Authors: Billie Jones
My mum looked at me with her tear-stained face. ‘You’re a bad girl sometimes. Please heed my warning,
heed
…’
I grabbed her in a bear hug and squashed 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 are completely tone deaf.
I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back and a silent pep talk. It would not do to cry in front of these people. Next thing you know, rumours would be flying around town about me, or sneaky footage uploaded to Facebook with a comment like, ‘Sam, the stapler stealer, gets fired again!’ So I pulled myself together and pretended to have a coughing fit, while I surreptitiously dried my eyes with a tissue. Thank God for waterproof mascara.
I told myself these things happen for a reason. Maybe something better was just around the corner. A few niggling doubts cropped up, like who would foot the bill of my online shopping trips, and how the hell was I going to pay my rent, until I remembered my platinum credit card. All I needed to was to plan an escape strategy out of my tenth floor apartment when the MasterCard henchmen came a-knockin’.
I packed my lucky bamboo (thanks, Mum! Lucky my arse!) digital photo frame, cuticle oil, nail files, buffers, fluffy bunny slippers and a few paperclips for good measure, and strode past the other office minions with my head held high. I knew they were probably jealous that I was out of the sinkhole and they were stuck, going down, down, down. Insert evil laugh …
‘So long, suckers!’ I yelled to the crowd. I was sure Jonathan from Accounting had a tear or two welled up for me. I’d always sort of eyed him cautiously. He was cute in a bookish kind of way, but I imagined us going out for a date and him talking about tax and GST. I wink and say, ‘Howz about we talk spreadsheets, hey?’ and he totally doesn’t get it. You know, one of those highly educated stupid people. They’re everywhere. I was stuck talking to a molecular scientist at a party recently. Honestly, I think I was actually stupider after talking to him. Like my IQ had dropped a few notches. With one last lusty look at Jonathan, I was out of that musty hell-hole for good.
Breakfast at Toffany’s
Since it was only just after ten, I decided to treat myself to breakfast at Toffany’s. It was a small cafe owned by a seriously delusional drag queen named, you guessed it, Toffany. I was always a little terrified when Toff served me. A six-foot-five Amazonian with sparkly silver stilettos and a booming masculine voice was a little too much first thing in the morning, but it’s where all the cool people went so, of course, being cool, it’s where I went too.
I pushed the pink feather boas out the way and put my handbag down on a table in the ‘I’m late’ section of the cafe. This signified you wanted an omelette. Get it: I’m late – Omelette. Told you she was delusional. The cafe was sectioned into food. There was also a ‘Serial killer’ section, which was cereal served with vodka jelly shots, hence a real killer first up in the morning. If you sat in the wrong section and ordered something from another section, you were booted out in a very humiliating fashion. Once I accidentally sat in the Jews’ section, so I had to wear a yarmulke and could only drink juice. Needless to say, I was starving for the rest of the day, but I wasn’t about to be banned over it.
I strutted as gracefully as I could to the sequin-encrusted counter. The kaleidoscope of colours looked great from a distance but up close, you could see the sequins had seen better days. A lifetime of spilt coffee, dirty money and table dancing by big, burly drag queens had done them in. No one was brave enough to tell Toff she might want to consider some kind of revamp. I shouldn’t even use the word ‘revamp’. That was actually Toff’s ex-partner’s name. She was formerly known as Moan-a Lisa, but she changed it to Re-Vamp after a month-long holiday in Thailand where she ‘rejuvenated’ herself. It doesn’t take a genius to work out it wasn’t just sunshine and screaming orgasms (her favourite cocktail, before you go getting all prudish on me) that made her return to Oz looking ten years younger.
I gazed up at what should be a menu board, but was actually a photo wall of Toff with various celebrities. Before she settled down with the cafe, she lived quite the party lifestyle. As a man. She used to model for all those high-end underwear campaigns. I always felt a little uneasy looking at the photos of this gorgeous hunk of a man, barely clothed, one hand invitingly pulling at the front of his tight Y-fronts with a come-hither look.
I sort of fell a little in love every time. We’d lost Toff to the other side, so I crossed off another ‘maybe’ from my list. It’s true all the best guys are gay or look better in stilettos than you do. Life can be cruel.
I could smell wheatgrass juice, so I knew Toff was lurking somewhere behind the mirror balls that served as a curtain for the mysterious goings-on from the kitchen.
She stood all six-foot-eight (with her heels on) and glared down at me. ‘What section, Sweet Cheeks?’Her booming man voice startled me, but I was careful to show absolutely no reaction.
‘I’m late, thanks, Toffany.’
‘Which country?’
‘Spain, please.’ Each table in the ‘I’m late’ section was split into countries. You could have a Spanish omelette, Aussie omelette, Japanese (not recommended) or Greek.
She reached under the counter and produced a hat. ‘Here, Sweet Cheeks. Put this on so the staff know where to take your breakfast.’ She handed me the brightly coloured sombrero. Mortified, I trundled back to my table. I’d completely forgotten about the costumes in the ‘I’m late’ section. I should have been a serial killer. Cereal with vodka jelly shots sounded appealing since I didn’t have a thing to do all day. Everyone in Toff’s looked extremely busy and important-like, so I took out my iPhone, put on my ‘I’m terribly self-absorbed face’ and decided to text Kylie and tell her my news.
‘Hey, K, you’ll never guess what happened! Fired by Mr I-still-live-with-my-mother-even-though-I’m-like-a-hundred! Yes. Fired. He happened to dislike the skort I’m wearing and somehow sussed out my Twitter updates. Can you believe it? What are you doing? Meet at Toff’s?’
My omelette arrived in all its Spanish glory. I knew it was coming when the 90s dance music stopped and a flamenco tune came on. They definitely didn’t do things by halves. I ate with relish. After last night’s debacle, I was starved. Kylie had practically forced me to open two more bottles of red wine, so with the extra calories there all I could eat for dinner was a family-size packet of salt and vinegar chips. I shouldn’t beat myself up about it because tomorrow I’ll start the new diet Kylie suggested. According to her it was the next big thing, all the celebs were doing it. It was called the ‘Colour diet’. You picked a colour of food and only ate things in that shade. I was leaning towards red. Red strawberries, red daiquiris, red liquorice, red lollypops, red cordial, red wine. I had a penchant for pancakes, but Kylie said I could add red food colouring to the mix and it still counted as a diet meal, the red food colouring changed the metabolic structure of the pancakes or something. I couldn’t wait to see the kilos fall off. It would be tough-going, but I knew I could do it if I tried hard enough.