First Pony View

by Suomibrony

A Sense of Equinessence

I had reduced the localized rain to an irregular pillar, dialed the temperature to the coldest, and placed myself so close I felt the spatters land on my phalanges. I cast a glance at the door, wary of Embee returning at an inopportune time. My solitude did little to dispel my embarrassment as I, for lack of a better term, stuck my muzzle into the falling water and began lapping it. Refreshingly cold, and without a side taste.

With my thirst satiated, I licked my lips as I stepped back. Embee's return was inevitable, and if I did not accomplish anything by then, my ego would self-destruct. Not wasting another second, I returned the warmth to the shower and set the flow to maximum. I was interrupted. A tiny feeling just under my throat reminded me of the string and keys I was carrying. Acting like I was on a timed mission, I reached for the string in an effort to rotate it and find the knot. Poking a hoof at it did diddly, an unpleasant fact I could only sigh at. “Okay okay okay,” I mumbled restlessly, shooting a look up at my horn. I didn't see it; I saw only a mess of hair. “Now, how did I make this . . . Oh?” I felt a tingling and heard tintinnabulation. So bemused at my lack of a struggle, I momentarily forgot what I was going to do. “So, now to—” Pulling the string off without untying it was ineffective. After a second to let my mind focus, I was getting the hang of things. “There goes . . .” As impossible as it was, my eyes rolled to the right and tried to see the knot come unloose.

I was nervous . . . Why was I nervous? Could it be that my subconsciousness attributed object manipulation to my forelimbs, and with them firmly planted on the floor, I wasn't fully accepting my ethereal touch? Whether I was right or not, it shouldn't constitute a major impediment to the usability of telekinesis if I was attentive and patient.

The ends of the strings untwined, like two snakes falling from an embrace. Now that I had the string and accompanying keys off my person, I set them on a course to the bench. Wait . . . “Darn!” Only one key remained, and it wasn't the key to my home! The two items fell onto the bench as I immediately placed both forehooves to my face and groaned in exasperation. A moment later I desperately tried to get hooves underneath my body before my face could meet the floor, but one of them slipped and then the other and mild panic and I flailed for something to grab onto and then—

I was fine, I was fine, I was fine. I was . . . shaken up and disoriented. Where . . . How was I positioned? Flat on my belly. Left forelimb to my left, right forelimb to my right, both projecting almost straight forward. I had to get up, but the rear pair, outstretched as well, didn't fold the same way forelimbs did. That was a problem. I would have bend my legs at the knee and ankle, but that was easier said than done. I was being thwarted by my own physique. Technically not mine, but whatever.

I rested my head on my frogs, staring at the exit door directly ahead as I sulked about my predicament. Then it dawned on me that I was resting my head on my frogs. “Hmmh.” Did I have elbows? I couldn't say for sure, but there was something I assumed to be bone at the bend. My forelimbs were astonishingly flexible, too. That the same didn't apply for my hind legs dampened my awe.

Resting my forelimbs on the floor and crossing one over the other, my eyes soon affixed on them. “Do I have little dainty hooves or what?” I thought out loud, my morose tone blending a hint of Rainbow Dash's rasp with Fluttershy's softness. Something fell over my eyes, but knowing what it was wasn't an impossible puzzle to solve. “Ugh.” Barely had that left my mouth when I had an epiphany: I was directly beneath the shower—and I had not minded my ears at all!

“Well, amazing, I guess.” I was dumbstruck, but glad. Despite that, my mind began sending out messages of agitation, as if making itself look busy after being caught idling at its station. This late reaction was lukewarm; my ears twitched a few times. That minor loss of control was annoying, unlike the warm torrent. However, Embee could come at any minute! I had to get this hair off my face.

“Aow.” I flinched as my hoof impacted with my forehead with more force than I had intended. I had to be careful, and I was, but being somewhat sensitive to having a horn made me a little fidgety. Then I looked over at my left hind leg. “Oh, come on. Work with me,” I complained when bending my very-hard-to-see knee didn't yield the expected result. Where was my ankle? Did I have an ankle? Getting these limbs into a position whereupon they could raise me was becoming an exercise in futility. “Nrrrhhh!” I was trying to do something, but didn't know what I was doing, let alone the correct way to get back up. “I'm not inept, darn it,” I seethed, my waterlogged tail struggling to whip about. The thought of being confined to the floor due to ineptness along with Embee finding me in a humiliating state like this inserted growing dismay into my irritation. Resigned to stare at my rear half, a shred of curiosity soon suggested reaching over to touch it and my tail. I didn't act on it. It wouldn't provide a solution.

