“Yes. I don’t want you to see your hair, I want you to envision it.” Steven Salazar’s skin is like marble. He raises one perfectly arched eyebrow and the skin of his forehead doesn’t even wrinkle.
I blink, then give in, shutting my eyes. “Now,” Steven says in a hushed voice, as if whatever he’s about to tell me is a secret. “Imagine you could have any hair you wanted. Imagine you could take any risk, and if you didn’t like it, your old, boring hair would grow back tomorrow. What would you do?”
Boring? I open my eyes and squint, like I can picture something new. The word is right at the tip of my tongue but I hesitate to say it.
“Oh, do tell. I can see you have some scandalous thoughts swirling around in there.”
“Blond. A little blond,” I hedge.
Steven stands up straight and his eyebrows lift. “So the lovely brunette wants to go blond.” He taps his finger against his temple and rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Hmmm,” he says, pondering the word. Then he says definitively: “Highlights.”
He whips me back around in the chair so I’m facing the mirrors.
“Hold on tight, girl, I’m about to give you the most exhilarating two hours of your life. Unless of course...” He winks and flicks his chin toward the waiting room, where I last saw Tate. I glance in the same direction, but I can’t see him anymore. He’s not sitting on any of the sleek wood waiting chairs. “Perhaps Mr. Tate Collins has already...enlightened you?” Steven adds, then pauses, bending low beside me and staring at me through the mirror.
“Not entirely,” I hear myself say, and Steven flicks his head back in a laugh.
“Smart girl. Never kiss and tell. Not in this town.”
Steven goes to work brushing a chalky purple liquid down separated strands of my hair, then folding each strand into its own foil. Then I wait, flipping through a gossip magazine. My heart trips when I spot a photo of Tate on one of the pages. He’s standing in a crowd, one hand above his face, like he’s trying to move unrecognized through the swarm of people. The caption reads, TATE COLLINS SPOTTED IN PUBLIC AFTER A YEAR IN HIDING. I realize it’s a photo from the night we ate at Lola’s, when he was mobbed outside the bar—the night I found out who he really was. Already that night feels like a hundred years ago.
Once the blond streaks have been seared into my dark hair, Steven wields a shiny pair of shears and begins trimming my hair one section at a time. I hold my breath, watching as pieces float down to the white tile floor.
When he’s done cutting, the noise of the blow dryer fills the salon, and I actually close my eyes, not wanting to see the final result, afraid I’ll hate it. Afraid I’ll have regrets. But when he tells me to open my eyes, I can’t help but blink at my reflection.
My hair drifts down to my shoulders in swooping layers that give the effect of a day spent at the beach: effortless and sun-kissed. The blond highlights magnify my green eyes—two emeralds that seem almost translucent against the platinum. I run my fingers through a section; streaks of my natural brown are still threaded among the beachy-blond. I lift it up and let it settle back against my shoulders.
I stand, leaning closer to the mirror. “I didn’t know my hair could look like this.”
“I am rather amazing,” Steven says, winking. I smile and spin around to face him. “Now you look like the Charlotte you were born to be.” I actually feel like I might cry, the emotion welling up behind my eyes. So much has happened today: Tate surprising me this morning, taking me on a whirlwind shopping trip, and now this. Without even thinking about it, I step forward and hug Steven. But he squeezes his arms around me like he’s used to it. He smells like coconut and clove. “They all cry after their first time,” he says, winking and laughing at his own implied joke.
“Thank you,” I tell him, and I mean it.
“Oh, you’re not done yet,” he says. “This was only the beginning.” Again, he gives me a sly look. “Marielle will be doing your makeup next.”
A woman emerges from a doorway to my left, her cheeks a rosy pink and her hair straight inky-black with severe bangs that almost touch her eyelashes. She takes my hand and Steven gives a little bow when I look back at him, just before I’m led around a corner and into another part of the salon.
I sit in a plush white chair, nervously tapping my foot against the metal rung beneath my feet. I’ve rarely worn makeup and I have no idea what to expect. The mascara wand feels like it’s going to poke my eye out, and I’m pretty sure the eyelash curler is going to pull out every hair. But she artfully tilts my head this way and that like I’m her canvas and she is lost in the rhythm of each stroke of her hand.
“All done, Charlotte,” she finally says, and I open my eyes. The reflection staring back at me belongs to someone else.