Page 34 of What Did I Miss?

Makayla can’t keep putting this off. Today, she’s going to be bold and brave. The time has come – it’s time to change her hair.

It’s been long and brown forever. Warren always said he liked how low-maintenance she was.

He was also vocal about his disapproval of women under fifty having short hair.

When they were married, Makayla liked to think his opinions didn’t influence hers, but with distance, she can see they did.

Little by little, his comments seeped into her subconscious, like hypnosis.

But not anymore. Boring hair be gone! New hairstyle = New Makayla.

An airbrushed model with exquisite lashes smiles at her from the front of a dye box.

Soon, Makayla will flaunt identical platinum blonde tresses.

Rock-chic is the look she’s going for. Drastic, yet necessary.

Ever since she started the list, which coincided with Beau coming into her life, she feels different.

Why not reflect those changes on the outside?

‘Time’s up,’ Cece says. ‘Pop on over to the sink and let’s wash this off.’ She hovers with a towel, anxious to ensure the bleach doesn’t stain Makayla’s floors.

Bent over the laundry basin, Makayla grits her teeth as the temperature veers between arctic cold and blistering hot. Water strips away the gunk in her hair and the overpowering scent of eye-burning chemicals.

Cece hums while her enthusiastic fingers get to work. Massage, rinse, repeat. She’s chuffed about her promotion from best friend/accountability coach to at-home hairdresser.

The humming stops abruptly. Cece’s scrubbing intensity increases, and her fingernails scratch Makayla’s scalp.

Bubbles multiply as she liberally applies shampoo for the seventh time.

Once all the foamy mess disappears down the drain, she secures Makayla’s hair tightly in a towel without letting a single strand fall. Trust her to want a dramatic reveal.

A glint of terror reaches Cece’s eyes before the words leave her mouth. ‘We have a teeny tiny problem.’

Panic grips Makayla by the throat. ‘Is it purple?’

‘No, it’s—’

Makayla bolts towards the bathroom. The towel falls and so does her face as she clocks her reflection. She slaps her cheeks and screams like she’s in Edvard Munch’s famous painting.

Her hair is yellow-orange. As in, the colour of over-processed McDonald’s cheese. Without touching it, she can tell it’s brittle and would snap under a gentle brush stroke.

‘What did you do?’ she asks Cece, who loiters by the door, keeping a safe distance. ‘You’ve coloured your hair a billion times.’

‘To be fair, I have lighter hair than you. It takes better. I don’t understand what went wrong. I followed the instructions.’ She takes a careful step towards her victim. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Are you kidding? You promised to make me look like Margot Robbie in Barbie . Instead, you’ve turned me into Weird Barbie.’

‘When we cut it short, it’ll be less noticeable.’

‘As if I’m letting you near me, Cece Scissorhands.’

The commotion draws Piper into the bathroom. She takes one look at Makayla and scurries back to her dog bed.

‘Grab your bag.’ Makayla springs into action.

She’s not spending another minute looking like cheddar.

She gathers her keys, wallet, phone and a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles.

Stress makes her hungry. ‘We’re going to a qualified hairdresser.

’ Why didn’t she do that in the first place, instead of being a cheapskate?

Oh yes, that’s right. Cece had insisted she was a DIY expert.

Cece trails behind. ‘You’ll never get an appointment anywhere round here on a Saturday. Maybe Phil’s Barber Shop—’

‘Don’t be absurd. I’m not going to be seen like this in Goldbrooke.

We’re going to the city.’ She’s got a better chance of finding an open salon somewhere with multiple options, rather than in the dinky suburbs around here.

If Makayla has to turn on the waterworks or throw cash at the problem to get an emergency slot, she will.

They pile into Cece’s car, which has more teddies and rattles than a toy shop.

Makayla has many regrets about today. One of them is trusting Cece with her hair, and the other is letting her drive. She won’t go above eighty kilometres on the freeway, and she takes ten minutes to parallel park the world’s tiniest car – a Volkswagen Beetle.

They take to the streets, sidestepping a man dressed in a hessian-made robe.

He rants about the looming apocalypse and how they’re all damned.

I’m already in hell, buddy. The aroma of artisan coffees, likely decorated with foam hearts, floats out of cafes.

Must keep going. The walk signal ticks and they get stuck behind the slowest pedestrians ever. Move it, people!

‘Cece,’ a man calls from behind.

Makayla turns, despite recognising the voice. It’s Beau. Of course it is; the universe sucks. He sprints towards them and she senses colour draining from her face, but not from her hair, which is more amber than a traffic light.

