Wynonna’s hair ended mostly at her chin, but it was hardly straight. Nothing ended at the same length. Everything about her style felt organic. It swerved off to one side—her right side; left, if you were looking at her—and it just sort of… splayed. She did often wear beanies, but it was hardly like she just showered and threw a hat on her head. She did something with it. But what? Did she use a product?

I returned to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinets.

It was like opening the door to a meth lab.

There were balms, and clays, and matte texturizers. Root-boosting powder, and dry powder shampoo, and volume paste. Sugar spritz, and sea-salt spray, and light molding cream.

Okay. Fuck the hair.

I grabbed a comb, parted my hair on the left, and shoved a beanie on my head.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to drive a stick. It’s just that—in the spectrum of things I was good at—operating a stick ranked only slightly higher than my ability to do Wynonna’s hair.

But that was before I was a girl, trapped in a fancy condo, with no means of escape except either a ride from Wynezra… or a stick shift. And since today was all about learning to put on bras and contemplating the possibility of feminine hair product, then what the hell—I’d take my chances with the stick.

I grabbed Wynonna’s keys, lying atop her dresser, and ventured into the parking garage. I still had no idea what her car looked like, but my beacon of hope was the clicker on her key chain. I mashed the unlock button like I was playing Mortal Kombat. The distant honking echo led me to a green ’93 Saturn.

Okay, Wynonna Jones. Let’s see what you can do.

In normal circumstances, I was only vaguely aware of the vehicles around me. Aware enough to not merge into them. To travel safely from Point A to Point B. But I didn’t, like, take special note of the make, model, and specific shade of color of the vehicles to be compiled in my top secret “morning traffic” dossier.

I was acutely aware of a Chevy Malibu trailing lazily behind me—a clandestine shade of Government Espionage Black. It never attempted to pass me. On the contrary, it seemed eager to see how many full stops I could screw up. I was sure I wasn’t disappointing.