“They don’t.” Mom shoots me an exasperated look. “I don’t know why Chloe said that. It’s a sexist stereotype that women will fight each other for male attention, but women can and should support one another.”
“Will other girls like me less if I use this?” Ivy asks, pointing at the highlighting kit.
“Of course not,” I say. “All it does is make your hair lighter. Come on. Let’s go do it in the bathroom.”
She hesitates for a moment, then slowly follows me upstairs, clutching the chips bag to her chest the whole way.
In the bathroom, I try to brush out her hair, but there are a ton of tangles, and the brush keeps getting stuck.
“Ow!” she says, and pushes my hand away. “I changed my mind! I don’t want to do this.”
“I’m almost done. Do you ever brush your hair?”
“Yes, every day!”
She must just smooth the brush over the top before dragging it into a ponytail. There’s no way she’s really getting out the snarls on a daily basis. The mats feel like they’ve been months in the making.
I try again.
“Chloe, stop!” She clutches at her head.
“Just relax.” I try to ignore all her moans and complaints, but I’m sweating and tense by the time I can actually get a brush clear through it.
I mix up the highlighting solution and start painting it on strands of her hair and tucking them into little tin foil packets. It would be fun if Ivy were into it, but she’s tense as she watches in the mirror, her face creased with anxiety, her lower lip tucked under her upper teeth. She keeps reaching up to touch her head.
“It’s itchy!” she says. “And it smells bad, and it hurts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“How would you know?”
“I highlight my hair all the time. And it doesn’t hurt at all.”
“Well, it hurts me.”
“Whatever. I’m almost done anyway.” I speed-paint a few more strands, just to keep the sides even, and then tell her to let it sit while I do my own color.
It takes me two seconds to brush out my own hair: it’s layered, unlike Ivy’s, which Mom simply hacks a few inches off of every once in a while. I can’t afford an expensive haircutter, so I go to one of the cheap chains and micromanage the whole thing, telling the cutter exactly how I want every strand cut. I’ve been highlighting it since eighth grade—?first just putting lemon on it and sitting in the sun and eventually upping my game to use the at-home kits.
A while later, after I’ve rinsed and combed us both out, we stand in front of the mirror side by side.
“It doesn’t look that different,” Ivy says, suspiciously eyeing her own reflection.
“That’s because it’s still wet. It’ll lighten as it dries. Can I cut your hair just a little bit? To give it a better shape?”
She backs away. “It will hurt even more.”
“Haircuts don’t hurt.”
“If you pull, they do.”
“I won’t pull. Come on. You need a new look. Enough with the ponytails.”
“I like ponytails.”
“Wouldn’t you like to be able to wear it down too? And have it look nice?”
“I feel like—” She stops, her hand flailing around. Sometimes the words don’t come easily for her.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t like what I am.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I turn so I can look at the real her, not just the reflection. “This isn’t about changing you, Ives. I just thought you’d have fun experimenting with being a little glamorous. That’s all, I swear.”
She thinks for a moment, her eyes cast down, searching out and consulting an invisible advisor on the floor. She looks up again. “Okay. You can cut my hair.”
“You sure? I don’t have to.”
“It’s okay.” She pats me on the shoulder. “I know you want to.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I kind of really do.”
“Holy cow,” Mom says, coming into our room later to check out the results. (That’s how my mother curses—?she grew up in the Midwest.) “Your hair is lighter than ever, Chloe. You’re heading into platinum territory.”
“I like it,” I say defensively, but she’s already turned her attention to Ivy.
“Oh, baby! Your hair looks beautiful! Is it shorter too?”
“I let Chloe cut it.”
“I’m glad you did.” Mom studies us. “You guys almost look like twins now.”
“I don’t think I look like Chloe,” Ivy says. “She’s thinner, and her hair is whiter than mine.”
“Whiter?” I repeat. Maybe I did go too heavy on the bleach.
“Well, I see it, even if you girls don’t,” Mom says with a shrug.
Ivy’s been sitting cross-legged on her bed, but now she slides to her feet and crosses the room to examine herself in the closet mirror. “I think I look more like Diana than like Chloe.”
“Like who?” Mom says.
“Diana. From my class. I look like her now.”
“No, you don’t,” I say.
Ivy crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t know her that well. I do.”
“I’ve seen her, and her nose is completely different from yours. And her eyes are a different color, right? Plus your face is rounder, and—”
“No, no!” Ivy shouts, putting her hands over her ears like she doesn’t want to hear any more.
“Stop it, Chloe,” Mom says. “You’re upsetting her.”
“Because she’s wrong,” Ivy says.
“Fine.” I throw up my hands. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care, except . . . truth.”
Ron appears in the doorway. “What’s going on here?”
“The girls were having the silliest argument,” Mom says, suddenly all cheerful about it. “Not even worth discussing.”
He slings his arm over her shoulders and surveys us with phony paternal pride. “Your daughters may be noisy, but they sure are pretty! Some male hearts are going to be broken this week.”
“They do look beautiful, don’t they?” Mom says.
“They come by it honestly.” He plants a revolting kiss on her lips.
Ivy says, “Can you please get out of our room?”
I doubt she was commenting on the kiss—?she probably just wants to go to bed—?but I’ve never loved her more.
Seventeen