"Buffy, you've been in there for TWO hours! There are other people in this house who need to use the bathroom."
"Just a second, Mom!"
I'm starting to think I made an error of judgement when I chose this black wig. I look like ELVIRA.
And even worse, these two tendrils of my hair keep falling out of place in front of my ears, giving me that realistic blonde-on-black 'reverse skunk' look. And I assume there probably weren't a lot of 1800's Spanish girls who were handy with a bottle of Clairol.
I groan in frustration before gently grabbing the sides of the wig and try to readjust it. Which, of course, causes even MORE of my hair to fall out of place. Augh!
"Stupid wig!" I shout, ripping it off my head. I beat it violently against the sink counter a few times before tossing it into the bathtub.
I plop down onto the closed lid of the toilet and cover my face with my hands. I feel slightly better until I peek through my fingers and see the Wig From Hell staring back at me from it's place crumpled on the tub floor.
It looks disturbingly like I ran over a small mammal and then left it to die in my bathroom.
Ick.
And I'm going to have to put that thing back on my head, aren't I? Which is just GREAT. After all, what girl DOESN'T fantasize about going to a dance with a gorgeous guy while wearing fake hair made from 100% genuine roadkill?
It's what dreams are made of!
I let out a strangled moan of despair, which my mom must have heard because she knocks on the door a few seconds later.
"Honey? Are you okay in there?"
Well, I don't know if beating a wig to death qualifies as 'okay', but I haven't fallen into the toilet and drowned or anything.
Yet.
"Yes... no. Not really," I mutter.
"Are you dressed?" she asks, turning the handle on the door. "Can I come in?"
I make a non-committal whining noise which she interprets as 'yes'. She comes inside quietly and closes the door behind her.
She glances at my wig laying wounded in the bathtub and raises an eyebrow.
"I think I killed it," I confess guiltily.
She sighs and picks it up, brushing it off with her hand. "Would you like some help?"
I nod weakly and stand up, smoothing the wrinkles from my white dress. Mom gently turns my shoulders so I'm facing the mirror before grabbing my hairbrush. She carefully brushes my hair towards the back of my head and collects it with her free hand.
"What's Angel doing?" I ask, pretending to sound casual.
Mom is not easily fooled, though, and she gives me a knowing smile in the mirror. "I gave him that photo album with all of your baby pictures."
I whirl around in shock, nearly having all my hair ripped out in the process.
"Mo~om!" I shriek in panic. "I'm NAKED in almost all of those! And BALD!"
"Buffy, you weren't bald--"
"Please! I looked like a giant THUMB!"
Angel is probably downstairs RIGHT NOW, looking at photos of me lying butt-naked on the living room floor. And I bet he's staring in open-mouthed terror at my freakish resemblance to a hairless chihuahua--
"Buffy! Don't get so worked up! I'm only teasing you," Mom explains while trying not to laugh. "He's watching television."
...
"That's not funny," I mutter darkly.
"I know, I know. I'm a horrible mother," she jokes. "But you're stressing yourself out over nothing. It's just a dance. You've gone to a lot of them before."
Yes, but I went to them with TYLER, which is probably akin to going with a lobotomized toaster oven. At our last Spring Formal, I was forced to watch in muted horror as he tried to light one of his farts on fire with a centerpiece candle. It wasn't exactly a highlight of my young adult life.
"I know. But this is different."
"Why is it different?" she asks.
"Because of... the... costumes," I answer lamely. "And the wide variety of salsa dips."
"Mmm. I see," she says, making it clear she didn't believe a word of it.
She reaches past me into the tray on the sink counter and plucks out a hair clip. Carefully, she pulls my hair into a tight bun high on the back of my head and then clips it in place.
Finally, she slides the wig over top of it, making sure it was even on both sides. I glance at my reflection in wonder; how do Moms know how to do that stuff?
"Thanks," I say gratefully, reaching up to feel the artificial strands. "It even has that new hair smell."
"You're welcome. Now you'd better go downstairs and rescue Angel from another half hour of 'Temptation Island'. He was looking a little ill the last time I checked on him."
I smile at her and take one last look in the mirror before turning towards the door.
"Buffy?"
I look back at her questioningly. "Yeah?"
"You look beautiful," she says proudly.
"Thanks," I murmured, feeling strangely emotional.
"And you're going to be home by 12:30."
"What?? Mom!"
"And no drinking!"
"I wasn't--"
"And if you even THINK about trying marijuana...!"
Sigh. Leave it to Mom to spoil a perfectly good mother-daughter
bonding moment.
After I suffered through the obligatory Lecture of Doom, I took a quick detour
to grab my bag from my room before starting down the stairs to meet Angel.
