The sheen of the hair salon had gone after just one wash, as had the poker straight effect of the hot-iron. Edna's hair had reasserted it's precocious wave, not enough to be ringlets, just sufficient to make it kink out in random directions. She hated it. She wanted it perfect and smooth again. No longer did it look like a $60 hair-cut but instead like her mother had taken the kitchen scissors to it and hacked for several minutes. To parents and teachers it was an embodiment of her personality, quirky and creative. It made them smile to see the waves rise and fall with each bounce of her lanky stride. But recently she had stopped wearing her eclectic dresses and put on pale blue jeans. She had toned down her punk make-up and instead wore only eyeliner and mascara. She had bought the same shoes everyone else wore and pretended to like all the same pop music. The messy hair was her last battle in her war on her personality and appearance. Soon she'd just blend into a popular group. Soon.
A head taller than the other boys, it was Mick that was sent in to buy the booze. The others congregated around the corner to wait for their new group member to get the goods. Despite being fourteen he had the height of a man; which combined with the muscles of a competitive swimmer and some intentionally left stubble to give him a chance of success. But should he fail the others would simply disown him, let him take the fall. For them it was win-win. Either they got drunk or that tall swot got what was coming to him.
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