Work Text:
It had been a tiring day. The rest of the week was going to be hectic—it was only Tuesday—but it would hopefully be a good hectic. Like 'I-feel-like-I'm-in-a-bubbly-warm-whirlwind' hectic.
I was sure my hair would come out in a better state if I was caught in a whirlwind. For the first time since I was fifteen, I was sent to a professional hairdresser who thought putting multicolored streaks in my blonde hair would look 'edgy.' Because lead singers are supposed to be 'edgy.' I had no idea. I guess my bandmates weren't allowed to be edgy. Poor them. Also, not only is my hair a tribute to a gay pride parade, but my bangs are cut so they fall in my face every time I move.
No more professional hairdressers.
"I mean, how is that even a relevant question? 'Does your mother approve of your offensive tattoos?' " Fran asked.
"I don’t know, Fran. Maybe she was jealous of your pinup girl shooting at a man." My hair fell into my face, and I tried to tuck it behind my ear.
"Maybe she didn't appreciate your rad hair. Of course she liked it when you mocked her, who wouldn't, ya know?"
"Shut up, Fran."
"Respect your elder."
"Respect your lead singer."
"I can't respect anyone with hair that's gayer than I am."
"Shut up, Fran."
And all was right again. That's how it went with Fran and I. She was my friend. My accomplice, my sister. We were by blood too, since we both got in a bar fight, with other people, of course, when we were sixteen. It's a much better story than when boys cut their hands and hold them together to become blood brothers. She held her bloody knuckles to my bloody cheekbone and we smiled while standing over the guys we fought.
I was the one that needed to be brought back down to earth most of the time, though. Not because the fame (tiny fame?) had gotten to my head, but because I just got caught up in life and in my head more often than the normal person.
She was our band mother; the one who took care of everyone and kept their livers from being pickled before age thirty. Unless you count Erik, our manager. He's our band father and acts more like a disciplinarian who only cares about making you a better person. 'If you just play some shows where you don't try to use sarcasm with a bunch of kids that won't get it and find it offensive while you find it amusing, I'm just saying that it might be nice to try. Or I could book you at another rich kid's birthday party.'
My bangs fell into my face again and I made a low, growling noise, followed by Fran huffing, grabbing a bobby pin out of the ash tray and tucking my hair out of my face. See? Just like a mommy.
"Hey, Rita?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you hope people like our new album as much as I do? 'Cause, I'm trying the whole, 'I'm proud of it, so it doesn't matter if anyone else likes it' thing and I still want them to like it."
"I want people to like it too. Like when you make a new friend that you want your old friends to meet, but you get nervous that your old friends won't like them, and they'll get mad at you for it. But, then deep down you know your old friends so well that you know they'll like that new friend. Like…"
"I get it, Rita. Nice analogy, but focus on the traffic, please. You almost side-swiped that blue jeep."
"Yeah, well, yellow jeeps are better."
"Thanks. I miss my yellow jeep."
"Me too. That X-Ray Spex tape you made that got stuck in the tape player was awesome. Hey, do you think bobby pins lying around loose in the car would pose a hazard if we crashed?"
"Probably." She took the other three pins and put them in the glove box. “You're not hardcore enough to rock a bobby pin to the eye.” I laughed.
“I'm not sure anyone's that hardcore,” I said, thoughtfully. “Maybe that tattoo artist you dated. She was probably the most badass-est person I've ever met.”
“Who, Lorna?” Fran asked. I nodded and smiled, looking over at her.
“Yeah, I had a theory. She had to be a giant fucking Amazon lady from Valhalla vacationing in Ohio,” I said. Fran snickered at me.
“I wasn't dating her for her warrior-ness. I was dating her for her tongue.” That's where my mother analogy ends. She's more like the vulgar surrogate mom-figure who takes care of you like you're a stray cat. If that's a thing, of course. I wouldn't know.
“I hope it was glorious because apparently, Amazonian warriors come with all kinds of baggage,” I remarked. The relationship had ended in three weeks after Lorna threw a table through the window of the loft where we were squatting. Why, you ask? Because Fran had spent longer at band practice than she planned to and was thirty minutes late getting back home.
On the upside, however, the commotion caused us to get kicked out of the loft we were not-renting, and made us re-evaluate our life choices. Now we rent a house with another one of our bandmates, and never have to worry about possibly freezing to death in the winter.
“We should write her a thank-you song for making us get our shit together,” I mused.
“Shut up, Rita. Pay attention to the road.”
“Yeah, yeah, mom.” Fran rolled her eyes, but she also grinned.