Cars hurtle past with their cautionary beeps and aggressive honks. Teenagers whizz by on scooters, almost clipping old ladies. A doughnut vendor yells, ‘Half price!’ and everyone with a sweet tooth flocks to the stand. Life goes on as Makayla’s ends. Why didn’t she bring a hat, or a balaclava?

Beau and Makayla haven’t had ‘the talk’ yet, and now they might never have to. He looks more startled than Warren the first time he put on a condom.

‘I didn’t recognise you.’ He leans in for a cheek kiss. It’s light and quick, like he’s worried he’ll catch chickenpox.

‘What are you doing here?’ Makayla asks as a familiar blonde appears by his side.

It takes a beat to figure out where she knows her from – the thirty-third floor of a city apartment!

His sister is even more dazzling in natural light.

So captivating that a guy cranes his neck for a second look and almost steps into oncoming traffic.

He’s not the only passerby who does a double take.

Yes, she’s a knockout and has that effortless cool combo going on with flared jeans and a blazer, but the attention is excessive.

Maybe it’s Makayla’s hair, drawing them in like a beacon.

Cece squints at the stranger. ‘And who might you be?’

‘This is Beau’s sister.’ Makayla pinches Cece’s strawberry-covered cardigan to hold her back. She might look cute, but there’s a feisty Chihuahua in there somewhere.

‘I’m Liz.’ Sculpted cheekbones pop. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Makayla.’ She scrunches her nose like she’s delighted to officially meet the woman who has a big ol’ crush on her brother. ‘I like what you’ve done with your hair.’

Beau doesn’t chime in with compliments or reassurance. He says nothing, which says everything.

‘Home job gone awry,’ Makayla explains. ‘I’m on my way to get it fixed, or shaved off. I’m open to both options.’

‘She is funny.’ Liz elbows Beau in the ribs. ‘Why don’t you ladies join us afterwards, for drinks? We’re hitting up a rooftop bar.’

‘I wish I could, but I’ve got a toddler to get back to. But if Beau can give Makayla a lift home, I’m sure she’d love to.’ Cece winks at Liz as the two of them play cupid.

The lines across Beau’s forehead flatten; he obviously welcomes the idea. Makayla senses his eagerness for a conversation about clearly defining their relationship. Why did she have to open her big mouth at camp?

‘I promised my aunty I’d attend a thing with her.’ Makayla’s purposefully vague. She can’t exactly say she caved and agreed to meet some of the Mustang club members. That would invite questions. ‘Raincheck?’

Beau’s shoulders sink, and so does her heart. Their situation is as disastrous as her hair. Makayla can confirm that blondes (or whatever brassy colour this is) do not have more fun. New hairstyle = Same Makayla.

Try out a new hairstyle ?

‘Ahhh, you must be Makayla,’ says the lady who greets her at the back door of a decommissioned milk bar.

She neglects to introduce herself, which is fine; Priscilla Montgomery needs no introduction. Makayla remembers the club’s president from the car show. She glided across the stage in her motorised wheelchair, never afraid to tell the rowdy crowd to pipe down during speeches.

‘Don’t just stand there, come in. The meeting’s about to start and I run a tight ship.’

Makayla’s boots become concrete-heavy, rooting her to the ground.

Quinn tricked her. She said this was a ‘casual crew catch-up’.

Makayla had planned to make an appearance, shake a few hands and then hit the road.

Bing, bang, boom. After wasting hours at the hairdressers – dying her roots darker and having her new shoulder-length ends faded to the platinum blonde she’d originally envisioned – attending a committee meeting is the last thing she wants to do.

Priscilla coaxes her into a room with a U-shaped table arrangement and a well-used whiteboard.

Mustang Owners Club of New South Wales is underlined twice.

According to the agenda scribbled beneath, Makayla’s going to be trapped with these petrol heads for at least an hour.

The president excuses herself to look over the minutes from their previous meeting. She’s all business.

Members gather by the refreshments, clutching steaming cups of tea with one hand and their bellies with the other. Laughter ripples through the group.

A woman with significantly fewer wrinkles than the rest approaches Makayla, whose eye is drawn to a beauty spot above the woman’s top lip. It’s clear she wants people to notice it. That’s why she hasn’t covered it with foundation like the rest of her skin.

‘I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Nova.’ She steps closer, mouth agape. ‘You look just like her.’

‘Who? Frances?’ People often comment about Makayla’s striking resemblance to her grandmother.

‘No, I meant Quinn.’ She has a melancholy tone, similar to the way people speak of the dead.