Short on ideas and with Embee's return looming, I pushed my front half up with my forelimbs. At an impasse again, I looked back to gauge how my legs were now. I was momentarily distracted; my tail was like a pennon attached to the end of my spine. “So weird,” I said, perplexed. However, my voice served as a stark reminder that I was staring down a female's back, legs . . . and rump. That all of this was unmistakably equine thankfully made any resemblance to a human's anatomy nugatory. Although, that it was equine was unsettling in itself. Anyhow, I couldn't let my mind wander off to contemplate trivialities!

The increased clearance between the floor equaled more space for moving my legs. Retracting my right leg proved a success. After I had three legs on the floor, getting the last one in place was no problem at all. No, now the problem was that I was explicitly aware of my quadrupedal nature. A familiar tinge of wistfulness resurfaced.

“Nicker,” I deadpanned, mocking the emphasis my preconception put on the "animal" part of the "talking animal" aspect. I let the facts of my physical attributes settle before I began to think what my next step would be.

I sent a plain gaze at the sponge behind me; it was still in its tray. I decided not to use it. Not yet, anyhow. As far as I could tell, I had no shampoo. Perhaps in a locker?

The shower's warmth didn't give me much of a reason to leave its influence, but wasting water to satiate my vanity was selfish. After some hesitation, I cut off the water. Dripping wet, but not as cold as I had feared, I sighed in mild relief. But without shampoo, what could I do? Wait until something happened?

As if on cue, I heard a rapping at the door. “Hey, hon. It's me, Embee. Can I come in?”

“Oh, um . . .” Dawdling, I briefly considered stalling her. “Yes. Yes,  you can.”

Embee walked in, carrying a pair of cream-white saddlebags. After closing the door, she glanced at me, with no trace of anxiety on her features. I creased my lips into an imitation of herst. “How's it going? Is everything looking good?” she asked, reaching for her side and removing the saddlebags with a quick nudge. With her muzzle. Could I do that, too? That kind of dexterity was astonishing. “You look positively drenched.”

Her gentle joke was moderately uplifting. “Yeah, I wet myself.”

Embee burst into laughter, and my gaze gravitated down. I pawed at the floor like I was manipulating a touch pad. She collected herself soon. “I'm sorry.” She was unmistakably trying to hold in her laughter. “That was immature, and I shouldn't think it was funny.”

“I agree . . .” A tile diagonally to the right requested I look at it. “But it was kind of funny, wasn't it?”

Embee chuckled. “Yeah, it was.” That was great to know. She opened the saddlebag with her mouth, followed by looking at me with mixed curiosity and amusement. “You didn't wet yourself for real, did you?”

“Oh no no no,” I assured laughingly, my initial abashment waning. “If I had, I wouldn't tell you about it.” I looked at her askance.

Embee smirked. “The soaked bed sheets would have.”

I was momentarily lost on what she meant. Of course, I had been in a bed recently! “But ah, they are very absorbent bed sheets,” I coined a retort, going so far to speak in a sophisticated tone. “Not even the tiniest of discoloration thanks to years of research and development to produce the most fantastic fabric imaginable.”

“I see.” Her smile faded. “I doubt they absorb the stench, and I didn't detect a stench.” Clearly, she was playing a lighthearted game with me with her stoic mannerism.

I cleared my throat. “Therefore, we must concur that the bed being soiled is extremely unlikely.”

“Seems sound. Now, please excuse me, but I must go and discover if you left a puddle somewhere along the way here.” She strolled to the door. “Though it might've been cleaned up already, but I can ask around.”

I wasn't taking her seriously until she actually seemed ready to head out. “You really gonna do that?”

“Nope.” She cast a look over her back, her lips arched to an affable gotcha-smile. The door closed soon after she had spun around.

Joy came to my face, but I was so puzzled that I was momentarily speechless. “I was only joking.” How obvious.

“I knew you were, hon, don't worry,” she said mirthfully, turning around. “Me and my sister did these things where we tried besting each other, all in the name of fun, of course. You remind me of those times.”

“That's great.” My happy outlook hid an ultimately insignificant concern: being compared to a female, even indirectly, infringed my male identity. “She must like you as much as you like her.” I didn't want to say love, but . . .

“You're perfectly right. She's not the kind to show it very easily, acting all cool-faced and so on.” That was a little familiar; however, Embee's sister wasn't Rainbow Dash.

“Does she live with you here?” If she did, maybe I could meet her?

“Ah, no. She's among the griffons, in a band called Grifpony.” So much for my wishful and unrealistic . . . wish. Besides, I had more important things on my plate. “You might not know, but the griffons have endured several years of squalor and adversity, from which they've only recently began to recover.”

“No, I didn't know.” Years of squalor and adversity? Like Somalia, then. Except the north. “So, Grifpony, you were saying.”

