LITMIR.BIZ

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the heeding out of her. ‘Love you.’

      ***

      I was looking out of my apartment window, swirling a nice big glass of Shiraz and doing a little Japanese-inspired dance. Swathed in the antique kimono, I tried channelling my inner geisha. I definitely felt thinner with it on.

      I was having a great time dancing to some random Japanese music I’d downloaded from iTunes, when I made a ‘poor choice’, as my mother would say. Honestly, I don’t smoke any more, it’s for chumps, but I do have a couple hidden around the house for those odd moments when you crave something other than chocolate or wine.

      I reached under the lounge cushion and removed a small silver cigarette case I had taped under there. (I did try to hide them from myself: the three D’s. Drink, delay, do something else).

      Being a non-smoker, I couldn’t find a lighter anywhere so I resorted to lighting the cigarette off the stove. No sooner had I taken the first puff, I smelled a horrible burning plastic stench. It took me a few seconds to realise my hair was on fire. I dropped the cigarette into the sink and swatted at my head with a tea towel while screaming and jumping like, well, exactly like a person whose hair is on fire. I didn’t actually feel any pain, only separation anxiety; those black lustrous locks and I had been through some tough times together. Now, in an instant, they were gone. Not even a goodbye.

      I raced into the bathroom to assess the damage. Oh. My. God. If I looked to the left, nothing had changed. When I turned my head to the right, there was a cropped-haired bogan staring back at me. This was a disaster. I had the kind of oval face that did not suit short hair.

      ***

      ‘I’m here, show me this emergency then!’

      Out of sheer necessity, I’d called my ex-BFF Kylie. She was a hair psychologist. Usually I didn’t trust her with my hair (hence the ex-BFF status), but I figured the damage was done, and where else could I find a hairdresser this late at night?

      She put her bag down and walked into the small kitchenette where I was guzzling wine to cheer myself up. I must admit at that stage I gazed lovingly at her Dita Von Teese curls and colourfast red lips. It wasn’t often Kylie looked more immaculate than me.

      ‘Argh! Holy moley! What the hell happened?’ she said, as her eyes widened.

      ‘A small fire happened. Can you fix it?’

      ‘Oh, so now I’m qualified enough to cut your hair, hey? Fix your F-ups?’

      ‘F-ups?’

      ‘Swearing doesn’t become me. I’ve changed since we last saw each other. I’ve grown. Developed as a …’

      ‘Argh, you sound like my mum!’ I said, breaking off what I knew would turn into a monologue.

      ‘Your mum is actually an extremely switched-on lady. You should listen to her once in a while. She noticed my chakras were out of whack …’

      I interrupted again. ‘You traitor!’

      She hoisted her hairdressing bag over her fuchsia-clad shoulder and replied huffily, ‘Do you want me to fix your hair or not?’

      Imagine making friends with my mother. Kylie must have been all sorts of desperate. I bit my tongue because, really, what choice did I have? I didn’t like it, though. Not one little bit.

      ‘OK, fine. Do you think there’s any hope?’ I pointed to the bogan side of myself.

      ‘It’s not going to be easy. Maybe you should go blonde, you know, create a whole new you.’

      I eyed her dubiously. ‘Let’s just fix the style first.’

      Kylie set to work, her mouth set in a small smile as she spoke soothingly to my hair. I closed my eyes and wrapped the kimono tightly around my waist. Obviously a beautiful piece of antique silk was not the culprit for the small hair fire. My mother really needed to cut back on those mushrooms she had especially hand-picked and delivered from Balingup. I think they were not so much wild as they were magic, and we all know what that means. She was a walking hallucination. Poor woman.

      ***

      My alarm shrieked like a tsunami detector, startling me awake. I stretched lazily, mentally planning my wardrobe until I remembered the unfortunate hair-on-fire incident. I jumped out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. Kylie had cut my hair into a Posh Spice bob and highlighted and lowlighted the hell out of it. It was now a mosaic of blonde and brown. I was quite pleased with the result and I was sure it made my cheekbones more prominent. My face seemed thinner even. I decided to go with my red tailored skort and a fitted white shirt. I knew Posh would approve. Modern, yet stylish.

      I arrived at work promptly at 9.20a.m. and was admiring my hair in the reflection of my PC when I smelled garlic. A shadow fell over me, drowning my image in the screen.

      ‘That is not appropriate work attire. Shorts? What were you thinking?’

      I looked over my shoulder to see Mr Boss Man staring at me in condemnation.

      ‘What? These aren’t shorts. It’s a skort.’

      ‘A skort?’

      ‘Yes, shorts at the back, skirt in the front, easier to move in, no embarrassing Sharon Stone moment flash the gash moments, which to me seems highly appropriate for work.’

      He shook his head in apoplectic rage (he has some serious issues). ‘If you refer to your employment manual, you are to wear either knee-length skirts or full-length trousers, not skorts. There are no skorts in the manual.’

      ‘I appreciate your concern, I really do, but as a curvy woman, knee length doesn’t do me any favours. It’s just a personal preference.’

      His hands began to quake. His forehead started to bubble with sweat and I feared he was in the early stages of a heart attack.

      ‘That’s it. You’re fired!’

      My heart started to beat like it does in a Zumba class; maybe I was going to have the heart attack. ‘What? Fired? Because of a skort?’

      ‘You’ve already had two warnings, and this morning the board alerted me to your tweets for the last month.’

      Oh no. In the immortal words of my dad, who was a chronic gambler: I’m fucked, and not in a good way.

      ‘Ah, Twitter? I don’t know what you’re—’

      ‘Oh, you don’t know?’ He looked down to a thick pile of pages he was holding and read aloud: ‘A plus to having a bald-headed #beast for a boss is doing my lipstick in the reflection of his shiny noggin.’

      Oh shit, oh shit. ‘Ah, I meant that as a compliment. It really is very handy and I…’

      He looked down at a surprisingly long list of updates. ‘#TGIF. Two hours and counting. May as well shop online until work is over!’

      ‘Ah, um, you see…’

      His evil bloodshot eyes bored into me as his blood pressure clearly sky-rocketed. I think he was trying to scare me or something. Pack your belongings, and consider this your third and final warning. Don’t upset the other staff as you leave. And please note: staplers and the like are company property.’

      ‘I only took that stapler because I was planning on working from home that weekend!’

      ‘Yeah, you needed to file all your eBay receipts, I bet!’

      With that, he stormed off, leaving me in his garlic wake. I couldn’t believe it. I had only been fired four or five times. It seemed incredible that it was happening now, when I was more mature and executive-like. I always imagined strutting into the office one day, after I’d been discovered as the next Lady Gaga, handing Mr Chrome Dome my resignation letter coupled with a cute but vicious ditty I’d written about him, which would show off my vocal talent and my quick wit. It was such a shame I didn’t actually have any vocal talent. I was one of those rare people who

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