“I’ll be twenty-five then, practically a washed-up has-been.”
“HEY!” Kinsley and Becca shouted.
“No offense.”
Becca laughed. “None taken.”
“The point is, I don’t care about the future. I’m mad and nothing you guys say will change that. So just let me have that liquor bottle and get me some firewood to burn this stupid wrist brace they’re making me wear.”
I leaned forward, trying to reach for the whiskey while simultaneously balancing the ice pack on my wrist.
“No. We aren’t going to get you firewood.”
“Scratch that then. Do either of you guys know how to give a tattoo? I’ll get one that matches yours, Kinsley. Except instead of She believed she could so she did, it’ll just say Fuck this.”
She laughed.
“Or what about a bellybutton piercing?” I asked, looking around. “We’ll need a needle.”
Becca gagged. “God no!”
Every single one of my ideas was met with sharp criticism: tattoos, piercings, prank calls to our coach.
“Okay, well then I want a haircut. Out with the old and in with the new! Right?” I said, looking at Becca. “Something that says ‘fuck international athletics’.”
Kinsley groaned, but Becca didn’t seem wholeheartedly against the idea. “There are scissors out in the kitchen.”
“Yes!” I said, holding the liquor bottle in the air.
“Becca, have you ever cut someone’s hair before?” Kinsley asked.
She waved her off. “My own, when I was five. It didn’t turn out well, but I’ve got to be at least…” She did the math in her head. “Five times better at it now.”
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on a chair in my bathroom with a bed sheet wrapped around me as a makeshift smock. Becca circled my head, trying to figure out where to start.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I want?” I asked, confused as to why there were two of her in the mirror.
Becca’s eyes widened. “Let’s just start small?”
My blonde hair was long. It’d grown for years, normally gathered in a ponytail for competition. Christy wouldn’t hear of me cutting it when I was growing up.
“Chop it like it’s hot,” I said, motioning above my shoulder. “All of it. See if I give a FUCK.”
Kinsley was on the other side of the bathroom door, banging away. “GUYS, let me in! I’m totally on board with the haircut, I just want to offer some pointers. I won’t sabotage it.”
Becca looked at me. I looked at her, and then I looked at the second Becca. They both seemed nice. “Do you guys trust her?”
“Guysssssss. I swear!”
Becca number two shook her head, and I took another shot. I narrowed my eyes until the real Becca came into focus. “Leave her out there then.”
TWO HOURS LATER, Kinsley walked past my room, dipped her head in to get a good look at me, and then laughed as she walked away. She’d been doing it all afternoon and her ridicule helped neither my hangover nor my hack job.
I didn’t blame Becca when I looked in the mirror after my haircut. I mean, it definitely looked like a blind monkey had taken garden shears to my head. One side touched my shoulders while the other side sat an inch higher, but it wasn’t all her fault. It was still greasy since I hadn’t bothered to shower after my game, and there were pieces of trash in it from when I’d devoured a bag of Hershey’s kisses instead of getting up to get a normal snack.
It had all seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to “stick it to the man” at the time. Now, of course, I had a splitting headache, a bum wrist, and the hair of a loony person.
“Coming down with us for dinner, Andie?” Becca asked, leaning into my room.
“What do you think?” I asked, picking a piece of foil from my hair.
She did her best not to laugh. “You know, I think it’ll help if you shower. Maybe the hair will settle into place.”
“That makes no sense,” I argued.
“Okay, she was trying to be polite. You should actually shower because I can smell you from out here!” Kinsley yelled from the living room.
It was easy for them to go on with their lives. They were still playing in the Olympics, their lives progressing like movies. I was now a glorified equipment manager. Coach Decker had already emailed me a new, personal itinerary: 9:00 AM breakfast, 10:00 AM appointment with the trainer, 11:00 AM physical therapy, 12:00 PM lunch, 1:00 PM join team for afternoon meeting, 3:00 PM physical therapy, etc.
I planned on ignoring most of her orders. Instead, my itinerary would include the following: 9:00 AM sit on bed/general wallowing, 10:00 AM roll myself up in sheets and pretend I’m a mummy, 11:00 AM eat peanut butter from jar with fingers, 12:00 PM pick peanut butter out of greasy hair, 1:00 PM roll myself up in sheets and pretend I’m a Chipotle burrito, 3:00 PM throw myself in front of a moving bus.
“Okay, this is enough,” Kinsley said, hitting the frame of my door with her hand so that I jumped. “You are going to get up and you are going to shower and you are going to come down to the food court with us. You need a decent meal.”