Mark My Words

85 | Spruce Up

The only photos Rosalie had of her and Joanna at prom were before prom even started—at the Pittmens' estate. At the dance, though, Art Hendrix, the Stud.Co.-designated photographer, would be there taking photos of everyone. From what Rosalie observed in previous years, the dance photographer solidified everything: You weren't really at prom if you didn't stand in line for half an hour to wait for Art Hendrix to take your picture.

But before Rosalie could even stand in line for photos, there were pictures at the Pittmen estate where their prom group gathered. And, even before then, Rosalie was at her house, fretting over her reflection in the mirror and the state of her hair. She wasn't one for salons, so getting her hair professionally done was out of the question. All it needed was to be tamed a bit, right?

Wrong.

"Hold still," her mom said as Rosalie turned her head this way and that to check the curls in the back.

"I can't see—they're huge!"

"It's called volume and it's not the end of the world," her mom said. "You're lucky you've got even an ounce of texture."

"Easy for you to say," Rosalie huffed. "Your hair's straight as a stick."

Her mother brandished the curling iron like she was about to smack Rosalie upside the head with it. Rosalie yelped and ducked, both hands over her head. Her hair was warm to the touch. "Alright! Geez, okay, I'll hold still," she said.

Rosalie crossed her arms and pursed her lips as her mother wove her hair into tight curls. When all of the ringlets were in place, her mother broke them up, dispensing them into a massive, overwhelming dome on top of her head. Rosalie rose an eyebrow at her mother from over the fringe across her eyes. Truthfully, she didn't see volume as a plus. Besides, she had enough hair for this whole exchange to take nearly three hours.

It was no wonder she wore her hair in a ponytail most days.

"There. It looks cute," her mom said. When Rosalie said nothing, her mom put her hands on her hips and said, "And that's a fact. Don't argue with me."

"I'm not arguing," Rosalie said, in a whiney voice that said that she'd rather argue about it.

Her mother pulled a few thick pins out of the drawer and swept Rosalie's hair out of her face. Rosalie sputtered and picked strands out of her mouth, grimacing as her mother went at her bangs with her fingers, dragging them into neat bundles that she then braided them back with. She pinned them halfway back on her part so that it looked as though she didn't have a part at all.

"It's the size of Mars," Rosalie said.

"Dylan will love it," her mother said. Rosalie rolled her eyes. "And Joanna. To think my daughter would be in a polyamorous relationship while I'm over here—"

"It's not—! I'm not dating Dylan! He's just doing me a solid," Rosalie insisted, but her mother simply rose her eyebrows and walked away from her and her "excuses". Rosalie slumped with a groan. "I mean, not that there's anything wrong with polyamorous relationships, but Dylan is just a friend. He's kind of a meathead, too."

"Probably got hit too many times in the head with a football," her mother said on her way to her room. Rosalie chased after her and skidded to a stop at the threshold. She leant against the doorframe and peered in while her mother went to her jewelry case to prepare for the Pittmens'.

Her mother sighed as she lifted up a necklace and said, "It's been ages since I had a decent chat with Jolie. How's her son doing?"

"Still dating Ray," Rosalie said. Her mother lowered the necklace to stare at her. "What? I told you."