39th Summer, 515AV
Amelia was close to screaming. Frustration boiled up inside her gut like hot bile, and the young blonde, growling like an animal, released her hair once more. Life was filled with challenges, and cosmetology was just one such challenge that she was desperate to conquer.
Earlier that day, Amelia had spotted a woman of average beauty with a stunning hair style. Her hair was separated into several, tiny little braids, that were then piled on top of her head in spirals and curls. It was magnificent, and Amelia immediate thought had been: if it looks that good on you, imagine what how it would look on me! And since then, she had been trying to replicate those intricate twists and knots.
The braiding of her hair was the easy part. Amelia separated her golden locks into several sections; twelve in total. She then proceeded to twist three section together, overlapping the two outer sections into the middle over and over again until eventually had twelve skinny braids.
It was the next part that was causing her some difficulty. She twirled and twisted one braid up onto her scalp and pinned it down. But as she progressed around her head, Amelia was disheartened to notice how her attempt of the style looked messy, unkempt.
She had since made five more attempts, but there was little improvement in both her styling and her mood. Amelia was close to losing her temper, and she had finally decided to request that her father pay for hairstyling lessons when she heard a peculiar noise. It sounded like something terribly fragile being thrown against something terribly sturdy — an explosion of fractured glass.
“Gods, woman! You almost killed me!”
Unperturbed by the clatter, Amelia stood up. She presumed her clumsy mother had simply dropped the glass of wine she usually greeted her father with. Briefly, the young woman hoped that he was in a good mood, as Cliff Tisswell was far less willing to part with his money when he was irritated. She skipped down stairs, eagerly calling out “Pa, can I—”
The request died on her lips like a gasp. Her mother and father were standing on opposing sides of the grand living room. Her father’s feet stood in a puddle of broken glass, his face frozen in a twisted, morose expression. Jona, by comparison, paced back and forth along the back wall, her paint-stained fingers brushing away tears. So her mother was crying, but Amelia was not yet concerned. Her mother cried almost daily, over her painting (or lack of painting), or because she spotted a particularly wide-eyed child strolling the streets below their home.
“Jo, what are you on about?”
“My sister saw you, Cliff. So don’t deny it.”
This sparked Amelia’s interest. She remained silent on the stairway that connected the living room to the upper hallway of their home, where the bedrooms and study was kept. What had her father been caught doing? Drinking? Yes, quite possibly. Drugs? Almost certainly not, but what else could Jona Trisswell be so angered by?
Jonas voice strained from across the room, paper thin and watery. “With that… that girl. She’s half your age, Cliff. What are you thinking?”
Amelia was close to screaming. Frustration boiled up inside her gut like hot bile, and the young blonde, growling like an animal, released her hair once more. Life was filled with challenges, and cosmetology was just one such challenge that she was desperate to conquer.
Earlier that day, Amelia had spotted a woman of average beauty with a stunning hair style. Her hair was separated into several, tiny little braids, that were then piled on top of her head in spirals and curls. It was magnificent, and Amelia immediate thought had been: if it looks that good on you, imagine what how it would look on me! And since then, she had been trying to replicate those intricate twists and knots.
The braiding of her hair was the easy part. Amelia separated her golden locks into several sections; twelve in total. She then proceeded to twist three section together, overlapping the two outer sections into the middle over and over again until eventually had twelve skinny braids.
It was the next part that was causing her some difficulty. She twirled and twisted one braid up onto her scalp and pinned it down. But as she progressed around her head, Amelia was disheartened to notice how her attempt of the style looked messy, unkempt.
She had since made five more attempts, but there was little improvement in both her styling and her mood. Amelia was close to losing her temper, and she had finally decided to request that her father pay for hairstyling lessons when she heard a peculiar noise. It sounded like something terribly fragile being thrown against something terribly sturdy — an explosion of fractured glass.
“Gods, woman! You almost killed me!”
Unperturbed by the clatter, Amelia stood up. She presumed her clumsy mother had simply dropped the glass of wine she usually greeted her father with. Briefly, the young woman hoped that he was in a good mood, as Cliff Tisswell was far less willing to part with his money when he was irritated. She skipped down stairs, eagerly calling out “Pa, can I—”
The request died on her lips like a gasp. Her mother and father were standing on opposing sides of the grand living room. Her father’s feet stood in a puddle of broken glass, his face frozen in a twisted, morose expression. Jona, by comparison, paced back and forth along the back wall, her paint-stained fingers brushing away tears. So her mother was crying, but Amelia was not yet concerned. Her mother cried almost daily, over her painting (or lack of painting), or because she spotted a particularly wide-eyed child strolling the streets below their home.
“Jo, what are you on about?”
“My sister saw you, Cliff. So don’t deny it.”
This sparked Amelia’s interest. She remained silent on the stairway that connected the living room to the upper hallway of their home, where the bedrooms and study was kept. What had her father been caught doing? Drinking? Yes, quite possibly. Drugs? Almost certainly not, but what else could Jona Trisswell be so angered by?
Jonas voice strained from across the room, paper thin and watery. “With that… that girl. She’s half your age, Cliff. What are you thinking?”
Great work! 
