Page 64 of Nine

“Chop it all off,” I say to my surprise. “Chop it and dye it...blonde.”

“Do you want to do a shoulder length bob?”

“That’s perfect.”

I sit there as she throws the smock around my neck. She leaves to go mix some color and then she returns. My mouth gets dry and part of me wants to jump up from this chair and run. The other part of me reminds myself that this is necessary. I watch her as she paints the dye on my hair with a brush. My fingers tense up and grip the armrest, because my red hair is gone. At least it will be soon. It’s been a part of me forever and now it’s about to be washed down the drain like nothing. When she finishes with my whole head, she then moves me to go sit under a hair dryer to let the color set in.

Time passes and my hair has been washed out, towel dried, and then I’m back in my original chair. I’ve already been here for about an hour and a half now, and I’m starting to wonder if I should have just stuck with my red color, which is easy to do myself, or maybe that’s the part of me still trying to hold on to the past. I can already see the red has vanished from my hair and it makes my stomach hurt. She raises the scissors to my head and with each snip, I feel like a bad, dirty memory is being shed. The more the hair falls, the lighter I feel. It’s supposed to be just a haircut, but it’s more than that. At this very moment, it’s a life changing experience and the hairdresser has no idea. I feel a tear fall down my face. The stylist stops cutting and looks at me. I know she’s going to ask me if I’m okay, so I stop her before she has the chance to.

“Keep going,” I command.

She doesn’t say anything. She does as she’s told and keeps snipping away. She then picks up a blow dryer and starts to style it. Finally, after another twenty minutes or so, she spins me around so I can no longer see my reflection. She’s drying and brushing and I can feel her movements slowing down. She reaches for a bottle of hairspray and spritzes all around my head. I’m hitting the two-hour mark of being here at the salon, and I’m getting impatient, but I know I’m close to being done.

“What do you think?” She spins me around to face the glass.

I take a good look in the mirror, and I almost don’t recognize myself. The blonde color in my hair slightly glimmers under the salon lights. I take a strand and run my fingers down it. It’s so short. The ends barely touch my shoulder. I look like a new girl.

“You don’t like it, do you?” She worries.

I stare at her and then back to the mirror.

“No. It’s not that. I look amazing. It’s just difficult to see the actual change.”

She removes my smock and shakes all the hair off.

“It looks really good on you. I suppose any color would though. You have a beautiful face, and now with the short hair, it just shows more of it off.”

“Thank you for everything,” I say.

“You are very welcome. You can pay up front.”

“Oh, my boyfriend’s going to pay when he comes back.”

I freeze up as the words leave my mouth. I’m just going to pretend that I didn’t call Trig my boyfriend just now.

“No problem. Just flag me down when he gets here.” She smiles.

I go and take a seat in the waiting area. I see Trig walk in about five minutes later with his cup of coffee. My leg starts to jiggle in anticipation. What if he hates my new hair? I guess the better question is, why am I so worried about what he thinks? I sit up straighter to get his attention. He walks right past me, and then he looks around the salon. Finally, he turns and stares down. I watch him do a double take.

“Damn,” he says.

“Is that good or bad?” I smile.

He sets his coffee down and comes over to me.

“You look beautiful.”

“I feel beautiful,” I say. “It’s really short, but it’s nice.”

“I like it a lot.”

He drinks me in with his eyes, and I’m glad that I made the decision to do it.

“Is this the boyfriend?” Mariella shouts, as she works her way to the front desk.

Trig looks at her and then at me.

“Yup, I guess it is.” I blush. “Or something close to it.”

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