"Ha, ha, ha," the doctor greets his only child at table, which, per usual, has been set for three, 

though only two will dine, the empty place reserved for memory's sake; eight years have passed without her: Vina's mother/Poppie's wife struck dead so young, so smart, so pretty... like her daughter was before she plied peroxide, evidently; Vina's bangs now mirror the towel in which they are wrapped. "Bleach is no more a-okay than hair dye, Liefje. Cheater."

Whereupon, Vina rolls her eyes to try and see where his are staring,

fails, removes the towel, picks up a soup spoon, gapes at her reflection...

whence the crop 
atop her noggin         
turns from white 
to pastel pink, 
its shade 
a taunting imitation  
of her blush.                             

Mortified (since neither tint is the least bit complimentary), offended (being innocent of her father's hasty charge), perplexed (her recipe for orange had been complied with to the letter), flustered (all her work for naught being rather irksome to accept), she scowls, perturbed at having lost both 'face' and appetite.