Status: New!
Uprooted
Natalya
Mom puts a box of hair dye in front of us and looks at us expectantly. My sister and I look at each other, wondering if this is one of those looks we should have studied for.
Mom says, “To get a new start, we have to start new.” She lifts a chunk of my burnt orange hair and Nikhol’s brown hair, and puts them together. Her perfectly arched eyebrows rise.
I look into my sister’s eyes and then ours look into mom’s.
“No.” We both say.
“Yes.” She shakes the box in our faces. It’s a no name brand blonde hair dye. I have never nor do I ever want to become a blonde.
“Mom,” I start. “That had better just be Nikki’s.”
She shakes her head.
“Mom!” I pop up out of my chair and slap my hands on the dining table. “You and I both take pride in my uniqueness and originality!” I place my hands on my hips. “I won’t stand for this.”
Melodramatics usually cause mom to quit and give up. But not this time.
“Listen,” She places her hands on the table too and leans towards us. “We are a happy, loving, Martha Stuart-toting family. This is the first step to helping us believe that. That is why we are here in freaking Beverly Hills, of all places!” Our foreheads are brushing by the time she’s done.
Mom has only lost her temper with us a couple of times over our short 14 years of existence. So I know she means business.
I glance at my sister and then we both look at mom.
“Okay.”
Mom says, “To get a new start, we have to start new.” She lifts a chunk of my burnt orange hair and Nikhol’s brown hair, and puts them together. Her perfectly arched eyebrows rise.
I look into my sister’s eyes and then ours look into mom’s.
“No.” We both say.
“Yes.” She shakes the box in our faces. It’s a no name brand blonde hair dye. I have never nor do I ever want to become a blonde.
“Mom,” I start. “That had better just be Nikki’s.”
She shakes her head.
“Mom!” I pop up out of my chair and slap my hands on the dining table. “You and I both take pride in my uniqueness and originality!” I place my hands on my hips. “I won’t stand for this.”
Melodramatics usually cause mom to quit and give up. But not this time.
“Listen,” She places her hands on the table too and leans towards us. “We are a happy, loving, Martha Stuart-toting family. This is the first step to helping us believe that. That is why we are here in freaking Beverly Hills, of all places!” Our foreheads are brushing by the time she’s done.
Mom has only lost her temper with us a couple of times over our short 14 years of existence. So I know she means business.
I glance at my sister and then we both look at mom.
“Okay.”