Angie Fox: My Big Fat Demon Slayer Wedding

Yes, but it wasn’t up to her to dictate where and when I wore them. “I can’t ride a Harley in white Capri pants.” If there were a way, I would have figured it out a long time ago.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is there some kind of rule that you can’t look nice?”

“Mom,” I glanced out over the kitchen, “I haven’t been here for five minutes.”

She looked so truly pained that I almost felt sorry for her.

Until she gave me the death glare. “Are you rebelling against the way you were raised? Is this my fault?”

As if I, who I was, was somehow bad or unacceptable or wrong.

“They’re only clothes.” What I needed on the road. To do my job. And I was damned good at it, thank-you-very-much.

Her eyes trained on the switch stars at my waist. “That belt could cut you.”

It had actually saved my life. Many times over.

At least she couldn’t see the actual stars. Those were only visible to magical people. No, she was talking about the spikes that one of the biker witches had added between the oversized pockets on my utility belt. Sure, they were a little over the top, but I liked them. They made me feel badass.

She walked to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of white wine from the top shelf. “Has your fiancé seen this side of you?” She retrieved two glasses from above a large wine rack built in under the counter. “You’d better give up this lifestyle fast, because I don’t see any respectable young man from a good family willing to put up with it.”

Hmm…Dimitri had ripped off my leather pants before, but it wasn’t out of disapproval. My blood heated at the thought of what that man could do to me.

She watched me carefully as she poured two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.

Yes, life had changed since I’d last seen her. Still, “Deep down, I’m the same person.”

Mostly.

Don’t think about it.

I took a sip. The wine was tart, crisp and sharp. Very Hillary. “It’s not like I can keep up with Grandma while wearing heirloom pearls and driving an electric car.”

Hillary hadn’t touched her wine. She ran her manicured finger up and down the stem. “I want to support you, honey. But I worry. With the clothes and the hair and that awful belt…and what are you holding?”

I looked down to the recycled Smuckers jar in my hand, with the Mind Wiper spell plastered up against it like a lovesick puppy.

“This?” I had to think. “Ask Grandma.”

Her eyes widened.

“Or better yet, don’t.” She’d tell mom the truth. I stuffed the Mind Wiper in my bag. “For the record, I hate having purple hair.”

She took a small sip of wine. “It’s true things don’t always turn out like we plan,” she ventured.

“Like with this house?” I liked it, but it was so not Hillary.

She gave a small smile. A real one this time. “Most of the pictures they sent were of the gardens,” she said, touching a wine droplet at the rim of her glass. “But you know me. I can make anything work.”

“You can.” It was the God’s honest truth. Hillary was a master at planning and organizing. If I’d given her more time, it would have been frightening to see what she could do.

“Follow me,” she said, placing her wine on the counter. “I’ll show you where you can change.”

The hallway was lined with oil paintings of nighttime landscapes and long-dead Victorians posing in uncomfortable clothes. We passed a formal dining room and a sitting room on the left, before we entered a spacious foyer.

Large red and silver patterned rugs decorated the floor and tapestries hung from the carved wood walls. A classic staircase wound up to a second floor landing that boasted an impressive collection of medieval weapons, all within reach.

Those could come in handy. If I wasn’t on vacation, which I was. Crimeny. Maybe my demon slayer lifestyle really had warped my brain.

“The bathroom is right through there,” Hillary said, pointing to a door near the foot of the staircase.

“Thanks.” I wrapped my hand on the faceted crystal handle and paused. I looked at her over my shoulder. “I know this house isn’t something you’d normally choose, but I like it.”

Hillary’s gaze traveled over the room, as if cataloging everything she’d like to change. “I honestly can’t figure out why I picked it,” she said, sounding a little lost.

“Well, hey,” I said, opening the door on a bathroom with gold plastered walls and an antique sink, “adventure is good.” Most of the time. It certainly kept things from getting boring.

Her heels clacked on the tiled foyer and stopped. “I’d like to help you,” she said. “With the hair at least.”

Heaven above, I’d love it if she could return my hair to its normal dark, dark brown. I’d even settle for light brown, or blonde. I’d take Dolly Parton hair—anything but this unnatural, blaring shade of platinum purple. Still, I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

“I’ve tried everything.” I warned her. Sure, Hillary prided herself on her ruthless devotion to style, but, “This is one fashion faux pas I don’t think you’ll be able to fix.”

She perked up at that. “Is that a challenge?”

Oh, no. I’d unwittingly matched an impossible job up against sheer Southern determination.

Hillary reached for my lavender bob. “You’d be surprised at what I’ve learned over the years.” She ran her fingers through my hair, testing its weight, “Hmmm…” she clucked. “Interesting.”

“What?” I asked, turning with her as she studied my situation.

She lifted a section and took a long look at my roots. “Do you trust your mother?”

“With my life,” I said, wary of her satisfied grin.

“Then leave it to me.”

One makeover later, I was in danger of being late for the Celebration Tea.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t pry myself away from the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t the pink seersucker dress, or the diamond studs in my ears. I was wearing my natural hair color. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to look utterly and blessedly normal.

What was truly disturbing was that I didn’t know if I liked it or not.

Now that I had my own hair again, I couldn’t stop looking at it, touching it. Hillary, with much more glee than necessary, had treated me with her own special blend of organic herbs and colorants. And it worked. She’d brought me back. I couldn’t get over it.

She stood behind me, smiling as I ran my hands through my hair yet again.

Her fingertips dusted my shoulder. “I’ll mix a blend for you to use whenever you need.” She’d even given me a trim so that my dark hair fell in stylish layers around my face.

“I still don’t know how you did it.” She’d defied biker witch magic.

Hillary made her own adjustments to her impossibly perfect hair. “Never under-estimate your mother.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Time to go. The caterers are ready with tea.”

“Right,” I said, playing with my hair the entire way as she led me to toward the large sitting room off the foyer. I remembered seeing it when I came in.

A black stone fireplace dominated the room, with an aged wooden shield mounted over it. A coat of arms was carved into the shield, with painted chalices and red pansies. I pitied the knight who had to go into battle with wine glasses and flowers on his shield.

A round, wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling. Under it, Grandma and her biker witch buddies crowded onto the dark red and black leather couches and overflowed onto spare chairs from the dining room. I stifled a gasp. They’d changed as much as I had.

Grandma sat in a straight-backed medieval-looking chair wearing a loud, colorful flowered dress that looked like it had come from a psychotic Hawaiian Mumu enthusiast or more likely, a Goodwill reject box. She’d styled her hair into an honest-to-god bun and had tied a yellow ribbon around it.