A/N: This is a sequel to daphrose's I Hate Me Too. I own nothing.
P.S. I'm writing, well, finishing this at 2am, so please excuse any errors I fail to catch. And I'm sorry about making them. Very sorry indeed.
Disclaimer: Seriously, nothing.
Bree stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. The longer she looked, the more frustrated she became. She couldn't take it. Everything about her was stupid. Stupid pudgy face, stupid brown eyes, and stupid stupid brown hair.
Tasha had promised her a trip to the salon weeks ago. But each time, something came up. First, their was a breaking news story she had to report. Then Mr. Davenport went instead, claiming a "follicle emergency," whatever that was. Then the world had to be saved. Twice. Stupid world.
Bree carefully picked up a pair of scissors, admiring their sharp, silvery sheen.
Leo, I'm a girl, not a method of public transportation.
Well, if it isn't my employee-of-the-week and my weak employee
The numbneth thpread to my tongue. I can't talk!... ...Finally, a positive side effect.
Wait, you make eight ninety-five an hour?
What's Santa?
...And you guys fell for it: hook, line, and sinker
Not now, Bree!
Quit it, Bree!
Go away, Bree!
Be quiet, Bree!
Stop it, Bree!
With a scream, Bree yanked a hunk of her hair down, and -snip- watched it fall to the floor. She grabbed another hunk, and another, and another. She fell into a rythm: pull, snip, release. Pull, snip, release. With each snip, she felt as if she was getting rid of a little of her frustration, her anger, her hatred.
Snip, snip, snip.
When she ran out of hair to grab, Bree, beathing heavily, set down the scissors. She suddenly noticed how much hair was on the floor. With a moan, Bree looked in the mirror.
She almost didn't recognise herself. Ever since she was a little girl, her hair had always been long, going down her back. Her light brown hair had always been a pain to brush, but it always fell midway down her back.
Now it was short. Very short. Short, and choppy. A pixie cut. Her hair looked darker, too. A short, dark, pixie cut.
She looked dangerous.
Bree laughed quietly. This...this New Bree was no one to mess with. This New Bree could definitely take more than Old Bree could.
No, she wasn't going to turn on her family, or start going to street fights or take over the world. But she was going to change. She was changing how she felt. She liked this New Bree.
Bree Davenport thought she hated herself. But she was wrong. Way wrong. As they say, after all, there's a fine line between hate and love.