“Yes. They bring griffons happiness, while also giving them an outlet for their frustrations.” How did that work? In the same way a romantic ballad did, I presumed. “Well, that's what one of the band members told me, anyway. ‘Music's a form of art that can express things words cannot.’ Makes sense. He writes the lyrics.”

“I guess he's great at it.” I could extract more fascinating information. “But what's your sister doing?”

“She's doing a wonderful thing that fills my heart with pride.” Embee saying that without a shred of embarrassment came as a mild shock to me. To be honest, I was a little envious that she could. Her witty response had earned a small chuckle out of me, but my question remained unanswered. “To answer your question, she's the drummer and a vocalist.”

“Really? That's cool!” My eagerness to learn more elevated my intonation to a range I wasn't yet quite comfortable with.

“It's more than cool, hon,” she said with a chuckle. I saw a glint of tiredness in her gaze. Had she not slept well last night? “But let's not get distracted. If we're efficient, I'm sure we'll have time for breakfast somewhere other than here.”

“Yeah, that's nice, but, um, you said we. Not me.” I gestured at myself, then at her and me. “We.” This made Embee's eyebrows arch with inquisitive puzzlement. “I prefer privacy, and . . . I want to try to take care of myself. It's . . .” My voice sank. “It's kind of a pride thing.” I then implored, “That's an okay thing to ask for, right?”

“Ahm . . .” Embee mulled over this proposal, tilting her head. “I suppose it's okay.” An unnatural silence descended into this small room. Maybe she was aware that my method wouldn't be efficient. “Well, at least let me help you get started.” She dunked her head into one of her saddlebags, emerging with a blue and white bottle. After she placed it on the bench, curiosity brought me in for a closer look. The label was blue, fading to a paler shade toward the top, and at the base were the contours of a happy pony's front half. “It's not what you'd find in a hair salon.”

“Ah,” I acknowledged her lighthearted quip. Colloidal? That was an unknown word. I'd have to look that up when I had the chance. As I read further, I gathered more info. “It's some kind of anti-itch shampoo?”

“That's right,” Embee affirmed.

“But I'm not feeling itchy anymore.” I glanced at the bottle with dubiety. “Could you've not chosen something—” From the saddlebag, she procured a transparent bottle containing orange fluid. “Normal,” I finished lamely as I saw an unfamiliar brand name inscribed in silver lettering. Beneath it was a blue sky within a gold-framed image, and wavy, magenta lines passing through the lower edge. No mention of pony, so I had to presume this was for humans.

“I was lucky to find that. Don't know if that's what you'd pluck into your bouquet, but it should work well for your mane and tail.” Embee then nodded indicatively at the other bottle. “The anti-itch shampoo is for your coat and skin, of course.”

“Yeah, okay, but . . .” I looked at my damp body with subdued consternation. “Can I skip that and just do my hair real quick?” My ears and voice sank. “I really don't like feeling too pony, you know?”

“I know you don't like to. You've shown impressive bravery and initiative showering without my help, though.” I would've taken her compliment as a backhanded insult if I had been in an exceptionally bad mood. “Try to have a positive attitude, hon. You're not going to be furry and four-legged forever.”

“Thank goodness,” I said with a sigh. “There's so much that . . .” I hadn't meant to turn my head, but now that I had, the sight of my latter half in its undeniable equine whiteness evoked abhorrence, shortly followed by resignation. “That doesn't conform with my self-image.” That barely scratched the surface. “Sorry for being a mood breaker. I'm happy this will be over eventually, but in the meantime, I'll have to do my best not hate all this . . .” I huffed lightly instead of saying 'horse business'. Was this how transgenders felt about their bodies? Would they even think of the bodies as their own?

“Which is why you probably don't want it to annoy you any more than it already does. Now . . .” Embee raised her forelimb to gesture at me, although her attention was briefly captured by the droplets falling from her hoof. I was damp, and the floor in our vicinity was wet. “Can I take a look at you?”

“Oh? Uhm . . . By all means.” I wasn't aware I had to give her permission.

She spent a moment scrutinizing me. “Close to clean!” That was something to smile about. I had cleaned myself up well! “But not entirely, I'm afraid.” Albeit not well enough.

“I'll just shower again,” I said with a slight groan and turned around back towards the shower. I couldn't believe I had failed at something as simple as showering.

“Naturally,” Embee said sympathetically.

“Uhhuh,” I mumbled as I started plodding back to the shower. Darn, I had been nursing an irrational hope that I wouldn't have to shower a second time.

“But listen.” I stopped and looked back at Embee with a small amount of hope returning to me. “I strongly recommend you use the anti-itch shampoo.”

“Why?” I asked, my hopes once again dashed at the prospect of a second shower, and using the shampoo would just add time and difficulty to it. I couldn't imagine that applying the shampoo to my person would be very comfortable either.

