Page 41 of Count My Lies

At a quarter to one, I’m standing on the Lockharts’ stoop. The certainty I felt this morning that Violet would be flattered by my new hair color is quickly dissipating. What if she hates it? I put my hand on the doorknob—Violet told me to stop knocking weeks ago—then pull it back quickly.

I rock nervously from foot to foot. The fabric under my armpits is damp. The small of my back slick. The summer heat is making it hard to breathe.

Even though Violet isn’t Allison—I reminded myself of this again and again on the walk over—now that I’m here, in front of her door, the thought of her seeing me like this churns my stomach. But what can I do? Leave? Call her and tell her I’m sick? Even if I did, there’s no way I can get it back to my normal color without bleaching it, and that seems like an even stupider decision than the one I made last night. I believe this is called making your bed and having to lie in it. I just wish I’d known that the mattress would be so goddamn lumpy.

Fuck it, I think.Rip the Band-Aid off.I open the door and step inside, the air deliciously cool.

Violet is coming down the stairs as I walk in. “Oh!” she says when she sees me. She stops on the bottom step, staring. Her left hand grips the banister. There’s a flicker of—something—across her face that I can’t quite place. Not surprise, exactly, but her eyebrows rise, mouth slightly agape. Then she smiles, a wide grin.

“I needed a change,” I say, smiling back tentatively, repeating what I’d told myself last night as I’d slipped on the gloves, mixed the dye into the accelerant.

“It looks good!” She steps into the foyer and ushers me into the living room. “Who’d have known you’d make such a dashing brunette!”

A rushing tidal wave of relief washes over me. She’s not mad. I could cry.

I sink onto their couch, pull my knees up under me. “It’s sort of patchy. I’m terrible at dyeing my own hair,” I admit. “It never comes out well. But your color is just so nice, and I thought…” I trail off awkwardly. “It doesn’t look as good on me as it does on you,” I say finally.

“No, I think it looks nice,” Violet says. “It suits you, it really does. Take your bun down, let me see.”

I hesitate. Dyeing my hair the same color as hers is one thing; cutting it is another. “Come on,” she urges.

Here goes nothing. I unclip my hair, letting it fall from the bun, then take off the headband, bangs flopping into my eyes.

She studies me carefully, her hand to her mouth, brow furrowed. She reaches out. Her fingers brush against my forehead as she straightens the bangs.

“It’s a little uneven,” I say, holding up one choppy strand.

“It looks… good,” she says, unconvincingly. She presses her lips together. I raise an eyebrow skeptically.

Then, Violet starts to laugh. Not meanly, but in a good-natured sort of way. I start to laugh, too. Then we’re both wheezing hysterically, tears streaming down our faces.

“Oh my god, I can’t breathe,” she says, holding her stomach.

“It’s a disaster,” I say, finally, when we’ve stopped laughing, wiping my cheeks with my shirt. “Like code red. Or code black. Whatever the bomb one is.”

“It is,” Violet agrees, still giggling. “Let me call my hairdresser,” she says. “He’s the best. I’ll see if he can squeeze you in and fix it for you.”

“Now? Where’s Harper?” I look around, just realizing she isn’t here.

She nods. “I meant to text you, she’s at a playdate this afternoon. She won’t be home for a few hours. It’ll be fun! I could use a break.” She motions to the kitchen. Textbooks and note cards are strewn across the island counter, her laptop open. “What do you think? Should I call him?”

I smile, nodding happily. I was right. She’s not mad.

An hour later, I’m sitting in a salon chair, nylon barber’s cape draped around my shoulders as Nolan, Violet’s hairdresser, runs his fingers through my hair.

“So,” he says, addressing me in the mirror. He’s tall and lanky with a beautiful face, his brown skin bright and clear, sculpted cheekbones. His fingers snag in a tangle. “What are we doing today?”

“Do it like mine,” Violet interjects. “Shoulder length, bangs. I think it would look good on her. We have a similar-shaped face, don’t you think? And a little color correction. Like this.” She puts her headclose to my face and holds up a strand of her hair against mine. “Do you remember what shade you mixed for me last week?”

Nolan nods. “With the warm undertones. It’ll be perfect for her.”

Violet beams, silently clapping. I like how they’re talking about me as if I’m not here, how Nolan’s hands are absently tousling my hair as he listens to Violet.

I follow Nolan to a sink, where he leans my chair back and instructs me to close my eyes. A light mist of water tickles my face as he wets my hair with the spray nozzle. His fingers knead my scalp as he works the shampoo into a lather, rinses, then conditions. When he’s done, he wraps my hair in a towel and points me to his chair.

Violet brings me magazines and we chat as he works, using a brush to paint the dye into my hair, section by section. I sit as it saturates, then follow him back to the sinks, where he rinses it out. When we get back to his chair, he turns me around, away from the mirror. “No peeking,” he tells me, “not until I’m finished.” He’s serious as he works, brows knit as the scissors open and close, pieces of my hair floating to the floor.

Next to me, Violet grins. “It already looks so good,” she crows, and I grin back.

---