Free The Status of All Things by Liz Fenton, Lisa Steinke Page A

poodle that’s just come in from the rain. Then I’d upload it to Facebook and write:
    The wet dog look is severely underrated. #whoneedsblowdryers
    But of course I can’t do that. The only pictures I post have been taken by someone I’ve instructed to hold the camera far above my head and angle it just so. By the time I edit and upload the picture, I look like the latest celebrity on the cover of Vogue , like a plastic version of myself.
    Glaring at my blow-dryer resting on the edge of the black-and-white tile countertop in my bathroom like we’re in a standoff, I know I’ve already lost this battle. The dryer and I both know I need him. I don’t care what those magazines say. A little mousse combined with a few zaps of my hair through the diffuser does not give me beachy waves. I quickly type my status.
    Thinking of the time we’d all save if we had hair that would magically blow-dry itself. Is that possible? #wishingformiraclehair
    • • •
    When I look up again and see my reflection in the mirror, I jump back, my arm inadvertently knocking the blow-dryer off thecounter and sending it cascading down to the floor. I blink several times, but when I look at myself again, nothing has changed—the wet, stringy hair I had just moments ago has been transformed into smooth strands I’d never been able to achieve on my own.
    Am I still dreaming?
    I peer over the top of the stairs to see if Max is still in the kitchen. I spot him just where I’d left him, now pouring coffee into his favorite mug—the one with a picture of a bull and the word España printed on the side in bold block letters that he’d bought before we’d boarded our flight home from Barcelona last year. We have to get something! Even if it is a cheesy airport souvenir, he’d joked.
    If this is a dream, how do I get the hell out of it?
    I punch myself in the leg. Pinch my ear. I even kick that part of the bed that sticks out just far enough for me to stub my toe on it regularly. It hurts like hell, but still, nothing changes.
    I try to think, letting out a gasp when I finally put the pieces together.
    It was my status update.
    Reaching for my laptop again, I check what I’d just written—that I’d wished for miracle hair. The ceiling starts to swirl as I remember the update I posted last night—or at least what I had thought had been last night—the one where I’d wished I could do the past thirty days over again. Had my last two status updates actually come true ?
    “It can’t be,” I say to myself.
    “What can’t be?” Max asks as he strides into the bedroom holding out my favorite mug, lime-green with a huge chip on the rim that I refuse to get rid of, even though my lip brushes against the sharp edge each time I take a sip.
    “Nothing,” I say quickly.
    “Wow, your hair looks great—I didn’t even hear you turn on the blow-dryer!” Max says.
    Because I didn’t!
    “I got a new one—it’s the as seen on TV one.You know , p erfect hair while you barely lift a finger, ”I say, deciding I’m being sort of honest as I quickly recall the infomercial I’d seen late one night and the blow-dryer I’d come very close to actually buying.
    Max smiles as he grabs a towel from the closet. “I never thought that stuff really worked. Now maybe I’ll have to buy that Grill Daddy they’ve been advertising?”
    “Maybe,” I murmur. “Hopping in the shower?” I ask hopefully as I quickly grab the evidence proving I wasn’t being truthful, the lemon-yellow blow-dryer I’ve had for years—and slide it under the sink before Max spots it. If this was really happening—if my status updates were actually coming true—I needed to test it again to be sure. Right now .
    “The last grill-cleaning tool you’ll ever need,” Max says, mimicking the deep tone of the announcer’s voice from the commercial as he brushes past me and clicks the bathroom door shut.
    My eyes dart around the room the minute the water turns on. What is something