We didn’t get far before I yelled to Nadia over the thumping of top forty trash coming from the DJ booth, “This place is a fucking fire hazard!” I would soon find out how right I was.
“Let’s smoke a cigarette!” She yelled back and I turned towards her simultaneously digging in my purse for a liter and fending off the boners in my back as guys pushed their way through the crowd. I lit hers first then held the flame to my face to light my own. Maybe it was the booze or the throbbing mass of people but suddenly I hear, “shwoot,” a puff of fire explodes in my face and I see my bangs become blaze.
Time turns into one of those movie slow-mo sequences and I hear Nadia scream, “Megs!” The crowd turns and roars with a collective, “Whoa!” as my hand flies to my face to put out the fire in my mane. I am hitting my forehead like an autistic fourth grader as the smell of singed hair surrounds us. It was over as quickly as it started and I was left standing in the middle of a patio full of people who saw me transform into the fucking scarecrow from Wizard of Oz. The mascara I had so meticulously applied earlier in the evening now made for a gooey mess of melted eyelashes and as far as I could tell my bangs were a shriveled stump of straw. I pushed through the crowd tears filling my eyes as I made my way to the ladies room. The poorly planned design of this place promised a single stalled toilet in the back of the bar with a line wrapping around the corner.
Nadia and I pushed past the procession of ladies awaiting the bathroom and shoved our way inside the cramped quarters. I heard the protests of those waiting and one particularly bold bitch yelled, “Hey! Back of the line sister!”
I spun around and looked her in the eyes, my finger pointing at the place my bangs used to be, “Fuck you! I lit my face on fire!” Her shocked expression told me I was free to pass by.
