Translation: she’d really like me to try something new.
I flip through the pictures of gorgeous models and celebrities and their fabulous hair—short wavy bobs and flowy tendrils and pixie cuts.
“Have you met me?” I say.
She gives me a side-eye. “Yes, and I think you’d look great with one of those hairstyles.”
“Because I look terrible the way I am.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
She sighs. “I just think you’d be happier with a hairstyle that doesn’t weigh you down so much.”
We arrive at the salon and go inside. I follow behind her, because walking into any place where you’re expected to answer questions about your intentions upon arrival always stresses me out.
Mom is happy to speak for me, though, so I let her do her thing. It’s not until I’m in a chair with a red cape tied around my neck and my mother sitting in the waiting area that I tell my stylist, Rachel, “Just a trim, please.”
“An inch? Two inches?”
“I was thinking more like a quarter inch.”
She smiles. “You won’t even be able to tell—”
I nod. “Perfect.”
Rachel leads me to the sink for a wash, then sets about trimming. “I won’t try to make you look like someone else,” she says. “That’s what people want, sometimes. But they’re never happy with how it turns out.”
I mumble “thanks,” and she gets to work. She doesn’t talk incessantly or ask me questions about school. She just trims, and when she’s done, she runs her fingers through the thickness of it. “I could thin it out a bit if you like. Nobody but you will notice the difference. It won’t be so heavy.”
I consider this for a minute and say, “Okay.”
She takes out a different pair of scissors and cuts some more, and afterward my head does feel lighter. Like the fabric that frames my face has changed from corduroy to chiffon. She dries it and styles it just the way I normally do, then holds a mirror so I can see the back.
I hardly ever look at the back of my head, and am surprised at how much it resembles Hallie Bryce’s hair when she’s not wearing a bun. I tilt my head to the left and right and my hair sways softly, just the way Hallie’s does.
“Everything okay?” Rachel says.
I don’t tell her she did make me look like someone else, because it’s too late to stop her. I press my lips tight. Nod my approval even though I’m not sure I approve. She removes the cape and all the extra hair falls to the floor. Then she gestures toward my hands clasped in my lap. “You want me to throw that away?”
I look down and see the yellow M&M’s wrapper pressed between my fingers like I’m clinging to it for dear life. I hadn’t even realized I was holding it. “No,” I say, quickly shoving it back in my pocket. “That’s okay.”
I hold my breath as I walk out to the waiting area, steeling myself for the fuss my mother will make about how different I look.
She doesn’t, though. Make a fuss. She rolls her eyes when she sees me, pays the bill, and gives Rachel a tip. It’s not until we’re walking back to the car that she says, “I’m so glad I paid forty dollars for you to look exactly the same as when we walked in.”
I gape at her. “What?”
“Did she even cut it, or was that a very expensive wash and blow-dry?”
“She cut a ton,” I say.
Mom snorts. Shakes her head.
We get into the car and I flip down the visor to look in the mirror. It’s completely different. But maybe Rachel was true to her word and nobody will notice the difference except me.
I’m a little worried the M&M’s wrapper is going to turn into some kind of security blanket, because I pull it out again on the bus the next morning and hold it in my palm all the way to school. I’m nervous walking the halls with my new haircut, but quickly realize that nobody’s looking at my hair. Nobody sees me at all.
I shove my coat into my locker as the warning bell rings, and hurry to class. Mr. Braxley is already standing in the front of the room, and the bell rings a few seconds later. I sit and try to calm my breathing.
“Okay, people,” he says. “You should be pretty well into your research by now, but if anyone has questions or issues with the project, or with their group, or their lack of group, see me after class.”
He looks straight at me.
Everyone turns to stare. Okay, maybe not everyone. But Lipton’s gaze is practically searing a hole through the side of my head. I can feel it.
I glance over. He beams at me with his thousand-watt smile.
“Your hair looks really nice today,” he says.
I blink at him.
He has the warmest eyes, and his smile is really wide, and there’s that adorable gap between his two front teeth. But what I really like about him is that he sees me even when I’m invisible. Tingles shoot all the way from my toes and fingertips and kneecaps and elbows straight to my chest. My heart starts pounding like I’ve just sprinted a marathon.
So of course I act like he’s got a contagious skin condition and say nothing.
“Did you get it cut?” he asks.
I shake my head. Eyes bulging.
“Huh. Looks different.” He shrugs, then beams at me again. “Last chance to join Team Thermopylae. Adam and I are meeting at my house Saturday if you want to join us.”
“I, um, can’t,” I say.
His smile droops. “Oh well.”
Mr. Braxley starts teaching, and I focus on taking notes. My hair falls gently over my shoulders every time I lean forward, not the stiff curtain it usually is. I can still hide behind it, but I don’t. I tuck it behind my ear so I can see Lipton in my peripheral vision.
I’m pretty sure he’s watching me, too. And it feels good to be seen. I wonder if this is how all those people on Instagram feel, when they write #seeme and someone finally does.
12
I’M FEELING KIND OF OKAY on Friday night, thinking about Lipton and trying to come up with ideas for a new Vicurious post. Surfing, maybe. Or meditating with the Dalai Lama. Anything to take my mind off Marissa’s party tomorrow night, and the fact that I haven’t told my mother I will not be attending. Mom and Dad went out to see a movie, so I’m listening to music and doing a pretty good job of drowning out the roar in my ears.
Then I make the mistake of checking Jenna’s Instagram page. She’s posted a picture at a concert, where all you can see is the purple glow of stage lights and the silhouettes of so many arms raised and waving in the air. She doesn’t even say where she is or which band, but I can tell it’s someone huge.
Way bigger than the East 48 concert I “went” to.