My name is Lilly Skye Destiny Summers. My parents thought it was a great idea to give me three names with the initials LSD to go with my last name. For years they called me LSD Summers. They lived in a commune and did way too much acid.
Most people call me Skye. Except my father’s parents, who always call me Lilly, and even that name is said with some disdain. They’re partial to my father’s sister’s kids. My cousins’ names are Victoria Marie and Benjamin James. Benjamin is a gay surgeon living his life in the closet and Victoria is a P.T.A. mom with a Princeton degree in bullshit and an addiction to painkillers. My grandparents are in their late eighties and live in a fancy housing complex for old people. My grandfather wears Depends and drool constantly dribbles from the corners of his mouth. He still puts on a tie before going down to dinner every night. The whole thing is rather comical.
I’m 37, married to an electrician who could have made huge money as a porn star. I’ve kept my maiden name for reasons other than my love of LSD Summers. My husband’s name is Scott Skyler. Had I changed my name, I would have been called Skye Skyler. Skye Summers is bad but Skye Skyler is ridiculous.
I work as a hairstylist in a salon called The Cutting Edge. When I started my career 17 years ago, I had visions of my unfettered creativity transforming ordinary women into sexy tramps or glowing goddesses. I was terribly naïve. Now I spend my days trying to explain to the round-faced Oreo-addict that, no matter what I do to her hair, she will not leave looking like Angelina Jolie. Try and pull that off tactfully.
At the moment I am contemplating murder. Today is Friday and I have been on my feet since 8 a.m. The clock above the desk tells me it is now 2:10. I have not eaten lunch. Have not even peed all day. The woman in my chair is speaking nonstop and I am thinking about killing her.
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