CharlotteEmma
New member
“Markolo, your hair is bright purple.”
I looked up from my breakfast cereal at my mum. She was staring at me. “What?” I asked, sure that I’d misheard her.
“Your hair is purple,” she repeated, stifling a laugh as I launched myself from my chair at the table and started running upstairs to find the nearest mirror. I ran into the bathroom and gasped as I saw my reflection. Yep – bright, vivid, purple hair.
Well, that was great, just great. More bullying for me, hurrah.
I filled the sink with hot water and began trying to scrub whatever had turned my hair purple off my scalp. Mum followed me into the bathroom and leant against the tiled wall, chuckling softly.
“Son, dear, you don’t think it was that gel you’ve been using, do you?” she suggested innocently.
“That’s ridiculous, it’s only hair gel,” I mumbled, dismissing the notion, looking back to the mirror and seeing that my cleansing was having no effect. If anything, it seemed even more luminous than before. Despite my outright ridicule at the hair gel I used being the cause of my change in hair colour I grabbed the round tub from its shelf and scanned over the small font on its bottom. Most of the larger texts were in different alien languages. Eventually I found English in such a tiny font that I could barely make out what it said.
Warning: Due to various chemicals, human hair colour may change after continuous usage.
That was just stupid. Mum saw the expression on my face and howled in laughter.
“How on Repro does hair gel turn human hair purple?” I spluttered. “The chemicals in it must’ve done it. I have no idea what they put in shampoo or anything else these days.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” But I already knew the answer. I’m not a very independent person and I’m not good at paying attention to things that I should. Mum knew that very well, though she let me suffer the consequences quite frequently without regret.
“You need to start learning how to look after yourself,” she sighed, “you’re sixteen now and you still don’t check the small print on the bottom of your hair products. You’re becoming an adult – it’s your problem I won’t always be here to look after you.” Ah, that was my mum: loved me for who I was and didn’t mind whether my hair was bright purple.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved Mum, but say, for instance, I had a forgetful morning and accidently went to school in just my underwear – though I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon – she wouldn’t bother pointing it out, she’d just sit back, laugh and enjoy my humiliation. I loved her, not her sense of humour. She could be so caring when it came to emotional problems and all of that fluffy stuff, but she didn’t bother saving my face, keeping up my dignity.
Yeah, dignity – that thing I accidently dropped down the toilet a long time ago.
“I’m going to get even more twaddle at school now,” I muttered.
Mum sighed again. “Goodness, you kids – so what if they do? You’ve got a lot more to be proud of than anyone else who thinks going around being spiteful is funny.”
“It hurts my feelings.”
“Yeah, it hurts mine to see that I’ve got such a self-conscious son,” reprimanded Mum.
I didn’t have a reply to that. It was true. I was very self-conscious. I was always worried that someone would pick on me because I was so paranoid and sensitive, which didn’t even make sense when I was brought up by a mother like this – someone who couldn’t give a fig about what other people thought.
“Markolo,” Mum started when I didn’t say anything, clasping a reassuring hand over my left shoulder, “you are perfect to me –”
“I don’t want to be perfect, I just want to be normal,” I mumbled.
“– and I love you no matter what you do or how you look. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now get ready for school or you’ll be late again,” she told me before slipping out of the bathroom. I was left staring at the slowly closing door with my radiantly purple hair dripping water onto the shiny floor. I turned back to the mirror and glared at my reflection, contemplating just how awful I looked. My bright, awfully luminous green eyes already set me apart from the crowd at school and such distinguishing hair wasn’t exactly doing me any favours. My normally dark locks weren’t visible whatsoever, not even near the scalp.
I still didn’t understand how even hair gel could do this to my hair.
I left the bathroom myself after brushing my teeth and straightening out my hair, sweeping the fringe across my face in hopes to hide the embarrassment shown there when I left the house.
Speaking of leaving, why didn’t I just leave school? It wasn’t like I learned anything there. After all, the teachers couldn’t teach and when they did say something informative, I was usually daydreaming or gazing out of the nearest window. Why didn’t they let our school have instant-info microchip implants like the rest? It was probably because the community and the rest of the higher-ups didn’t want to dish out more cash and favours – pigs.
Bunking off today seemed like a good idea. I could avoid getting bullied about my hair colour if I did and then I could nip up to the shop where I got my hair gel from and ask how I could get rid of the colour. Perfect!
I hurried to get my uniform on – a plain high-necked, white jumpsuit with a zip going down the chest and plain boots with green cuffs to mark the colours of our school. After packing a coat into my plastic satchel for hiding my school uniform later, I rushed through the front door, shouting a goodbye to Mum, which I didn’t give her time to reply to before slamming the door shut.
--- Thanks in advance!
cathrl69: Just trying to get as many answers as possible. Thank you for your opinion.
