The Lock of Golden Hair Part 2

Not So Nice 'n Easy

Lisa's eyes widened and a small grin broke across her face as she took in Steve's lightening and lengthened mane.

“Ha-Ha,” Steve retorted, frowning darkly. “Can we please not talk about this on your front porch?”

The incessant blaring of his alarm dragged Steve from a short fitful sleep. He couldn't remember any further dreams, but if anything he felt more tired than he had earlier. Yawning, he pushed back the covers on his bed and sat up. Immediately a soft golden curl obeyed the will of gravity, settling before the weary 17-year-old's eyes and tickling his nose. Wrinkling his eyes, Steve blew a puff of air from his lips to dislodge the offending lock, only to have it rise up and then return, clearly ignoring his feeble efforts. Blinking rapidly the events of just a few hours came into sharp focus. Steve jumped from bed, wincing slightly at the pain that shot through his limbs as he scrambled to get to the mirror on top of his dresser.

“Oh God, it's longer. How can it even be there, much less be longer?” he whispered in dismay.

The skunk stripe of golden hair that nestled within his dark brown curly locks was indeed longer, as was the rest of Steve's hair.

“It's like I have a mop on my head, a poorly bleached mop.” he groaned as he turned to look over his shoulder.

His mane now reached nearly to his shoulder blades in back, while it covered his ears on the sides and fought to obscure his vision in front. Steve fought the urge to tuck some of his curls behind his ears as his Mom tended to, just to have them out of the way.

“There's no doubt something weird is going on.” he though as he broke out in a chill of fear. “I've got to get over to Lisa's and see what she can do with this.”

For half a moment, Steve considered cutting the worst of the curls off himself, but images of last year's horrible spirit week Mohawk stayed his hand. Better to let Lisa handle this. She'd saved what little was left of his pride by making the Mohawk Incident presentable in time for the dance last year.
His course charted, Steve quickly raided his closet. He'd kill for a shower, but he had chores to do and he didn't feel comfortable trying to dry his odd new mane. The 17-year-old was soon decked out in a pair of work-faded Levis, a white Boise State Broncos t-shirt. Finally he pulled out a royal blue hooded sweatshirt with Valley Vikings Football in chunky block letters on the front. Steve smiled as he admired the hoodie. He'd won it by vote of his teammates for showing the most heart on the field. Now he began to wonder if one of the hits he'd taken trying to catch a pass had somehow caused this mess. Shaking off such doubts he pulled the sweatshirt over his head, struggling a bit as he pulled the neck of the shirt over his irritatingly voluminous hair.

“The sooner I get rid of this stuff the better.”Steve muttered, rolling his eyes and quietly opening his bedroom door.

He slowly made his way over the creeky oak hardwoods towards the utility room of the rambling ranch style house. Built in the early 1900's by his great-great-great grandparents, Lars and Sigrid Danielson, the house and the 2,000 acres of rich land that surrounded had provided for Danielson's for nearly a century. Fortunately all of the bedrooms were on this end of the house, so if he could make it past his parent's door, he'd be home free. Taking a deep breath, he crept down the hall past their bedroom. He sighed in relief at the barely audible snoring he heard.

“Good, Dad's sawing logs.” he thought.

Passing the door he moved through the formal dining room and exited into a large kitchen that served up meals to his family and the small number of hands who worked on the ranch. Grinning at his good luck, Steve opened the 'fridge and pulled an apple the color of new grass from the crisper. He had a very special lady to share this with and she hated to be kept waiting. Pulling on a pair of sturdy leather work boots and lacing them up, Steve pulled open the back door of the house and walked the hundred yards towards a set of large barns and stables. As he neared the front gate that led to the stable and pasture that surrounded it, a low neigh and the gentle clop-clop of hooves heralded the arrival of his first love. Steve grinned widely, the weirdness of the last few hours slipping away, as he pulled the green apple from the pocket of his sweatshirt and cut it into thirds with his pocket knife just as Ginger reached the gate. The tall sorrel mare reached eagerly over the gate, sniffing for the apples slices in Steve's hand.

“Hey girl,” the young man smiled brightly as Ginger lowered her long nose, blowing air from her nostrils into the boy's face in the traditional equine greeting.

Moving his hands behind his back, Steve eyed his horse playfully as he shifted a couple of small apple slices into his left hand.

“Alright Ginger, find your apple.” he urged as he moved his hands into the air beside the mare's nose.

The horse almost seemed to scoff at her owner as she jerked her head towards his left hand. Steve opened his hand, palm up and Ginger scarfed the slices down.
Steve pulled the chain to open the gate and moved towards the stables, only to be quickly intecepted by his mare's large nose, sniffing the front of his sweatshirt for the last bit of apple in his front pockets.
Warm laughter erupted from the young man as he fed Ginger the treat.