I take a deep breath when I near the bottom of the steps to calm down a little. This is my big entrance-y moment and I really don't feel like tripping down the stairs to my bloody and humiliating death at Angel's feet.
When I was sure I had collected myself, I step down the last few stairs with a little flourish and flash a perfect smile at Angel.
... or at least I WOULD have, if he had actually been there.
But no, he had to go and ruin my cheesy teen-movie moment by disappearing like a big JERK and--
"Buffy? God, you look..."
I whirl around in an undignified stumble, and there he is... staring at me.
And I... am staring at his leather pants. Mmm boy!
"... beautiful," he finishes, a slow smile spreading across his face.
I can't help blushing a little. Or a lot. Or to the point where I looked much like a traffic light. "Thanks. It's the plastic hair, you know. It's totally irresistable."
"It IS a lovely wig," he concurs. "I don't think that's it, though."
I smile. "Maybe it's the shoes? I don't know too many old world Spanish dancing girls who own such a great pair of black pumps."
He makes an exaggerated effort to kneel down and take a closer look at my shoes, so I hike the skirt of my dress up slightly to play along. And also because, hey, maybe he'll decide he wants to lick my leg? I wouldn't complain.
"They're nice, I admit. But... that's not it, either."
Hee. This is fun. "Oh? What about the dress? It's made out of 100% something-that-isn't-cotton." I turn in a quick circle and the skirt swirls around my ankles. "Ooo! It even does that twirl-y thing."
"Impressive. If the whole 'well-educated young woman' thing doesn't work out, you should have no trouble finding work as a saloon girl."
"Gee. THAT prospect certainly fills my heart with joy," I mutter sarcastically.
He takes hold of my shoulders with his hands, looking suddenly serious. "Really. You look amazing. And it has nothing to do with the dress."
I swallow a mouthful of suddenly dry air and stare at him dumbly. He's so close to me that I have to crane my neck back to look in his eyes. I want to tell him that I thought he was gorgeous and sexy and that, given the opportunity, I really think I could take his shirt off using only my teeth.
Before I have a chance to respond, though, a bright light slices through the room causing Angel and I to stumble apart in surprise. I blink rapidly, frowning at the interruption of our happy-lustful-staring-time. I look up and see Mom standing at the top of the stairs with a camera.
She smiles warmly and clicks another picture. "You two look so cute in your costumes!"
Oh god. I just KNOW this is going to be horribly embarrassing.
She walks down the stairs and gestures for us to move closer together. Angel and I share an uneasy glance before awkwardly shuffling next to each other. Mom holds the camera up and snaps several pictures in a row.
I pretend to be unenthused about the whole thing, but I KNOW I'll be ordering quadruple prints of all of these.
You know, just in case the originals get... damaged. And by 'damaged', I mean soaked in drool.
"You make a very handsome Zorro, Angel," Mom compliments while looking through the viewfinder. "Is this your first school dance?"
Angel looks like he enjoys having his picture taken about as much as he enjoys being mauled by rabid weasels. But he gives my Mom a half-smile, anyway.
"We have mixers with the Girls' Catholic School sometimes. But there isn't a lot of dancing due to the large squadron of nuns that chaperone," he explains. "It's hard to slow dance with someone while three or four Sisters are glaring at the back of your head and murmuring Hail Marys."
And Amen to that. Girls dancing with Angel? It's just not RIGHT.
At least girls who aren't ME.
"This should be a new experience for you, then," Mom replies. "But I'm sure there will be lots of opportunities for you to dance with people here!"
Puh-HUH! Let's go with NOT.
"Mom!" I blurt. Both she and Angel turn to look at me questioningly while I struggle to come up with an excuse for my outburst. "Um, we don't want to... to OVERWHELM him at his first dance. So he really should take things slowly, you know? Baby steps!"
"It's just a dance, sweetie. I'm sure he'll be fine."
"Dancing is strenuous exercise. He could pull a muscle! Or lose an EYE!"
Mom looks at me weirdly. "Honey, how much hair spray were you using earlier?"
Eh. This is REALLY not going well...
Time to bail!
"Oh, gosh, it's almost 7:00! We really should go. Bye Mom!"
I grab Angel's hand and start towards the front door as fast as possible.
Please, please, PLEASE don't stop us...
"Wait a second, Buffy!"
... damn.
She walks quickly to catch up with us and I turn around to offer her an innocent smile.
"What time are you going to be home tonight?" she asks pointedly.
"Around one--"
"When was that?"
Oops.
"... uh, one... minute before 12:30?"
"Mm-hmm. Have a good time, sweetie."
I smile and sneak a quick glance at Angel. "I will, Mom."
Hey, a hot date
with Zorro? Who WOULDN'T have a good time?