I looked up from my breakfast cereal at my mum. She was staring at me. “What?” I asked, sure that I’d misheard her.
“Your hair is purple,” she repeated, stifling a laugh as I launched myself from my chair at the table and started running upstairs to find the nearest mirror. I ran into the bathroom and gasped as I saw my reflection. Yep – bright, vivid, purple hair.
Well, that was great, just great. More bullying for me, hurrah.
I filled the sink with hot water and began trying to scrub whatever had turned my hair purple off my scalp. Mum followed me into the bathroom and leant against the tiled wall, chuckling softly.
“Son, dear, you don’t think it was that gel you’ve been using, do you?” she suggested innocently.
“That’s ridiculous, it’s only hair gel,” I mumbled, dismissing the notion, looking back to the mirror and seeing that my cleansing was having no effect. If anything, it seemed even more luminous than before. Despite my outright ridicule at the hair gel I used being the cause of my change in hair colour I grabbed the round tub from its shelf and scanned over the small font on its bottom. Most of the larger texts were in different alien languages. Eventually I found English in such a tiny font that I could barely make out what it said.
Warning: Due to various chemicals, human hair colour may change after continuous usage.
That was just stupid. Mum saw the expression on my face and howled in laughter.
“How on Repro does hair gel turn human hair purple?” I spluttered. “The chemicals in it must’ve done it. I have no idea what they put in shampoo or anything else these days.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” But I already knew the answer. I’m not a very independent person and I’m not good at paying attention to things that I should. Mum knew that very well, though she let me suffer the consequences quite frequently without regret.
“You need to start learning how to look after yourself,” she sighed, “you’re sixteen now and you still don’t check the small print on the bottom of your hair products. You’re becoming an adult – it’s your problem I won’t always be here to look after you.” Ah, that was my mum: loved me for who I was and didn’t mind whether my hair was bright purple.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved Mum, but say, for instance, I had a forgetful morning and accidently went to school in just my underwear – though I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon – she wouldn’t bother pointing it out, she’d just sit back, laugh and enjoy my humiliation. I loved her, not her sense of humour. She could be so caring when it came to emotional problems and all of that fluffy stuff, but she didn’t bother saving my face, keeping up my dignity.
Yeah, dignity – that thing I accidently dropped down the toilet a long time ago.
“I’m going to get even more twaddle at school now,” I muttered.
Mum sighed again. “Goodness, you kids – so what if they do? You’ve got a lot more to be proud of than anyone else who thinks going around being spiteful is funny.”
“It hurts my feelings.”
“Yeah, it hurts mine to see that I’ve got such a self-conscious son,” reprimanded Mum.
I didn’t have a reply to that. It was true. I was very self-conscious. I was always worried that someone would pick on me because I was so paranoid and sensitive, which didn’t even make sense when I was brought up by a mother like this – someone who couldn’t give a fig about what other people thought.
“Markolo,” Mum started when I didn’t say anything, clasping a reassuring hand over my left shoulder, “you are perfect to me –”
“I don’t want to be perfect, I just want to be normal,” I mumbled.
“– and I love you no matter what you do or how you look. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now get ready for school or you’ll be late again,” she told me before slipping out of the bathroom. I was left staring at the slowly closing door with my radiantly purple hair dripping water onto the shiny floor. I turned back to the mirror and glared at my reflection, contemplating just how awful I looked. My bright, awfully luminous green eyes already set me apart from the crowd at school and such distinguishing hair wasn’t exactly doing me any favours. My normally dark locks weren’t visible whatsoever, not even near the scalp.
I still didn’t understand how even hair gel could do this to my hair.
I left the bathroom myself after brushing my teeth and straightening out my hair, sweeping the fringe across my face in hopes to hide the embarrassment shown there when I left the house.
Speaking of leaving, why didn’t I just leave school? It wasn’t like I learned anything there. After all, the teachers couldn’t teach and when they did say something informative, I was usually daydreaming or gazing out of the nearest window. Why didn’t they let our school have instant-info microchip implants like the rest? It was probably because the community and the rest of the higher-ups didn’t want to dish out more cash and favours – pigs.
Bunking off today seemed like a good idea. I could avoid getting bullied about my hair colour if I did and then I could nip up to the shop where I got my hair gel from and ask how I could get rid of the colour. Perfect!
I hurried to get my uniform on – a plain high-necked, white jumpsuit with a zip going down the chest and plain boots with green cuffs to mark the colours of our school. After packing a coat into my plastic satchel for hiding my school uniform later, I rushed through the front door, shouting a goodbye to Mum, which I didn’t give her time to reply to before slamming the door shut.
--- Thanks in advance!
cathrl69: Just trying to get as many answers as possible. Thank you for your opinion.