Embee, noting my fretfulness, seemed to ponder her words. “A pony's skin is delicate and can become irritated without proper care, and a body that doesn't itch is one less bodily issue you have to worry about,” she explained.

Her argument was solid, but so was my stubbornness. “Well . . .” Being itchy would be extremely unpleasant, on par with the frequent needs to interact with myself to counter the itching. Therefore, I . . . had to accept the high maintenance my entirely hair-covered self required. “Okay then.” I glanced at the bottle with muted contempt, but showed Embee a meager smile. “I guess it's nothing to get my panties in a bunch about.” My choice of words struck me like a wet fish-boomerang, compelling me to correct my blunder somehow. “Uh, because . . . I don't have panties.” My eyes drifted slowly to a random floor tile. “Aaah . . .” I made a light clicking sound with my tongue. “I'm feeling kinda naked right now.” Not to mention incredibly self-conscious.

“Humh . . .” Embee was calm, but evidently at a loss for words. Her hoof met her jaw. “I can imagine that bothers you, but you do know that ponies normally are unclothed, and you've not worn anything since this all started.”

“Yeah, well . . . that's not really helpful,” I commented meekly. “Uh, did you bring a towel?”

“I'm sorry, I haven't yet.” Embee's rueful look transitioned to a thoughtful frown. “Maybe I can check the lost and found for panties for you?”

My tension crumbled. “Ahahaha.” If I blushed any more fiercely, the pigments would start running down my cheeks. “That was supposed to be a joke, right?” I said, half-smiling. Gosh, panties on me? I would die  of embarrassment!

“No, I wasn't joking, hon. I thought you'd want to have something.” She looked and sounded so sincere, I felt sorry for indirectly rejecting her idea.

“Well . . . Uh, you know that I'd . . .” I'd rather not wear panties, due to not having a compelling reason to. Or hadn't ever had a reason to. “I'd rather not wear only undergarments, because obviously, they are undergarments. Meant to be under . . . You know what I'm saying.”

“Don't worry, hon.” Embee seemed to take things with a relaxed mindset. “I think it's safe to ask if there are any clothes to borrow.” I wasn't sure I wanted to wear somepony's clothes. Pony clothes? Pony panties? “No guarantee anything will fit you, but I hope for the best!”

“So do I.” I did my best to match her concerted enthusiasm despite my reservations about wearing something I had never thought of wearing. My mind's eye was flooded with dozens of female underwear of various kind, finishing with Embee's head bursting through a white backdrop like it were paper, cheerfully announcing I could pick any of my liking. Speaking of garments! “What about the raincoat I won from that strange bet of yours?” I assumed that wouldn't make me look or feel uncomfortably feminine.

“Oh, that. I'm sorry, I had to forfeit it.” My incredulous and hurt expression did the speaking. “Peachy said the bet wasn't the issue, but my behavior. It wasn't proper, I had crossed a line, and I . . . She would be in a world of trouble if word got around.” Embee shook her head pitifully. “I'm really sorry about this, hon.”

Her regret softened my outlook, although I was somewhat disappointed, and also concerned by the ramifications of the games played behind the curtains. “It's . . . It's alright, I guess. I mean, let's not worry about it. I can't do anything about it.” Getting nosy would probably prolong her discomfort, and maybe end with me in a tough spot as well. I had enough on my plate already. “Wearing a raincoat under clear skies would be conspicuous, anyhow.”

“That's likely,” Embee agreed. Her being down in the dumps didn't feel right. Being down in the dumps was my job! How would I lift her spirits, though? I didn't want to be accidentally condescending or indifferent. But I had to say something!

“Maybe . . . Maybe being outside for a little while would be refreshing? For you as well. A really, uh, a delectable pastry will make the bad feels fade faster?” Something fell over my vision. It was my hair. I wanted to complain, but turning the discussion back to me felt selfish, so I kept my mouth shut.

“That's a good idea,” she replied optimistically while I was carefully moving my hair aside. “I could go for a fresh cheddar taco salad. And hey.” I finally had an unobstructed view of Embee. “It's nice that you thought of cheering me up.” She closed the gap between us and, to my surprise, gave me a small, quick hug, then stepped back. “I appreciate it.” That my poorly construed attempt at comforting her had led to such a strong response left me utterly confused.
“Yeah, I said what I said because that was what had to be said.” My impeccable eloquence couldn't be followed by anything more appropriate than a hoof to the cheek and a sigh of dissatisfaction. Embee found my reaction amusing. I didn't chuckle myself, but I saw the humor value at least. My eyes landed on the items on the bench. “Uhh . . . So . . . Use how?” Hopefully my exceptional verbosity and a tentative prod of one of the bottles Embee had laid out conveyed my uncertainty.

