Bad Hair, Real Life

Maya stared at the mirror, ready to scream. Her hair was supposed to be sleek and perfect for Lucas's party tonight. Instead, it looked like something had died on her head. The DIY hair dye she'd impulsively bought at CVS had turned her hair a terrifying shade of orange-ish brown, like vomit after eating too many Cheetos.

"This is fine," she lied to herself. "Totally fine."

Her cat, Jazz, chose that exact moment to leap onto the bathroom counter, knocking over the open box of dye. Bright orange splattered everywhere, including a fresh stripe across Maya's forehead.

"Jazz!" Maya shrieked. The cat responded by jumping into the bathtub and tracking orange paw prints across the floor.

Then Buster, her neighbor's massive dog who she was dogsitting, stuck his giant head through the bathroom door, tail thumping so hard it shook the wall. His tongue lolled out as he happily trotted in and stepped right in the orange puddle Jazz had created. Paw prints. Everywhere. Orange paw prints all over the white tile like some kind of horrific crime scene.

Maya sank to the floor, face in hands. This was it. This was her life now. The girl with the Cheeto-vomit hair and the orange-stained bathroom who would never be able to show her face at Lucas's party ever again. She'd have to move. Change her name. Maybe become a nun.

Buster, apparently sensing her distress, plopped his heavy body down beside her and rested his giant head on her shoulder. Jazz, following a moment of unusual interspecies solidarity, jumped into Maya's lap and began purring like a tiny motor.

"You guys are literally the worst," Maya whispered, but she was smiling now. She buried her face in Buster's fur, breathing in his dog smell, and reached down to stroke Jazz's soft back.

Her phone buzzed. Lucas. "Hey! Hope you're still coming tonight. Can't wait to see you."

Maya looked at her reflection one more time. The hair was still a disaster. The bathroom looked like a crime scene. But somehow, it didn't matter as much anymore. She was still going. And if anyone asked about her hair? She'd just tell them it was a bold fashion statement. Or that her cat was secretly an avant-garde artist.

Either way, she'd survive. Probably.