I could smell the mild odor of burned hair as I slowly pushed open the bathroom door. I thought I was a police detective as I took note of the aftermath of teenage girls. Six empty cans of hairspray strewn across the floor like spent casings from a drive by. Clumps of hair draped around the bathtub plug as if they had been ripped whole from someones' head. One lace style high heel lay direct- ly beneath the wide open window. Droplets of blood on the toilet seat like a murderers calling card. Even the sink itself had been involved in the massacre. On the back was the curling iron, still on, heating a quickly drying washcloth. On the front edge, the powdered remains of blush, the broken compact lay directly below; a junkies last hit. A lidless tube of eyeliner in the bottom of the sink bleeding down the drain, trying to die. And a fuchsia lipstick message scrawled across the mirror: "Stop using my makeup!!! BITCH!" This scared me. I walked back upstairs to the bedroom. Donna was sitting up reading and I paused just long enough before climbing into bed for her to look at me over her glasses and say: "Don't even think about saying that, Gary". It was just as well I didn't. Whatever she would have said would only confirm my worst fears.