Eagerness radiated in her eyes. “Yes. Let's get to that.” My gaze fell back to the two bottles on the bench. “I'm sure you don't need advice on how to take care of your hair. The tail might seem like a puzzler at first glance, but it's not much different.” She indicated the anti-itch shampoo bottle. “For your coat, apply this on your body and then spread it with a wet sponge. Don't worry if it gets into your mane or tail. As long as you cover yourself from head to hoof, all's good. Wait five minutes, then rinse it off with water. That's all, I think.” Her expression was sincere and encouraging. She inhaled sharply. “Oh. Pardon me. A few more.” She dug up an item from the saddlebag. “If you want to, use this brush to remove loose hairs and any remaining dirt from your coat.”

That oval-shaped thing with a strap across it was a brush? “Ah, alright.” It looked more applicable for floor scrubbing . . .

“The second saddlebag has combs and brushes.” More brushes? “And a few other things you might be familiar with. Oh! I ran into Lucek on the way back. He pretty much placed his music device into my saddlebag, by "deliberate accident", if you can believe that. He's such a lovable goof.” She shook her head, laughing lightly. “I don't think he'll mind if you give it a look and a try. He said there was a song I oughta listen to, but I can't remember what it was . . . mmh, it's right on the tip of my tongue.” Apparently, the ensuing lull meant the name wasn't going to emancipate itself from her tongue. “Anyhow . . .” My gaze had fallen on the daunting anti-itch shampoo. There was no way. If I placed so much as a hoof on myself I would be paralyzed with anxiety. “Hey. Viv? Don't be discouraged. You've done remarkably well, all by yourself.” Unexpectedly, she gave me a brief but tender nuzzle. “Not bad for somepony who's not a pony.”

Confused, then abashed, I had trouble finding my voice. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Her expression was that of kindness, but curiosity glimmered in her eyes. Had my demeanor nonplussed her? She cast a quick glance around, although her attention fell on the key and the string. Suddenly, those seemed to symbolize . . . something so profound I couldn't think of what it was. “All set? Shall I go?”

“Yeah, I'll do fine.” The key that . . . sets things in motion? Starter engine . . . Failing to come up with anything poetic, I vacantly observed Embee taking herself to the door. There, she hesitated.

“Not to knock on your confidence, hon, but will you able to do it all on your own?” My pride said yes, and my rationality said no; my mouth said nothing. The enduring silence wasn't helping my case. “Or do you think I should stay and assist? You know, it might be a time saver.”

My wits hurdled back into action. “Uhm . . . How about you give me ten minutes?” I pitched. That was a start. Now to develop it further. “If I'm not done by the time you get back, then we'll go with your plan?”

After a second, she agreed. “Sounds good to me. See you soon!”

“Bye!” I said as she headed out, and then I . . . became paralyzed with indecision. “Ten minutes,” I reminded myself, working up a shred of resolve. “Ten minutes to prove myself adept. Didn't I ask for this? Way to go, me.” I scanned the items on display, trying to figure out which one to go for first. Perhaps the purple-capped bottle with the orange liquid? It was the regular shampoo, wasn't it? Wait, it was conditioner? No, it states to be two-in-one? What was that? Or more specifically,  how would I use it? Would something bad happen if I used it wrong? “Ugh. Females are probably experts at this by default. Probably.” Rainbow Dash might only dunk her head in water, shake herself dry, then stroll out wearing nothing but a face of nonchalance. Maybe I should go for the anti-itch shampoo? Being for the body, it was more familiar. Kind of. “A Sense of Equinessence,” I read out loud. “I'm already sensing enough of my equinessence,” I commented despondently.

My attempt to pick up the bottle started poorly; I knocked it over. I sighed dejectedly, watching it roll down to the floor. I offered my outstretched limb a withering gaze. “Magic, magic, magic,” I muttered flatly, aware that I was a little nervous. The tingling came, the bottle was wrapped in a white cloud, and shortly flew up to match my own (modest) height. Peering at the item, my slightly panicky mind diverged into briefly pondering how the characteristic sound of magic was produced, and if the light radiating from it extended beyond the visible range. I hoped I wasn't emitting lethal levels of radiation every time I lit my horn.

“Okay, how do I open this?” I had only held items, not manipulated them with precision. This one had a top with a sealed hole in the middle. Wait, what was I thinking? I had opened doors before, and performed other feats of telekinesis, hadn't I? This should be a cinch. “Hmm . . .” Invisible to the naked eye, a subsection of the magic field concentrated on the lid and pulled it upwards. It unlatched and rotated, but didn't come off. Had I broken it? No, the cylindrical lid was apparently a valve affixed on helical ridges on the nozzle. Interesting engineering design.

I sent the bottle to a position above my back. “Gnh!” I would have sent it. After gently rubbing my snout, I corrected the trajectory to pass around my head to where I wanted it to be. Alas, gravity alone wasn't coaxing an agreeable amount of the contents out. Preceded by a moment of messing with my disembodied grip, I squeezed the bottle and coated myself from nape to tail with the lotion.

