My Journal #2

Elle's Bad Hair day

Our topic is a hair cut or style gone awry. Did the stylist give you the wrong dye, or was talking on the phone and took a hunk out of your hair. Maybe the razor slipped and you now have a huge bald spot. Let's see what you can come up with.

I rushed into the bathroom, tore at my zipper and managed to get seated. I hate getting old. I was going to have to do something about my bladder and soon. I sighed, relaxed. and hoped my bladder would take advantage, so I wouldn’t have to make another run for it with in the hour.

I heard the main bathroom door open and snickering followed.

“Girl did you see her hair? She said she had just had it done. Lord, if that were me I would have put a bullet through that stylist's head to prevent further atrocities.”

I recognized that voice. It was Jill, my coworker and best friend. Who was she talking about? I kept quiet waiting for the response.

“Jill, I could hardly keep from laughing. Did you see the highlights? It looked like she ran into a herd of Zebra’s and the stripes rubbed off.” I recognized Betsy’s voice, her cube was just down the row from mine. There was more tittering and muffled laughter.

My face began to heat. Last night I gave into my young stylist’s urges and let her darken the color and add light blond highlights. I thought that the change had made me look a little younger than my 51 years. Had I gone off the deep end and become the laughing stock of the office?

Jill sounded concerned, “What are we going to do? We can’t just let her run around the office like that. She probably thinks she looks young and hip. “

“More hippy than hip."  A snort was cut short.

“Look when she comes back to her desk, we’ll get her to come to the break room, sit down and tell her the truth.” Becky responded in kind.

“You do the talking. I don’t think I am going to be able to keep a straight face. I feel bad, but she looks so funny." There was the sound of hand washing, then the door opened and there was silence.

Tears flowed down my cheeks in embarrassment. I yanked at the toilet paper, wadding a huge pile that I used to scrub my face and blow my nose. I had to come up with some way to get from the bathroom, to my desk and out the door before I faced anyone else.

I stood, taking the courage to get out of the stall. Besides, I grimaced, If I sat any longer I might be permanently sealed to the seat.

At the washbowl, I didn’t even want to look in the mirror. The soap was comforting and I scrubbed like a doctor before surgery and planned my escape. I wet my hair enough to get it to lay flat against my head. Thank goodness I wore a raincoat with the hood. By going down the back stairs at the end of the hall instead of the elevator, I will miss my co-workers but I will have to cross the main lobby. Oh well, I don’t care what they think and I will have my hood on. I am not going to let anyone make more fun of me than was necessary.

I checked for mascara smudges, took a deep breath. Before I could reach for the handle, the door flew open and a woman rushed passed me. A blur of black and white hair rushed for a stall. Sobs were heard from behind the locked door.

The main bathroom door burst open again and in came Jill and Betsy. They slid to a stop when they saw me.

“Is she in there?” Jill asked me.

“Who?” I hadn't recognized the blur as it passed me.

“Carla, are you in there?” Betsy called as she pushed the stall doors open.

There was a muffled sob. I pointed to the handicapped stall. Betsy and Jill stood by the door.

“Carla, we are so sorry. Honey, you had to know. It just isn’t you. You are soft and fun; this hairstyle is Cruella de Ville. We love you too much not say anything.”

I sagged against one of the washbowls. They hadn’t been talking about me. They were talking about Carla!

“Elle, what did you do to your hair? It was so cute this morning and I didn’t get a chance to tell you.” She whispered as she took my arm. “Did you see Carla?” I shook my head. “We need to be strong for her.” I nodded, my head bobbing like a dog in the back window of a car.

Betsy finally convinced Carla to come out of the stall. I saw the hot mess.

“I tried to give myself some highlights but it must have stripped the color and I didn’t know how to fix it.” She was sobbing. I handed her a stack of paper towels and she rubbed her eyes, ruining her eye makeup.

“I’ll call my stylist and see if she can fit her in,” I whispered to Jill and headed out the door.

When I got to my desk, I grabbed my cell and pressed the speed dial. As I started back to the bathroom, I hooked my raincoat over my arm. She was going to need this. I would tell her my great plan of escape.