Page 39 of Count My Lies

Thirty minutes later, I step into the shower to rinse the dye from my hair. It runs down my face, into the drain, black as ink. My heartbeats excitedly. I did it. Steam rises around me as I imagine what I’ll look like when I get out. When the water at my feet turns clear, I shut off the faucet and wrap a towel around my head like a turban.

Quickly, I put on my pajamas and return to the bathroom to unveil the color. The reveal is markedly underwhelming. My hair hangs in wet, stringy clumps. It’s so dark it’s almost black, especially stark against my pale complexion, nothing like Violet’s soft, chocolatey color, warm and rich. It reads a little Wednesday Addams, which, of course, is not the look I was going for.

It’s too long, I decide. It would look better if it was shorter, like Violet’s. And it needs bangs.

Heartened, I reach into the drawer and take out a pair of scissors, then comb my hair until the front pieces cover my eyes. My hand is steady as I cut. The scissors close easily with a quiet snipping. Hair falls into the sink.

Then I gather it into two pigtails. Holding my breath, I cut about three inches off the first one. And the second. My hair lies in two big piles in the basin. I take out the rubber bands and wince. The right side is about a half inch shorter than the left. I cut a bit, then a bit more.

Finally, I put down the scissors. I stare at myself in the mirror. I want to cry. The length, as you might have guessed, wasnotthe problem. Now, the color is wrongandthe length is a mess. The bangs are jagged, too long, but I’m afraid to cut them any more and make it worse.

I should blow-dry it, but I don’t. Dyeing it took longer than I expected and it’s late, so instead, I run a brush through it and tie it in a loose low ponytail. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Maybe it’ll look better in the morning, when it’s dry. Or it won’t.

Defeated, I climb into bed and flip off the light.

As soon as I wake up, I go to the mirror. I cringe when I see myself.

My hair is frizzy and matted from sleep. Now that it’s dry, it’s even more obvious that I did a terrible job applying the color; my roots are much lighter than the ends, some patches more saturated than others. It’s a shade or two too dark for my skin tone. I look pale as a ghost, my eyes rimmed purple from the late night like a tired raccoon. Like the girl fromThe Ring.

Sighing, I brush it into a high bun on top of my head. The bangs hang limply into my eyes. Truly fetching. I find a wide headband in the back of a drawer and put it on, pushing the strands out of my face. With the bangs out of the way, I put on a little makeup, use the brow liner Violet gave me, the concealer and blush from Duane Reade. When I’m done, I look marginally better, but notgood. Ugh.

I walk out into the living room, then stop. My mom is in the kitchen, filling the coffee filter with grounds. I feel my stomach sink. I’m not ready for her to see my hair, to see what I’ve done. I consider darting back into the bathroom, waiting until she’s retreated to her room, but before I can, she looks up.

Her eyes flick to my hair, then meet mine. She walks out of the kitchen, crossing the living room to where I’m standing. She sighs, her mouth set in a thin line. “Sloanie,” she says, shaking her head. She’s seen pictures of Violet; she knows what this is.

I bite my lip, working the soft tissue between my teeth. The room suddenly feels stuffy, the air thick. “It’s different,” I say, looking down at the ground.

And it is. The last time I dyed my hair, it ruined everything.

I wouldn’t have made the same mistake again. I couldn’t bear it ifViolet looked at me the way Allison did, slack-jawed, eyes rounded, horrified by the sight in front of her. Horrified by me.

I’ll never forget the expression on Allison’s face. I can see it so clearly, even now, as if it happened yesterday. I was in her apartment, cross-legged on the floor of their oversized master closet, my back to the door. It smelled like laundry detergent, a fresh, comforting smell that made you feel at home. In fact, I’d felt so at home, so caught up in the moment, that I hadn’t heard Allison come in. But when I turned, she was in the doorway, hands on the frame as if bracing herself.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asked, almost in wonder. Her voice sounded funny, warbled with confusion.

I didn’t have a good answer. I just sat there wearing her dress, her shoes, her earrings, my freshly dyed hair gleaming.

“Your hair…” For a moment, she didn’t say anything else. Then, “Those are my clothes.”

“I just…” I began, but what could I say? I justwhat? “You’re home early,” I said finally. My voice was weak, pleading. I could see that she was angry, even though I hadn’t meant any harm.

I adored her. I looked up to her. And I wanted to be just like her. Why couldn’t she see it was flattery, nothing more?

Her eyes moved from me to the rest of the closet. All the drawers were ajar. I’d gone in to find a scarf, something to complete the outfit, but once I started looking, I couldn’t stop, sinking to my knees as I combed through the contents, searching for I don’t know what. One drawer, I discovered, had a cache of old photographs. They spanned years, some from college, Allison’s face young and bright, her arms around friends, laughing, some of her and her husband when they’d first started dating, from their honeymoon, of him and her both naked, photos of her in lingerie. Now, the pictures lay around me, scatteredlike confetti. Her eyes landed on one of her in bed, dressed only in a pair of black panties. I felt my stomach turn.

She wasn’t supposed to be home until Monday. No one was. They were spending a long weekend with her parents in Boston. The whole family was going to a Red Sox game that evening. I was there when she bought the tickets.Should we sit here or here?she asked me, pointing to the seats on her computer screen.

Her eyes returned to me. The color had drained from her cheeks.

I thought I might faint. I’d been so caught up, I hadn’t even heard the front door open. Did I say that part already?

I’d come by to check on their cat, Nibbles. I was only there to refill her food, to make sure the water bowl was full. Allison offered me an extra hundred bucks on top of the coming week’s pay if I stopped by, but I waved her off. I didn’t have any plans; I was happy to help a friend out. Don’t forget that—I thought we werefriends.

I planned to leave as soon as I fed Nibbles. I just had to use the bathroom first. Normally, I’d use the one in the hall, but that day, I found myself walking into Allison’s bedroom.

I stood in front of her sink when I was done, washing my hands, staring at myself in the large oval mirror. I looked almost like a different person, my hair shining, fiery red under the bathroom lights.

I’d dyed it only the day before. It wasn’t something I planned, either. None of it had been planned. I know that sounds like I’m trying to buck responsibility, but it’s the truth. We’d had an early release from school; it was the Friday before a holiday weekend—Labor Day, I think, which is why Allison and her family were traveling—so I decided to stop at the drugstore for a few things: shampoo, cotton balls, a replacement pair of tweezers for ones I’d misplaced.

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