Having placed the bottle on the bench and closed the lid, I breathed out a small sigh, relieved I had made this much progress. The fragrance in the air was difficult to identify. A mild, sweet scent. “The sponge.” It gained a sparkling bubble of white of its own. My initial reaction to spreading the lotion over myself was that of total rejection. I had to choose an easy start. Like my neck. From there . . . upwards. I couldn't ignore my face, though I wished I could. This wasn't any fun to do, but shaving was worse. Silver lining discovered. “Wooptee do,” I cheered flatly. All of a sudden, a horrible taste invaded my mouth. “Pheaw!” I had unconsciously licked my shampoo-covered lips, hadn't I?

The taste was unwelcome, but so was the sponge. It was an intruder that I was drawing down to my forelegs. I couldn't look at those due to entering a state of rejection and denial. “I have these,” I whispered, tapping the floor lightly in an effort to instill logic into my head. It seemed to work. If I kept my cool, I'd get through this self-imposed ordeal without any hiccups.

When I began working on my underbelly, some of my muscles contracted. This did not dissolve my determination, but I dared not to cover every surface on the account of clashing with the two little things that I was in fierce disagreement with. Then, something quite crucial came to me: I was applying this lotion to myself so that I wouldn't become itchy later. Having an itch between my legs would be unbearable.

Unwilling to make a swipe, I gently placed the sponge to what I rather not think about, and let it be there. Had I begun working instantly, I may've flipped out and annihilated the sponge for sexual assault. I compared this unspeakable tribulation to a woman-turned-stallion washing their dangly bits. The thought was gross. Revolting to the point of queasiness. However, how uncomfortable would it be if I had things lolling about freely and exposed? So . . . not having anything of that sorts was preferable? After some consideration, my answer was an intransigent maybe.

The sponge hadn't gone anywhere and was still pressed to my underside, reminding me of the impending chore. Taking a few deep breaths, I steeled my resolve and cautiously began moving the sponge around in slow circles. I methodically worked the shampoo into the fur around my nether region, taking extreme care not to brush up against any sensitive parts.

Concluding that I didn't need to torture myself further, I let go of the sponge with a short but pronounced groan. “Get outta here.” I punted it to the corner of the shower, relieved that I could soon become ignorant of a certain part of my physique once again. Immediately, I realized I had forgotten something, and groaned again. The sponge was shrouded in a new magical cloud, and soon after, it was over my lower back. I had the rear pair of legs to do. That was easy, but I mouthed vulgarities as I lathered my buttocks.

“Okay, you've harassed me enough. Now shoo.” I lethargically flung the porous annoyance into the air, watching it tumble into the corner from whence I had taken it. My voice echoed in my head. “Oooh, I can sound so soft and sweet, yet so sarcastic and contemptuous,” I crooned, then gagged silently. “Like Twilight if she were having a nasty streak.” I let that swim in my head for a moment. “Great. Now I nearly sound like her. Well, not that close, but . . . hmm.” A speck of optimism had sparked. “I could try to train my voice to sound . . .” My optimism deflated. “Not like myself, anyhow.”

Contemplations on the psychological effects of a voice that prevented the expression of my identity could prove very depressing. If I couldn't be the me that I preferred to be, then what was the next best thing? Time seemed to freeze. “I guess I'll be alright being Viv for a couple of hours more.” Because everything would be okay before sundown. How could I be sure? I couldn't. So . . . Embee had mentioned a music player of some sort, hadn't she?

Wiser from my recent mishaps, I didn't rummage through the saddlebag with my limb. A black, rectangular item stood out from the other items. Before I procured it, I reminded myself to be cautious of the magic conductivity and the energy balance. If the inner layer, which served as an insulator, was compromised, the magic would collapse on itself and potentially ruin the delicate electronic components. “Many thanks, not-my-brain,” I said sardonically, having realized where the information came from.

I assumed I had a little less than five minutes before I'd have to wash the lotion off my body; I could make the contraption play a tune for me while I wait. Surprisingly, the device lit up almost by its own. The language I was greeted with was nearly unidentifiable, but a few familiar words offered valuable indicators. The white letters on the blue background identified artist and song. I had to browse the catalog, but there came a problem: magic didn't seem to conduct electricity by itself. The absence of physical buttons meant I had to literally touch the screen. I placed the player on the bench, but of course, a hoof didn't taper into a narrow point, practically blocking the screen entirely. Even if I were to use my hoof, feasible precision would be an impossibility. Dismayed, but determined, I switched back to the ethereal touch mode. Now, I had to be careful. Magic didn't conduct electricity. Not in its nominal state, anyhow. Assuming my unrequested info was correct, I'd have a finger substitute by converting a fraction of the energy into miniscule bursts of electricity. A few drops of water on the screen were potential hazards. I could get rid of them by . . .  No, not on myself. I was still wet. The cover of the saddlebag looked soft and dry. One little swipe and . . . Yeah, that worked nicely.

