THE NEXT DAY, WE left the house with Sarah bundled up in a hat, sunglasses, and baggy clothes. If anyone was waiting outside with a camera, they would be disappointed. But I didn’t see any of the news media trucks that had parked outside those first few days. Perhaps they had moved on, forgotten us already, or the police presence had finally intimidated them into leaving. I noticed just one car that looked a little suspicious, probably an unmarked police car, but I didn’t get a good look at the plates as Mom drove out of the garage.
Mom checked the rearview mirror a few times on the drive, but saw nothing. And I knew that Amanda—her longtime stylist—had emptied the salon for us that morning. Amanda had actually done Sarah’s hair before, just a trim now and then, or for a big dance at school.
When we got to the salon, Amanda, a tiny woman with short spiky black hair and a light British accent, raced toward us and hugged us all, saving Sarah for last. I saw tears in her eyes as she held her. “You sit right here, we’re taking care of you first, guest of honor,” she told Sarah, wrapping a cape over her clothes as she sat down. Mom and I sat on either side and Amanda’s assistant started on Mom’s trim.
Amanda fluffed up Sarah’s lank tresses. “Looks like it’s just a little overprocessed . . .” she murmured, then caught herself. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.” She smiled and pulled a comb carefully through Sarah’s hair, parting it. “That’s your real color right there, sort of a light brown.” She pointed at the roots. “I’ve been coloring your mom’s hair for years”—she leaned in and whispered—“and that’s her real color exactly. Now, how blond do you want to go?”
“Well, Nico has the most beautiful hair. I’d love to have her color, if you can even get close to it,” Sarah said. She smiled over at me and I felt my neck get hot and red with embarrassment. I couldn’t remember a time when Sarah had given me a compliment. To call my hair beautiful—I was shocked.
“You’d be surprised what I can do, a few highlights and lowlights.” She combed through Sarah’s hair carefully. “You’ll have to lose a couple of inches to damage, but otherwise, you’ll look like twins.”
Sarah reached over and took my hand as Amanda started working on her hair, and our eyes met in the mirror. Her smile was sincere, relieved, happy. Feeling the small bones of her hand as she squeezed mine, I had to smile back.
Two hours later, we left the salon looking more like a family: all the same shade of blond and trimmed and styled to perfection. Sarah’s hair was a few inches shorter now, just above her shoulders, but the color was amazing: We did look like twins, just like Amanda had promised.
“Lunch at the mall, then shopping?” Mom said as we headed for the car. Sarah slipped on her sunglasses and, with her newly lightened hair, looked better than she had in days.
“I’m starving, and I think I’m in the mood to go shopping. How about you, Nico?” she asked me. It was probably her longest sentence since she got home.
I looked over at her, almost too stunned to answer. Was she really asking me how I felt, what I wanted to do—instead of just insisting we do what she wanted? “Yeah, sure, why not,” I said, climbing into the backseat. Sarah took the seat beside me instead of sitting up front.
“I feel like we used to do this all the time,” Sarah said, pulling on her seat belt. “Shop together, right?”
At first I thought she was being sarcastic, old Sarah, back with the digs. But there was no laugh, no as if! We never went shopping together. She always went with her friends, and I just didn’t go. I looked down at my boyfriend-cut jeans and old concert tee. An outfit that Sarah would have called “dumpy.” No way is Nico coming with us, we aren’t going to the store for fatties—oh, I mean plus-size. Isn’t that where you get your clothes, Nico?