A Bottle of Hairdye

Chapter Three - A Curve Ball to Trump Them All

~Not Edited Just Yet~

Breakups can be messy. Trust me, I know. When they happen, it travels through the grapevine. The whole thing between the former couple becomes a battle of he said, she said, and the rumors get spread around like a game of broken telephone.

After the little run in with Nolan yesterday, I was reminded of that. Not that I need reminding. Thinking back to it, I could see that the years had done him well. His adolescent skin had cleared up, and his previously long brown hair had been trimmed neatly, and for once you could see his bright green eyes. Bravo puberty, bravo. But all those features were skewed by that sneer on his lips. Almost immediately after he showed his distain towards me, I bolted past him. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with past problems. Let’s just say, confrontation was still a difficult thing for me.

“Are you even listening?” Sophie called. I had a tendency to zone out when she was reciting my day to me. At the beginning of my career, I used to hang on every word she said, but I had learned that it was easier to just let her drag me everywhere.

“Sorry Sophie, I’m just tired” I apologized, yawning on cue. I was sitting on the leather couch in the family room beside my mom; Sophie was seated in the armchair across from us. I had on a pair of old sweatpants that I had left here when I moved, a simple tank top, and my hair was piled messily on top of my head.

“The poor girl is drained” My mom interrupted sympathetically.

“Well she can rest on her break, which is in around two months, so I’m afraid she’ll have to wait until then” Sophie answered, showing us a printed out calendar on her precious clipboard. I already knew when my break was, I had been counting down for the past couple months. It wasn’t that I didn’t love what I do, that’s definitely not it. I adored the feeling of getting on stage and singing my heart out. The only problem I had now was that the entire thing was more or less controlled by management, leaving me with little say. Even my interviews were scripted to some extent.

“As I was saying” Sophie continued, “We have to head down to the concert hall in forty minutes for rehearsal, plus we’re meeting the new assistant there”

“Wait, what happened to Courtney?” I asked. She may not have been the most…modest woman, with her short skirts and blouses that were a size too small, but she got things done.

“That imbecile” scoffed Sophie, “She didn’t know the difference between the VMA’s and MMA’s dress theme”

I don’t even think I knew the difference, but I suppose that to live up to Sophie’s standards you had to be precise in everything you did. I guarantee she was fired for bringing her coffee a degree cooler than asked. I think we’ve gone through around eleven assistants in the last year. Each lasted around a month, except for one guy a few months ago, but his faults were eventually exposed and within seconds he was looking for a new job.

“Any who, I suggest you get ready for rehearsal” Sophie stood up, straightening out her uniform pencil skirt. Her acrylic nails were tapping rhythmically on the back of her clipboard, and I’ve gathered through my career with her that when she taps her nails, you better be ready in record time.

Giving my mom a quick embrace, I bolted upstairs to try and squeeze in a shower and still have time to blow dry my locks.

Having fast showers is actually my weakness. I always have to fight myself to turn off the relieving hot water after only five minutes.

I scrubbed my hair feverishly, attempting to rinse all of the shampoo out of the thick purple mess, which is a lot harder than some people think. Practically jumping out of the shower, I snatched my robe and hurriedly plugged in the blow dryer waiting on the sink counter.