Forever Pucked (Pucked 4)

“I don’t have time to go to a store and get more hairspray. What am I going to do? I can’t pick Robbie up looking like this.” She motions to her head.

It’s the most normal her hair has ever looked in the time Alex and I have been together. Daisy is actually gorgeous under that over-teased mop. She and Sunny look almost identical, apart from the fact that Sunny is blond and Daisy is more auburn. I hope I age as gracefully as Daisy. I pat her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll see what I can do.”

Daisy glances at my hair, her apprehension clear. And understandable. It can’t be good, but then she’s woken me up, and I’m an active sleeper. It probably looks like something decided to nest in there. I leave the bathroom and she follows, as there really isn’t another option. I send her back to her room and sneak into mine to get my hair supplies.

Once I’m armed with my arsenal, I knock on her door and wait, because I definitely don’t want to see the parts of Daisy that she’s seen of me. I have no idea if she’s sporting a seriously overgrown beaver bush to match the one on her head, and I have no desire to ever have the answer to that mystery of life.

Daisy appears, her eyes red, and I experience some serious remorse. This has been hard on her. She’s been watching her only son, who pursued a career she wasn’t fully supportive of—for a variety of reasons, unable to take care of himself because of an injury that rocked us all. And now her hair is unsprayed.

But my torment has a purpose. One day I’m going to have wedding pictures. Probably soonish. Daisy will be in them. I would selfishly like her to have normal hair on that day, so I think it’s reasonable to make her cry if it means I don’t have to face this battle later. Besides, she’s three decades behind. It’s time to move past the glory days of college.

I make her sit on the toilet seat, partly so she can’t see herself, and also because I’m short and she’s tall. I use a rounded brush for volume, aware that we’re going to have to move away from her terrible hair in stages. First we need to all but eliminate the need for hairspray; then we’ll work on toning down more of the hugeness. In reality, without spray, her hair will look big for the first ten minutes, and then it’ll settle nicely.

Now I’m no aesthetician. I have the makeup basics down, and I know how to use a flat iron on my hair. But I’m pretty damn confident I can make Daisy look decent until we can visit a hairstylist she doesn’t need a time warp to get to.

I spend the next twenty minutes working my magic. When I’m finished, Daisy’s long hair curls softly around her pretty, delicate features. I know she’s probably going to ruin it with her eighties-style makeup, but it’s a one-step-at-a-time kind of thing.

I set down the hairdryer and brush, finger-comb a few wayward strands into submission, and gesture to the mirror. “Check it out.”

Daisy hesitantly stands, smoothing her hands over the dress that no longer matches her hair. I need to get my mom to take her shopping. Anything is better than the shoulder pads. Well, except maybe my mom’s miniskirts, but mostly her taste is decent. She turns and faces her reflection. Her eyes go wide—I’m not sure if it’s horror or surprise. They kind of look the same on Daisy. She reaches up to touch her hair, then stops.

“You can run your fingers through it.” I demonstrate by pulling mine through the underside, helping to give it more volume, so she doesn’t miss the helmet-y type look.

She exhales a long, unsteady breath and pats her hair. She fingers one of the curls. “It’s so soft.”

I grin, because seriously, what other reaction is there? I feel like I’m a host on that TLC show where they humiliate a person by putting them on national TV, then give them five grand to buy a new wardrobe and stop dressing like a bum, or a cartoon character. For once, I’m not the one who’s under the microscope. I’m also doing a good deed—more for myself than Daisy—but we both win if she likes this look.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“I-I think I do.” She pats her hair again and gives me a wavering smile. I can’t tell if she’s just trying to be nice until she spins around and pulls me into a rib-cracking hug. “Thank you, Violet. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here to help me.”

It takes me a few seconds to react. This is full-on momma love. I might get emotional about it. Which is the norm these days.