“Good girl,” he praised.

The young man took a few moments to pet the mare before pulling open a pair of stout wooden doors to enter the stables. His father expected him to feed the fifteen working horses on the ranch every morning, rain or shine. Steve didn't mind, he loved the animals and they in turn greedily consumed the oats he delivered.
Taking a five gallon bucket from a hook inside the stable, he quickly filled it from a nearby silo and dumped the grain into a long feed trough. Other quarter horses in hues of red, black and brown trotted over to join Ginger for their morning meal. Four more trips and Steve's chores were finished, at least for the moment.

“Okay,” he thought, glancing at his watch. 45 minutes had elapsed since his alarm went off at 6am.

He winced slightly, imagining how much crap Lisa was going to give him when he woke her up in about twenty minutes. He only hoped the challenge of his newly acquired golden locks would distract her a bit. Lisa was definitely NOT a morning person. Her attitude on waking up was often as combustible as her flame-touched hair.

“I hope I don't have to dodge more shoes.” he thought as he jumped in his pickup and fired it up.

The red Ford F 150 was a bit of a relic, though Steve preferred to think of it as a “classic.” Both his brothers had driven the truck when they attended Valley High and now it was his turn. He just hoped he would have enough money saved to buy something new before he started college. Twenty miles of gravel and blacktop later he arrived at Lisa's house. Pulling up his hood and plucking up his courage, Steve got out of the truck and quickly made his way to the front door.
Rolling his eyes and shaking his head at his predicament, he knocked forcefully on the door for about ten seconds.

“C'mon Lise,” he tersely whispered as he listened for any signs of life from inside the large red brick two-story.

Finally, an eternal two minutes later, the door opened to reveal his bleary eyed and unhappy best friend. Lisa ran a hand through her mane of red hair and glared at Steve, her green eyes boring into him.

“Do you have any idea what time it is? It's bad enough I have to be up this early for school, but on Saturday! Geez Steve! . . . “ the tirade trailed off as Lisa took in Steve's embarrassed face.

“Sorry Lise, really, it's just” Steve pulled down the hood. “I really need your help.”

Lisa's eyes widened and a small grin broke across her face as she took in Steve's lightening and lengthened mane.

“What happened? Lose a fight with a bottle of peroxide?”

“Ha-Ha,” Steve retorted, frowning darkly. “Can we please not talk about this on your front porch?”

“Oh . . . um, come on in.” Lisa said as she stepped aside to let her friend enter the house, pushing the door closed after him.

“So, uh, nice look. Did you think you'd get more dates? Blondes have more fun and all that.” Lisa grinned, stretching to the full 5'9” that proved so devastating on the Valley Valkyrie volleyball team.

Her long slim fingers gently touched the top of Steve's head as she murmured, “Wow, soft.”

Steve cringed back as a pleasurable tingle suffused his scalp where Lisa had stroked the golden curls that sat there.

“What the heck is going on with me?” he wondered.

“Let's get some coffee.” Lisa said as she led her friend into the kitchen.

After a pair of mugs were filled, Lisa's black, Steve's with cream and sugar, (another source of constant ribbing), Steve recounted his vivid dream and it's apparent results.

“So, I woke up with these,” he said, setting down his mug and pulling up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

Lisa narrowed her emerald eyes and frowned at the faint red marks on the back of his arms.

“Same on the back of my legs, and of course the skunk stripe.”

“Those look sort of like burn marks. Do they hurt?” she said, reaching out to gently trace the welts.

“They did when I got up, but the soreness seems to be fading.” Steve said, nearly sighing the last words as red skin tingled pleasantly beneath Lisa's cool fingertips.

“That's nice,” he breathed, before catching himself and blinking hard to focus on Lisa's somewhat surprised and bemused expression. Steve blushed beat red and jerked his arm back.

“Sorry,” he said lamely, “Your fingers just, um, felt really good on my burns.”

“I noticed.” Lisa replied, her forehead crinkling in thought. She might have imagined it, but Steve's red skin had felt noticeably soft, as if he'd been using lotion on it.

“That's it,” she thought. He must have used some cortizone or something to relieve the pain.

“So, um, any thoughts on all this?” Steve asked, the pleasant tingling finally subsiding. “I can't believe a dream could have done all this.”

“Maybe not the dream itself, but your subconscious reaction to it.” Lisa said. “I think my Mom has some books that might help.”

