Charlotte Cuts It Out Read Online Free PDF

tests immediately following graduation. “Many of our graduates use cosmetology as a temporary or even backup career. They get flexible salon jobs to help pay for college and go on to do something else if they choose.”
    College credits
for
something else.
That’s what she’s held on to—and pushed—ever since.
    I finally agreed to use the credits toward an associate’s degree in business. But I have no intention of going further. What’s the point?
    I don’t even look at the college pamphlets. Instead, the envelope goes into the recycling next to the dryer.
    Back upstairs with my basketful of towels, I find Buffy lying in the same place, but her bowl is empty and licked clean, and every stray morsel from the floor is gone. She
was
hungry. I was right—she just messes with me to get her twisted canine jollies! I balance the basket on my hip andopen the back door, jingling the bell, so she can go out and do her business, but she still won’t budge. I growl at her.
    After the towels are put away, I inspect the tear in my skirt. It’s not too bad. A few stitches and it’ll be as good as new—after I redo my nails. I grab the polish remover, cotton balls, and my home mani kit, flop onto my bed, and turn on Bravo to catch an episode of
Tabatha’s Salon Takeover
before I start on my homework. I remove Lydia’s botched polish and, while I’m at it, I do my feet, too. I’ve already seen this episode—actually, I’ve seen them all—and taken mental notes on how
not
to run things.
    Lydia and I are on the same page about pretty much everything having to do with our salon. It’s going to be upbeat, professional, and welcoming. Thanks to Tabatha and Ms. G, we also realize how important continuing education is. We’ll budget for hair shows every year to keep up with the latest styles and techniques.
    Mom’s idea of education is different from mine. I get why she’s so insistent. She went to college right out of high school, so to her, college is the only door to success. She wants me to have the opportunity to do anything. I just wish she could see that
this
is what I want!
    Just as my hands and feet are perfectly polished in Iridescent Iris with black and light-pink polka dots, I hear the bell on the back door jingle—and not a little, like it does when someone comes home. A lot, like Buffy, Her Majesty, has summoned me—pronto!
    I jump up, careful not to smudge my nails, and hobble gingerly on my heels down the stairs. I smell the roasting chicken and realize that I’m really hungry. By the time I get to the kitchen, I expect to see Buffy circling the table, like she does when she needs to go out, but no, she’s sprawled on the floor again. That can only mean one thing. Yup. She peed on the floor, right by the door—her way of letting me know that I didn’t hurry fast enough. She glares at me imperiously.
    â€œBuffy!” I yell. “Bad dog!” I try to project authority as I stomp across the kitchen, but I’m still waddling on my heels with fingers splayed. I’m about as badass as a penguin. She must realize that I mean it, though, because she lumbers to her feet and follows me. Ha! At least I’m an
emperor
penguin!
    I grab the roll of paper towels off the holder and turn around—except instead of taking my next awkward step, I slip in Buffy’s emptied water bowl puddle and land right on my butt with one foot underneath me. The other foot slides under the leg of the table and scrapes the hell out of my toes, smearing purple nail polish all over the table and floor, and probably my skirt and underwear, too.
    I scream, partly in pain, but mostly in frustration, and try to get up. Instead, I slip again. My nail catches the rip in my skirt, tearing the zig from the zag along my thigh. So much for repairing it! Now I’m wearing a chevron dust rag, and my whole back is soaking up dog drool