Now I was ready. Sort of. Holding my breath, brows knitted with apprehension and eyes on the device, I performed dry runs. I couldn't see the infinitesimal currents, but I knew I directed them away from the device. As I started to get the hang of this trick, I carefully sent a discharge to a corner of the screen; I assumed no vital components were at the extremes of the device. Now for the real attempt. “Ha,” I said in reserved glee as the catalog scrolled smoothly. I continued practicing until I was sure I wouldn't mess it up. Still, this was a little unwieldy, as I was deliberately tampering with the magic's self-stabilizing nature to enable this inventive method of manipulation.

Could I find a familiar song? These names were unpronounceable—until I got a lucky break! The titles were in moonspeak, but the artists weren't. I chose one song randomly. I heard nothing. Was it playing anything? The tiny speaker pushed out faint sounds. Guitars? I navigated to what I presumed to be the main menu. One of the icons there had to be a browser. No way could this be a mere music player.

The meager sounds unexpectedly exploded into heavy metal. “Oh, wow,” I said, staring at the screen in bewilderment as my ears passively collected sound waves. “Humh . . .” I had no idea what the song was about. It could be about cardboard boxes for all I knew. “This isn't bad.” Sort of like Iron Maiden sung in gibberish.

“Hm?” I raised my head, confused by what had obscured my vision. “My hair . . .” I complained, placing the player on a dry surface before hastily raising my foreleg up t—“Ow!” With an accidental, self-inflicted minor pain throbbing above my eye, I clumsily brushed my forelock away from my face. Barely had I placed my limb back on the floor when I realized something alarming. “My hair!” I hadn't done anything with it, and Embee could be back any minute!

Returning to the shower in the corner, the shampoo-for-humans bottle flew to me a moment later. I thought of catching it as I deactivated the cloud of magic. The bottle spun madly and hit the floor after it had bounced off my hoof—because it was a hoof. I sighed despondently, picking the bottle back up with the most common spell, then squeezed out a gob of the lotion atop my head. I had just snapped the lid shut when my mind froze.

I gave my frog a blank stare, then rolled my eyes up towards the unseen deposit of shampoo. Mildly annoyed, my focus returned to my stupid limb. “With this, huh?” Seemed like I didn't have any better ideas. Two was better than one, so I reluctantly sat down and started kneading my hair. I cringed every time I snagged an ear, though less and less so each time. I wasn't having fun, but my self-esteem demanded I do this annoying task myself rather than have Embee do it for me.

I was rushing it. After half a minute, I felt I had done enough. I spun the dial on the wall to turn on the water, then stood up. The torrent drowned out the music. In hindsight, the song may've given me some subliminal encouragement. Empowering me, perhaps? If I directed my ears just right, could I hear it again? “Yeah, that's good.” Casting a lingering glance at the saddlebags, a speck of apprehension infiltrated my mind.

My physical self was female. That meant I had a female's hair. So, unless something inexplicably gave me a boyish haircut, I'd have to figure out a look for myself. I cut off the water flow, but my return to the saddlebags was marked with tension. I found a chestnut-brown plastic comb. It wasn't so intimidating. What it could do to me was intimidating. Or what I could do with it, to be precise.

“Straight hair?” I queried warily, just to test if the idea was agreeable. My imagination ran off, depicting me with hair longer than my body held aloft by a light breeze. After imagining alternatives ranging from braided to pompadour, I figured that straight hair was kind of neutral. It wouldn't be long, just to my . . . Did I have shoulders? Or wasn't that the withers? This was confusing.

“Hey!” A rapping came from the door. “It's me, Embee. May I come in?”

Had ten minutes passed by already? I dropped the comb back into the saddlebag. “Sure you can.”

Embee strolled in leisurely, now wearing a new pair of larger, orange saddlebags. “How are you?”

“Uh.” She had asked the toughest question of all. “Pretty fine!” My faked perkiness seemed to widen her smile, but as the door closed her eyes fell on the player.

“Do you like that kind of music?” she asked. Her tone indicated that she didn't.

“Well, it's kinda neat,” I admitted shyly, unable to feign dislike. I gave the little machine a glance as Embee approached. As she began unloading her baggage on the bench, I voiced an important question: “Would you like me to turn it off?”

“Ah, no.” She had such a gentle smile. “If you like the music, you can let it play. It doesn't bother me that much.”

“But it does bother you,” I said emphatically. She was definitely assessing me and my demeanor.