Lisa's mother, Penelope, was the only psychiatrist in a three county area and therefore dealt with all kinds of patients and their problems. Steve followed his friend back towards the foyer and then into the large study that served as Dr. Davis' office and library. Lisa stood on her tiptoes and pulled a four inch thick hardbound book on dream interpretation down and placed it on her mother's mahogany desk. Steve quirked a brow at the tome, then looked up into his friend's eyes.

“Lise, this is certainly a really, um, big book, but don't I have more immediate issues” Steve rolled his eyes skyward to emphasize his point. “What am I going to do about this mess?”

“I can help with that, but I want you to take the book with you and at least look it over. If your dreams are so vivid that you're harmed or hair changes from them, we need to figure out what we're dealing with.” Lisa responded, her face filled with concern. “What's to keep it from happening again?”

Steve gulped visibly. In the rush to erase his golden locks, it had simply not occurred to him that his dreams might once again intrude on his waking world.

“That, that can't happen again, right?” he said, brown eyes seeking reassurance in green.

Lisa smiled gently and drew her taller friend into a hug.

“It's going to be alright.” she murmured.

Lisa held Steve for a full minute or so before he pulled away, feeling somewhat embarrassed. Why had the hug felt so good? Of course Lisa was hot, but they'd been friends since kindergarten. He cared about Lisa a lot, but he didn't want to screw that up. Besides, this was different somehow. Her physical presence had made his feel safe in a way that he hadn't felt or needed to feel since his mother had dried his tears as a child.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he asked himself once more.

Lisa was almost as shocked as Steve. This was a guy who'd been knocked out of half a game last year by a vicious hit on a pass across the middle, only to come back to catch the winning pass in overtime. He wasn't one to be rattled easily, but the dream and it's aftermath had obviously freaked him out.

Keeping her tone light, Lisa grinned at her friend and ruffled his hair. “Let's get that skunk stripe taken care of.”
Steve nodded, concealing the shudder that ran through him from Lisa's fingers in his hair. The pair moved up a flight of stairs to the second story of the house towards Lisa's room. Soon Steve was on his knees with his head beneath the bathroom faucet, waiting for his friend to solve his chromatic crisis.

“How long will this take Lise?” he asked.

“Not too long,” she said, placing a box of Nice'N Easy hair color on the side of the tub. “You're just lucky Amy left this here the last time she was back from school. Otherwise I might have made you buy your own.”

Steve turned to glare at Lisa's playful grin, only to have his hair fall into his eyes. Pulling it back, he caught her look and sighed.

“Once we're done, I'm getting a buzz cut. How do you deal with such long hair?” he groused.

Lisa grinned as she slid on a pair of clear rubber gloves and carefully mixed the hair color chemicals together. The color soon turned a shade of brown resembling Steve’s original hair color and thickened enough to be applied.
“Okay, Cranky, sit up and let’s get this magical elixir on your curly locks.” Lisa joked.

Steve moved to sit on the side of the tub as Lisa worked the mixture through his hair from the root to the tips. The oddly pleasant tingle returned to his scalp but thankfully it seemed muted this time. Five minutes later Lisa was finished.

“We’ve got 25 minutes or so, X Box?” Lisa grinned.

Steve brightened. “Marvel vs Capcom?”

“Chun Li Lisa is going to kick your ass!” Lisa cried as the pair raced to her room.

“Fine, I’ll take Thor then.” Steve smirked.

Half an hour of decimation later the young man was shaking his head in disgust.

“How many hours have you spent on this game?” he asked in exasperation. “I didn’t know half those moves.”

“It’s called pure talent, my friend. Come on, let’s get you rinsed out.”

Soon Steve felt warm water running over his head as excess brown tint washed from his hair. The cascade produced a pleasurable rush over his entire scalp and Steve shuddered reflexively.

“Is it too cold?” Lisa asked.

“N-no, it-it’s fine.” he said, trying to force himself to stay still. It was embarrassing enough to have this problem, much less have some part of his body enjoy it.

“Alright, that should do it.” Lisa said, handing Steve a towel.

He vigorously dried his hair as he followed Lise back to her room. Lisa moved towards her vanity to grab a brush as Steve draped the blue cotton towel on the back of a chair and moved to gaze at his reflection in Lisa’s full length mahogany framed mirror.

“Umm, Lise are you sure you used the right box?” Steve asked, his eyes beginning to swim before him.

“Yeah, of course, why?” his friend said as she turned towards his voice. “Oh my God.” she yelped.

A wave of golden-blonde hair in soft curls sat incongruously upon Steve’s head, reaching nearly to his knees.

“Lise . . . I don’t feel so good.” Steve said in a weak voice, his eyelids fluttering over newly blue eyes before he collapsed forward into Lisa’s arms.

*To Be Continued*