That’s my first reaction.

Then Mari’s.

And her mother’s, too.

Who’da thunk we’d

all say the same thing?

My momma says,

Girl, you look like a whore.

What in the hell were you thinking?

Then she drives off

to meet a friend,

laughing and shaking her head,

leaving me to take care of

my own problems.

My hair

is the color of an

orange sunset.

Mari’s is worse.

She does look like

a yellow flower,

just like the box said

she would.

But this isn’t a pretty flower.

No, this one is almost dead.

Awful.

Ugly.

With purple undertones

that have gone gray.

Thank goodness

it’s summer

and there’s no school

for another couple of months.

But there is the boy/girl party.

And I can’t go looking like this.

Soon as Momma pulls out

of the driveway

I start looking for money.

Clairol has done me wrong.

Maybe L’Oréal can set things straight.

I dial Mari’s number.

76.

My mother,

Mari says

when she picks up the phone,

is still squealing at me

like a stuck pig.

I can hear her in the background.

Well, my momma,

I say,

called me a bunch of ugly names.

Mari lets out

a guffaw.

I’m riding my bike over to the A & P,

I say.

I gotta get this hair back

to normal.

Maybe black dye will work.

You wanna go?

Good idea,

Mari says.

How about if I ask

my grandmother to take us.

She’s here now.

Mari lowers her voice

and says,

Guess what?

She didn’t notice a thing.

All she’s been

doing is arguing with

my mother.

My nana is tucked away

in Miami.

She won’t know anything

about my hair until our next family reunion,

which is at the beginning of September.

Momma is already practicing a song

she wants us to sing that day.

Grandmother says she will take us,

Mari says.

Okay,

I say.

And true to her word,

Mari comes driving up

in an antique,

light blue

Chevrolet,

with her ancient,

wrinkled granny sitting

behind the wheel.

That little old woman

can just see over

the steering wheel

and she’s sitting on

the Orlando phone book

to boot.

Her voice, though, can rattle leaves

loose from their trees.

Shake a leg, Hope,

she hollers at me.

The lights on this old thing

have been giving me fits.

I run

to the car with

dollar bills

and a few quarters

and dimes

stuck in the pocket of

my shorts.

Thanks for taking us,

I say.

Mari’s grandmother doesn’t answer.

She never does.

Mari says it’s

’cause the old lady can’t hear

a thing and knows it,

so why and try and say anything?

Sunset oranges up the sky

with streaks of turquoise.

At the store

we hunt the dye/bleach aisle over,

trying to find something

that might work.

I decide to go darker

than my natural blond color.

Mari decides she is

going to go two-tone.

Her grandmother buys us

each a banana split

from Dairy Queen