“I dyed my hair black,” I reply, though I’m pretty sure it was a rhetorical question on her part.
She grabs a chunk of hair, her expression as distraught as when I told her I had pierced my tongue last year. “But you had beautiful blond hair. Why would you do this?”
“Mom, I’m sick of looking exactly like Sunny,” I say. “Everyone keeps mistaking me for her and it’s getting annoying.”
“How can people mistake you two? You dress completely differently,” she says, gesturing to my current ensemble of black on black on black.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I agree my superior taste in clothing should tip them off, but evidently not so much. I’m an individual, Mom. I’m my own person. I need to express myself.”
“No, you need to obey me. That’s what you need to do,” Mom returns. Her hazel eyes flash fire. Wow. I haven’t seen her this mad since Sunny went vamp and started missing curfew on a regular basis. (Which is SUCH a bigger deal than a little Clairol #70, IMO.) “And you know very well I don’t want you dyeing your hair.”
“But, Mom—”
“Do you know what kinds of chemicals they put in those dyes?” she demands, hands on hips. “Stuff that can cause cancer in lab rats. And if it can cause cancer in lab rats, what do you think it can do to you?”
I groan. I should have guessed that she didn’t really care about the look. After all, she’s a pretty unconventional dresser herself. No, my mom doesn’t worry about what the PTA will say. She’s too wrapped up in her government conspiracy theories in which Men in Black are developing evil hair dye to sedate the human race while the Illuminati take over the world.
Sometimes I wish I just had a normal mom. One who didn’t think hairdressers were really the Antichrist, at the very least.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“Come to me next time if you want to change your look. I’ve got a great all-natural henna coloring we could have used. Stuff that’s made of plant products and is perfectly safe.”
“Sure, Mom. I will.” Yeah, right. I’m so not getting my hair dyed with henna. Maybe I’d consider a henna tattoo, but that’s where I draw the line. After all, let’s face it. Safe and effective or not, henna is for hippies.
She reaches over and gives me a hug. “I’m sorry, Rayne,” she says. “I don’t mean to yell. I just worry about my girls. I want them to be safe.”
“I know, Mom. And I’m glad you do,” I say, squeezing her back.
I mean it, too. Though she drives me crazy at times, overall when it comes to moms, mine’s about as cool as you can get. She’s like a “friend mom.” Sunny and I can talk to her about pretty much anything (besides hair dye and vampires, of course) and she’s completely nonjudgmental. She doesn’t sneak into our rooms and read our diaries or go on MySpace to make sure our profiles are appropriate. (I’m RaynieDay, BTW, if anyone wants to friend me.) My friend Ashleigh’s mom grounded her for like four weeks when she found out Ashleigh had posted sexy pics of herself on MySpace. Not that I have any sexy pics posted, just FYI. (Sorry DarkGothBoy.)
So yeah, she’s okay. If not a little overprotective at times.
After we pull away from the hug, I notice something surprising. “Hey, Mom, what’s up with your outfit?”
Wow. The woman who LIVES in bell-bottom jeans or long flowered skirts and peasant blouses is currently standing in front of me wearing a sexy little black dress with high heels and a pearl necklace. I can’t believe I’m just noticing it now. Observe much, Rayne?
“Oh, this old thing?” she asks, blushing furiously as she smoothes the front of the dress. “I’ve had it for years.”
“Just FYI, that’d be much more believable if you’d removed the price tag,” I suggest, gesturing to her sleeve.
“Oh.” The blush deepens as she reaches to rip off the tag in question. “I guess I’ve just never worn it.”
Eesh. The woman is the worst liar in the known universe. “Spill, Mom.”
She sighs and motions for me to come into her bedroom. I follow, plopping down on the old-fashioned, four-poster bed that Grandma left when she died. It would be an elegant piece of furniture if Mom hadn’t covered it with a Technicolor-hand-stitched quilt from her commune days. Still, I’ve got to admit, overall the room is pretty cozy and homey. When Sunny and I were little and big thunderous storms would crash through our neighborhood, we always ran to the oversized bed, crawling under the covers with Mom and Dad. Only then did we feel warm and safe.
Um, anyway . . .
So Mom shuts the door behind us and joins me on the bed. She tries to pull her feet up and under like normal, then realizes she has a nice dress on and chooses to cross her ankles daintily instead. I have to bite my lip not to laugh.
“So?” I prod.
“So . . . I’ve got a date,” she whispers, her eyes alight with mischievous excitement. She’s totally forgotten that she’s pissed at me about my hair.
“A date?” I cry. “That’s awesome!”
She studies me, her gaze turning motherly. “Are you sure? I mean, I know that’s got to seem a little weird. Your mom dating someone.”
“No! It’s not weird at all. I think it’s great.” After all, I’ve been dying for the woman to get out of the house for years. Pining away in a nunlike existence—hoping the next time the door opens my dad will walk through—is just not a way for someone to live. Even a mom. “So who’s the lucky guy? Where did you meet him?”