A Bitch Named Karma. Stephanie Haefner

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СКАЧАТЬ murmured an “Ummm hmmm” while my inner monologue answered with, “Yep, what a prize. I can see why there’s a line of ladies waiting to get in his pants.”

      Dinner finished and we took seats in the living room with glasses of the grape juice. While Mom sat engrossed with Pastor John’s story of church drama and Dad pretended to listen, I opened the liquor cabinet and doctored my drink with a shot or two of vodka. Or maybe it was three. It’s hard to guesstimate when trying to keep one’s alcohol abuse on the down-low.

      I sipped my concoction and Mom brought up every topic she could think of that remotely interested me, trying to get the Pastor and I to talk. After some two-minute stretches of conversation about tennis, Mexican food and the color aubergine, he announced the need for a good night’s sleep. The awkward evening finally ended with Mom telling Pastor John we’d see him Sunday at church, including me. I hadn’t stepped foot in that church since my rebellion against organized religion in the early nineties. No way was I going now, not with my mother playing matchmaker with Mr. Holy himself.

      * * * *

      I knew my self-pitying funk had come to an end when the feel of cotton fleece on my skin felt like a million ants crawling all over my body. Mom lent me her Volvo for an emergency shopping spree. I couldn’t afford a whole new wardrobe on 5th Avenue, so Target would have to do. The store’s bright red bull’s-eye logo scared me, but once inside, I took comfort in its quaintness and found quite a few decent things. Some of the clothing lines actually came from real designers and the fabrics consisted of only minimal amounts of polyester.

      I strolled past the lingerie department, spying cute bra and panty sets and grabbed one. But before tossing it my cart, I realized it was a pointless purchase. I didn’t have anyone to sex it up for anymore. Granny panties and Cross Your Heart bras were the only lingerie items in my future.

      As relieving as it was to wear something other than coordinating sweatshirts and pants, shopping wasn’t the same without Marcus to tell me if something looked good on me or not. I missed him so much. We’d never gone this long without talking. I decided to suck it up and call him, or at least call his cellphone when I knew it would be off and leave a voice mail.

      After cashing out, I took a seat at the mini Starbucks near the exit of Target. Who knew you could get a damn good Chai Tea Latte at the same place where they sold jumper cables, Barbie dolls and toothpaste?

      I dialed Marcus’s number. It went straight to voicemail, just like I knew it would.

      “Hi, Marcus, it’s Lexi. I, um, miss you. Please call me.”

      A huge weight had been lifted as I took the first step toward getting some of my life back. Once I secured one piece of normalcy, everything else would fall back into place.

      I felt good—the best I had in a week—and decided to treat myself to a cut and color touch-up that I desperately needed. Only one huge problem with that plan: my loyalty to Brenda for the past six years left me terrified to trust my locks to anyone else. Trying a new stylist was far more nerve-wracking than sleeping with a guy for the first time. With the guy, I expected it to be awkward, messy and uncoordinated, and more times than not, I was left far from satisfied. But there was an easy fix for that, a glass of wine and my favorite vibrator. If I got a bad haircut, it ruined my week, maybe even my month. At this point in my life, the last thing I needed was hair drama.

      I drove around town searching for the trendiest looking salon, all about judging the book by its cover. That was my life. A stunning cover was crucial.

      I settled on Le Salon Magnifique. French equals class. How could I go wrong?

      The place radiated elegance and sophistication. Clients lounged in chrome chairs while stylists in sleek black robes wove their hair magic. Soft music played, accented by the trickle of a water fountain, giving the place a very Zen-like ambience.

      I walked up to the counter. “Give me the works!”

      A pedicure, manicure and facial later, I sat regally on my throne. The stylist walked over and I gave her my instructions.

      She regally drew a pair of gleaming scissors from her station and dove into her work like an artist. I closed my eyes and let her hands work their magic. Just like those silly shampoo commercials, I lost myself in the orgasmic feeling that descended over me, promising myself I would not moan out in ecstasy.

      My dye job came next and once the foils were in place, I sat at the dryer flipping through the latest Cosmo for half an hour. The stylist unwrapped my head and began blow drying my damp locks. The color looked a little off and the more she dried it, the brighter it became. My beautiful chestnut hair now resembled the sickening shade of the traffic cones on the street outside. Horrified, my stomach turn upside down and I suppressed the urge to vomit. I stood and stepped closer to the mirror. Maybe if I blinked real hard, when I opened my eyes it would be back to normal.

      Nope, I still looked like Carrot Top.

      “What the hell did you do to me?” I demanded.

      “Uh, I don’t know.”

      “What do you mean you don’t know? It’s completely fucked up!”

      “Maybe there was something wrong with the dye,” she answered smugly and snapped her bubble gum.

      My anger morphed into intense sadness and I used every last ounce of energy to hold in my tears. While further inspecting my fiery locks, I spotted her reflection in the mirror. Behind me was that Karma Bitch. She lay sprawled across the counter, head back, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. In her hand she held a tube of bright orange hair dye.

      “Unbelievable!” I said, ripping off my smock, tears long gone, and stormed out.

      I drove home and found a Mercedes parked in the driveway. I stomped into the house with my fire-colored hair frizzing in every direction.

      “Lexi!” my bubbly blond little sister screamed and skipped over to me, throwing her arms around me. “I’m so happy you’re here!”

      “Yay, let’s throw a party.”

      Abby lived a perfect Super Suburban Barbie lifestyle. Even as kids, I always knew she’d grow up to be just like Mom, pearls and all. Daniel, her boyfriend, made big bucks doing only God knows what. He’d explained it before, but boredom overcame me three-point-five seconds into the spiel. Abby’s job as a Kindergarten teacher had been her dream since the first day she hung her backpack in a kindergarten cubby.

      We stood there in the foyer, Abby hugging me way longer than necessary. Why had they come, unannounced, in the middle of the week to visit Mom and Dad?

      “Alexandra, dinner will be ready soon,” Mom said, walking into the foyer. She noticed my huge hair. “Oh dear. What happened?”

      “Small problem at the salon today,” I said gritting my teeth.

      Andy walked in next. “What’s up, Bozo?”

      I wanted to pummel him like I had when we were kids, but my inner lady refused to make a spectacle of myself. With a mumbled “fuck you” under my breath, I walked past.

      Once in my room, I worked some product in and managed to smooth my hair into a bun sort of thing. All tucked away, it looked somewhat better. I changed into one of my new outfits and made my way to the dining room. Each place setting СКАЧАТЬ