�

Needless to say, when a giant ball of flame roared up, engulfing the head of a close friend, the bitter tang of seared flesh and hair that hit my nose and tongue came completely out of the blue.

I uttered a startled gasp and stood, knocking over my chair in the process. The flames were gone so fast, I almost questioned whether I'd really seen them or not. My friend stood silent, rooted in place by shock, maybe also by pain. When she turned to me, her appearance startled me for a moment, and then, as unexpected as had been the small explosion, a laugh bubbled up from inside me and guffawed into the night.

Rave had used a little too much whiskey when she marinated her chicken.

It was so damn hot out last Sunday that the only real option for cooking yourself dinner was to either eat out in air-conditioned bliss or barbecue on a porch grill. Rave and I opted to barbecue. She�d thrown a party a few weeks before and had gallons of booze left, so we decided to cook with some alcoholic flavor. This, as I�m sure you�ve already gathered, did not go exactly as planned.

When the flame roared up around her face I was more than a little bit startled. I�d already cooked my steak without incident and had been enjoying the smoky taste of ranch teriyaki with a hint of JD. And luckily for Rave, alcohol burns off fast.

When she turned to me, I had prepared myself for the worst�seared flesh and a trip to the emergency room. A quick spot check revealed all skin intact. The smell of cooked meat was just the chicken. We both stood silently. I was waiting for her to indicate whether or not she was hurt, and I think she was probably waiting for the same thing.

�I� what�� she mumbled, and I quickly realized that she was okay�just a little shocky.

I doubled checked her face and hands just to be sure. Then I noticed something wasn�t quite right.

�Rave,� I said, hesitating a bit, �your hair��

Her hands flew to her head, and unfortunately, small ashen chunks of hair started falling to the floor. The ends of the hair around her face had burned and shriveled, the ends gray and frizzy. The hair framing her face, normally a gorgeous raven black, had turned an old lady silver. She looked like she�d teased her hair for Halloween and was about to trick or treat as a witch. Without the pointy hat or the broom.

�Oh my God!� She yelped, obviously freaking out. She�s got that girly-girl my-hair-is-very-important-to-me thing going on.

�It�s okay,� I said, with an eye toward mollification, �I see brows and lashes. You still have them.�

�But� oh my God.�

At which point she ran to the bathroom mirror.

And hour later, she came back out with a pair of small clippers in her hand and a dour expression on her face. I�d taken her chicken off of the grill nearly forty-five minutes before, its savory smell not quite strong enough to mask the lingering odor of burnt hair.

�What,� she said sourly, �is your hair dresser�s phone number?