“Don't worry. It's no problem, hon,” she assured, letting out a small chuckle. “At least it's not—” She said something odd. Ta-sy sa-me? “That song's stuck in my head, I tell you.” She didn't seem to mind that it was. “Anyhow, you look drenched, but you smell clean.”

“Woohoo,” I cheered reservedly. “Now I need to, um, become dry.” As I thought of drying myself, doing my hair, and whatever else, I started to doubt we'd have the time to go anywhere before Peachy's arrival. Indeed, where were my priorities? Did I really think I could go out and dine in a cafe?

“What's the matter, hon?” Embee's inquiry roused my attention. “You look a little glum.”

“Ahm, well . . . Just the usual things.” I didn't want to bring her down by suggesting we forget our little venture for a tasty pastry.

“Such as?” she gently pressed the issue.

My eyes drifted over to nowhere specific. “I had ten minutes to take care of myself, and considering the circumstances, I think I did well. Did I do well?”

Embee was slightly stunned by my sudden question. “Yes, I think you did.”

“Okay, good.” I was reassured, but being nervous hindered the coalescence of my thoughts. “I have to do something about my hair. I mean, I can't just leave it like this, but it's not really my hair, so . . .” A glance at her became a vacant stare, as her colors were gradually superimposed by mine. An assortment of mare faces I had seen in the cartoon appeared in my mind, each with my colors. They felt like nonverbal taunts, symbolizing how little difference—

“Yes, go on.” Embee pulled me back into the real world.

“Well, I can't look like myself, can I?” I blurted sullenly. Immediately regretting my words, I wanted to pinch the bridge of my nose. The tip of my hoof would have to do. It probably looked stupid. ‘A few hours as Viv can't be so bad. I'm only being insecure. I don't need to be afraid.’

“Hey.” Embee gingerly took my limb off my face, putting an end to my monologue of self-placation. Ashamed and dejected, I didn't give myself permission to look her in the eye, despite her compassion. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” I was leery. “What kind of an idea?”

“You describe your hair, and I do my best to replicate it,” she suggested brightly.

I looked at her with confused disbelief. A friendly smile was on her lips, her eyes full of unwavering optimism, and I'd have to dash those without breaking her spirit? “Uh, yeah, I . . .” Trying to find the right words, I turned my head. Doing so, I felt something minor, but notable. “Well, uhm, I certainly didn't have hair growing out of my nape . . .” This fact unlocked another thought. “My hair's markedly different from what it was, so to have precisely the same style isn't possible.” Did I ever have a hair style? “Besides, I'm not good at describing my hair. It's just there, and I do something to it to make it look decent and . . .” Then it hit me. “You know, that's the thing!”

Embee, puzzled, glanced at my aloft limb. “What is?”

“Sorry. I'm not making sense, am I?” I briefly rubbed my chin as I gathered my thoughts into a more enunciable shape. “I had ten minutes to take care of myself, and I did a fairly okay job, but everything's not done yet. We came to an agreement that you'd do what I hadn't by the time you got back. So, how about you make me look decent? Nothing too fancy. Just, well . . . decent. Something that takes five minutes.”

“Five . . . minutes?” Embee repeated slowly, apparently doubtful.

“Yeah, only five minutes,” I restated, hiding my uncertainty. I hoped those tales of females taking eons to get their hair done were wholly unrealistic hyperboles.

“Alright, I'll see what I can do.” Embee was quick and eager, removing her saddlebags and procuring an item from the one she brought earlier. Bewildered, I turned to face her, my eyes focusing on the comb she now held. One end of it extended into a loop that curved into itself, forming a gap through which Embee's forelimb passed. “Now stand still, relax, and enjoy . . .” Her eyes landed on the player. It was still playing heavy metal. “Hey, do you think it's alright if we listen to something else? Something peaceful?”

Her request was amiable. “Not at all.” Due to a moment's error, my limb ascended by a few centimeters. “Um.” I wrapped the device in a white cocoon. I couldn't be sure, but Embee seemed curious of my ability. “What would you like?”

“Hmm . . . I was thinking of jazz, but . . . What was the name of that song?” she mumbled, pinching her memory. “Ah!” Then she enunciated the artist and song name, but . . . did I hear that right?

“Can you please repeat that?” I asked as I began to browse the catalog. As a side note, perhaps my worries of accidentally frying the circuits was unfounded. Anyhow, she repeated the name. “This one?” I flipped the screen around so she could see it.

“I think that is it, yes.” She verified with a smile.

“Well, five minutes.” I sighed, ready to give relaxing an honest try. ‘Five minutes until I look like a decent mare. Oh geez. Well, nothing else I can do but roll with it,’ I thought in dismay. ‘On the bright side, I'll get out of here soon. Feels like I've been here forever.’