Orange Hair and Other Disasters

I can't bear the thought of going like this," I groaned, frantically trying to fix my hair for the third time. My palm was sweating against the bathroom counter as I attempted another style that refused to cooperate. The winter formal was in two hours, and I looked like a walking citrus experiment.

My hair had been a disaster since I tried that DIY dye job last weekend—what was supposed to be "sunset gold" turned out full-on traffic cone orange. Now it was too late to fix it before the dance.

"That vitamin D supplement you take better give me some confidence," I muttered to my reflection, even though我知道 vitamins didn't work like that. The rumors about Jordan asking me were circulating all over group chat, but I couldn't imagine him wanting to be seen with the girl whose hair matched the punch bowl.

I reached for my childhood teddy bear on the counter—Mr. Whiskers, my comfort since third grade—and squeezed his worn brown paw. The soft fur against my palm felt ridiculous but grounding.

My phone buzzed with a text: "Can't wait to see u tonight! 😘" It was from Jordan. My stomach did that thing where it felt like it was dropping through the floor.

I checked my reflection one last time. The hair was still ridiculous, but somehow it felt okay. Like, maybe being perfectly imperfect was actually the whole point. At sixteen, everything feels like life or death, but maybe I could just show up as myself and see what happened.

I grabbed my phone—three new messages from friends already texting about outfits and arrivals—and headed for the door. Mr. Whiskers watched me go with his plastic black eyes, like he knew something I didn't yet.

Tonight would be whatever I made of it, orange hair and all. At least Jordan already knew what he was getting into—he'd seen my hair transformation fail in real time on my Story. If he still wanted to take me to formal anyway, maybe that meant something real.

And if not? Well, I'd survive. I always did.