The Orange Hair Incident

The box said 'sun-kissed caramel.' My bathroom mirror said 'traffic cone disaster.'

I stared at my hair, which now looked like I'd stuck my head in a vat of radioactive Fanta. First day at Northwood High, and I already looked like a cautionary tale about DIY beauty experiments.

My phone buzzed. Jordan, the only person I knew from summer camp, was supposed to meet me at the corner.

"u coming?"

"situation," I typed back.

The WiFi was dead again. Our ancient internet cable had been fraying for months, and my dad kept promising to call the provider. Now I couldn't even stream a tutorial on how to fix orange hair.

I grabbed my beat-up denim jacket and the beanie hat I'd stolen from my brother's closet. Maybe I could pull off some mysterious aesthetic where I never removed my hat indoors. Teachers would definitely be cool with that.

"Maya!" Jordan called from down the street. She was wearing her varsity jacket like she already owned the place, hair perfectly in its braids. "You good?"

"Define good," I mumbled, tugging my hat lower.

Jordan pulled my hands away from my face. "Let me see."

"It's bad. Like, really bad."

She examined my head in the morning light, then burst out laughing. Not mean laughing—like, actual tears-down-her-face laughing.

"Okay but hear me out," she said, catching her breath. "At least no one will miss you in a crowd?"

"Jordan!"

"I'm serious! You're gonna be 'that girl with the orange hair' by second period. Legend status."

She fished through her backpack and pulled out a bottle of gummy vitamins. "Here. My mom says these reduce stress. They taste like strawberry despair, but honestly, they help."

I took two. They did taste like despair, but Jordan was already texting someone, her thumbs flying.

"btw," she said, "my cousin does hair. She fixed her own disaster dye job last month. We can go to her place after school."

"You'd do that?"

"Maya, we're friends. Friends don't let friends walk around looking like Fanta forever."

The first bell rang. Jordan adjusted my hat. "Rock the mystery vibe until then. Act like it's fashion. Act like it's intentional. No one questions it if you commit."

So I did. I walked into Northwood High with orange hair hidden under a stolen beanie, chewing strawberry vitamins, next to a friend who'd already decided my disaster was her problem too.

And honestly? First day could've gone worse.