set in a small smile as she spoke soothingly to my hair. I closed my eyes and wrapped the kimono tightly around my waist. Obviously a beautiful piece of antique silk was not the culprit for the small hair fire. My mother really needed to cut back on those mushrooms she had especially hand-picked and delivered from Balingup. I think they were not so much wild as they were magic, and we all know what that means. She was a walking hallucination. Poor woman.
***
My alarm shrieked like a tsunami detector, startling me awake. I stretched lazily, mentally planning my wardrobe until I remembered the unfortunate hair-on-fire incident. I jumped out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. Kylie had cut my hair into a Posh Spice bob and highlighted and lowlighted the hell out of it. It was now a mosaic of blonde and brown. I was quite pleased with the result and I was sure it made my cheekbones more prominent. My face seemed thinner even. I decided to go with my red tailored skort and a fitted white shirt. I knew Posh would approve. Modern, yet stylish.
I arrived at work promptly at 9.20a.m. and was admiring my hair in the reflection of my PC when I smelled garlic. A shadow fell over me, drowning my image in the screen.
‘That is not appropriate work attire. Shorts? What were you thinking?’
I looked over my shoulder to see Mr Boss Man staring at me in condemnation.
‘What? These aren’t shorts. It’s a skort.’
‘A skort?’
‘Yes,
