Autumn

Choking on your own hair. Not a good way to go, as far as brutal murders go. The victim is now sporting a surprisingly straight bob. The surprising part is that the bob used to be connected to the thick ponytail that is now jammed down her throat as she lying on her plush carpet, eyes staring at nothing.

Dan, the officer who was here first, is calling for backup as I approach the perpetrator who is now handcuffed on a radiator.

I double check that the pipe is fixed on both sides; people would be scandalized to find out how many criminals walk away because their handcuffs are tying them up to nothing.

I notice how gorgeous she looks, the hair, the makeup, the nails.

Suddenly the typical beat cop's uniform looks even more unflattering and depressing.

She looks up and she strikes me as familiar in the way that extremely attractive people seem to be. That kind of beauty is universally recognized, a Monet hanging in a museum, a sunset over the sea.

Her heavily reinforced eyelashes seem to prevent her eyes from opening as wide as her mouth has.

“Rita? Rita Walters?” She asks, incredulously.

This is my name and I am equally shocked.

“Have we met before?” I ask, feeling the line in my forehead scrunch low.

"Sweetie! Yes, I'm Molly, Molly Polly from school, remember?"

It's late and I am exhausted, so it takes me some time to connect the dots.

Molly Pollish. Together in school from ages 6 to 9, we sat on the same desk and shared our lunch boxes, occasionally bickering over George, every six year old girl's dream boyfriend. He had floppy hair and an even floppier personality.

"Molly! What a..."

 I race through the list of possible options. Pleasant surprise? Delight? Crazy coincidence? 

Yes, that last one seems appropriate for when one is encountering by chance a long lost childhood friend who is now most likely a murderer.

“...Crazy coincidence!”

I say and smile at her with as much warmth I can muster for someone who used scissors to cut a mass of hair and use it to suffocate someone else.

"I know! It's been 30 years!"

 "Something like that," I agree and eye Dan walking back to the room.

“Will be a while,” he says, “there has been some blockage downtown and they cannot approach.”

“28 years, to be exact,” Molly continues, “And I am sorry to say, but sweetie, for you it shows. You are an autumn, not a summer. This hair looks wrong on you.”

I gape at her. Is she insane? She just murdered someone brutally -albeit rather originally-, so there is something to be said about her mental capacities but this seems to be the kind of insanity that lawyers seem particularly pleased with.

“I…What?” I scratch my head. 

"Oh, of course, so silly of me. I'm a colour analyst and stylist," she provides chirpily.

I nod encouragingly, not following a word she has just said. 

"I analyse people based on their skin tone, subtone, hair colour, eye colour and determine what are the correct colours for them. You are an autumn, you should stay as far away from this ashy blond as possible.”

She pauses and squints at me.

“At least your uniform is dark blue, that's on your palette. You would look amazing if you followed your colours, it would make you look ten years younger!” she adds with enthusiasm that seems out of place as much as the corpse next to her would look out of place in most places.

She mutters as she observes me and I find myself worried about her assessment.

Hair colour: dehydrated ashy blond. Skin tone: lacking im vitamin D and shallow.

Eye colour: the most generic brown.

“What can I do?” I ask, wringing my hands, a patient receiving a terminal diagnosis. I don't want to be in the wrong season! This is horrible, I suddenly believe, without having any real understanding of the topic.

“Pull up a chair and search for me on Instagram,” she says with conviction.

“We will get to the bottom of this, don't you worry,” she pats my knee and I exhale shakily.

We will get to the bottom of this. 

My investment increases with every post on Autumn palettes and her clients’ Before and After pictures she shows me.

This makes so much sense. There are colours just for me, she says. My future appears bright. In a warm, muted light. Summer clearly I am not, after all.

Molly keeps pointing at my phone, showing me pictures after pictures of colors and hairstyles, explaining the differences between seasons and subseasons.

"And this hairstyle? With your round face?" The look that she gives me is sad and pitiful.

Panic grips me again. "What can we do?"

The patient asks again. 

"Layers turned away from your face, in the colours I showed you,”

In a swoop, she saves me from my existence of blacks and greys and inappropriately ashy hair.

Dan is staring at us in disbelief. He murmurs something intelligible and seems relieved as we finally hear the sirens approaching.

“The police is coming for you,” I tell her, pointing out the elephant in the room.

The corpse on the carpet.

She leans back on the radiator, tossing her gloriously balayaged hair over her shoulder. She really is a bright summer, as she explained to me; That pink jumpsuit looks incredible on her. 

"I did it, you know. I killed the bitch who tried to copy my account and was using my posts and misidentifying people. She said Lily Collins is an Autumn! Can you believe her?"

 I gasp and clutch at my dainty necklace, which mercifully is golden. I am strongly encouraged to only wear gold from now on.

"No way! Autumn? Look how she shines in cool tones," I say and point at her post of famous celebrities and their true colours.

"Um-hmm, " She says and her eyebrows shake up and down to emphasise her point.

Heavy footsteps are approaching; I need to leave and let the detective take over.

“Wait!” She cries out and reaches for her pocket, pulling out a small pack of colour swatches.

 She hastily explains the olive greens and mustard yellows and burnished oranges that are to make my features pop and makes me swear to stay away from anything cool or bright.

"Thank you, Molly," I tell her. I have been plucked from where I didn't belong and now am at my rightful, autumnal place.

"Nothing, sweetie" she tells me and smiles primly at the detective who is pulling her arm to force her to get up. 

She looks over her shoulder as she is being dragged to the police car.

"Don't forget to give me a follow!”