Eighty-three

The awkwardness at home is impregnable, the tension so thick it stifles. I don’t know what I hope to achieve with my recent attitude but I am tired of being vulnerable and alone in love. Telling my best friend this doesn’t shield me from her hostility or the cold glare she levels at me, I shrink under her gaze, swallow and grip the steering wheel.

"Is this a joke?" Clarissa asks for the third time since she got into the car, I purse my lips and shake my head slowly. In a heavily accentuated voice, she adds, "Are you mad?"

"It’s just hair," I reply and pat my short, black hair with gold streaks. "It will grow back."

Coiffed at the back with a pixie cut in front that sometimes falls into my eyes, I have to admit, the new hairstyle looks good on me. I take a long peek at myself in the rearview mirror, flash my reflection a smile much to Clarissa’s horror and make a peace sign.