The Florida Incident

The bathroom mirror reflected a decision I couldn't undo. My mom's expensive salon-bought hair dye sat open on the counter—temporary orange, the box promised. Fun, vibrant, perfect for senior picture day tomorrow. Or that's what I told myself.

Thirty minutes later, I stared at the creature from Florida. Not cute sunset orange. Traffic cone. Safety vest. My hair had announced itself.

I shoved my head under the faucet, but the water just made the orange bleed everywhere. Now my neck was orange. The sink was orange. My newly-expressed individuality was attacking everything in sight.

Then Chaos walked in.

My cat, appropriately named because that's what she brings, hopped onto the counter and dipped her paw in the orange-stained water. Perfect. Now she'd be leaving orange paw prints all over the house like some kind of citrus-themed crime scene.

"Chaos, no," I whispered, but it was too late. She shook her paw, splattering orange droplets across my white towel. My towel. The one I needed to dry off my traffic cone head.

My phone buzzed. Maya: *u coming to jake's party or what*

*can't,* I typed back. *dying of orange*

*lol what*

*literally.* I sent a selfie. Maya responded with approximately thirty crying-laughing emojis and *that's not orange that's A Whole Vibe*.

"A Whole Vibe" was not what I was going for. "Subtle artistic expression" had been the goal. "Not looking like a human construction zone" would've also worked.

Chaos settled into the sink, staring at me with yellow eyes that said she'd always known I'd make questionable life choices. The orange water swirled around her paws like some kind of toxic waste.

Maya called. "You're not staying home. Jake's gonna have that guy you like there."

"I look like a highlighter, Maya."

"Wear a hat. Own it. Hair grows back. Sometimes terrible decisions are character development."

I looked at Chaos, now grooming orange spots into her white fur. She didn't care. She was a cat. She'd lick herself clean and move on with her life.

"Fine," I said. "But if anyone asks, I'm experimenting with my aesthetic."

"That's one word for it." She paused. "Bring snacks. I'm not spending my night defending your honor while you're busy crying in the bathroom about your hair."

I grabbed my jacket. Chaos meowed, orange-pawed, from the sink. Sometimes growing up meant accepting that you'd occasionally look ridiculous, and that your cat would judge you, and that your friends would laugh, and that somehow, impossibly, you'd survive it all anyway.