When photography student, Willow Kennedy, gets offered an internship with her college's renowned ice hockey team, The Michigan Wolverines, she anticipates three things:
1) Her twin brother being an unbearable and over-protective nightmare.
2) Her...
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"No way. No, nope, nuh uh, nah. Not happening."
"Oh stop being such a baby! It's just a dress, Layne. A pretty little dress." Salma holds the scrap of black fabric up again, shaking it slightly and cooing at our ginger friend.
"Sal, you do realize that it's late September...In fucking Michigan, right? I will quite literally turn blue. BLUE!"
"So we'll throw a jacket on top; hell, maybe Willow will let you borrow her red flannel."
I laugh sharply at that, because she has to be joking.
I'm happy to share some of my clothes with the girls- sweatshirts? Sure, have at it. Hats? You don't even have to ask, just take one. Jeans? If you can wear them without tripping your short ass over Layne, go ahead.
But my flannels? My denim jacket? My coats? Nope. Not a chance in hell.
I couldn't tell you why I'm so particular when it comes to my jackets, I just am.
Maybe it's because I let Sal borrow my favorite windbreaker when we were Freshman and when I got it back it had all kinds of mud and leaves and soil covering it.
I asked her what the fuck happened and she just told me that her and Reese went on a walk...
I burned the dirty coat the next day.
"Yeah, Willow won't be allowing that..." I look over at Sal and just shrug, continuing to curl my long brown hair.
You see, I really love my Argentinian heritage. I love knowing Spanish and cooking the food my mom grew up on. It makes me feel closer to her, especially since all my aunts and uncles are still living in Argentina and my Dad, bless his heart, can only do so much.
He put Ev and I in Spanish lessons, hired us private tutors and always always found telenovelas for us to watch as a family. Our Dad would also cook us Argentinian dishes and he really tried (and continues to try) to involve our mom's culture into our lives.
Hell, the man even paid for some Spanish lessons for himself- says that when he catches up with our other side of the family he wants to speak their language to them.
He truly is the sweetest man on earth.
Anyway, as much as I love having those roots, one thing I absolutely cannot fucking stand is the hair it's given me.
I wake up and each strand is a mess of ringlets and knots, honestly far too many hours of my life are spent untangling the birds nest that wakes up on top of my head.
My only solution is to wash the mess of curls, blow dry it and then attempt either an up-do or just give up with life and let it dry in loose waves.
I don't tend to venture beyond that, just out of pure laziness.
But, seeing as us three are heading to our first party of the year, I've decided to wipe the dust off my curling iron and start the getting-ready process with taming my mop of brown hair.
