Page 26 of Texts From My Exes
I shrugged. “They’re just eyes.”
She smirked. “Yup. Whatever you say,Vex. Whatever you say.”
The salon smelled like hairspray, hope, and the financial regret you know you’ll feel once you’re forced to style your hair on your own without a professional and enough product to open up your own store. It was always that way with Harper at least—I was a guy so maybe it would be different, I mean how hard would they go on my hair? It was hair, to my shoulders, I needed like maybe a few highlights, a trim. Piece of cake.
I should have known over confidence was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, a bull being the owner and several employees of the salon. Hi, my name’s Ezra but you may as well call me your next wet dream also known as a hopeless challenge.
Maya had barely gotten my coat off before she was herding me into a chair in front of a mirror the size of a movie screen. People whispered. The smell of essential oils and burntcoconut filled the air until it was thick with it. Was I supposed to start getting dizzy? Would I hallucinate? Was this all part of the makeover? Did women do this all the time? I had so many questions and suddenly missed my glasses and Star Wars figurines—all seventy of them. I reached into my pocket and gripped the whiskey like a vice. This is why a man never goes into battle without being prepared. I thought he was joking—but my brother gave me a damn sword and shield didn’t he? If I made it out alive I’d kiss him—if not, well he still had the eulogy.
“Alright, people!” A loud voice announced to the staff like we’d just walked onto the set ofProject Runway. “We’ve got four hours, one human canvas, and a mission that ends in true love.” Women and a few men cheered around me. “Let’s move!” Why was I suddenly getting flashbacks fromExtreme Home Makeoverwhere they shouted ‘move that bus, move that bus.’ Only I was not the lucky bus getting moved, I was the house getting pummeled. Yay.
A stylist with neon pink hair approached me with a comb. “We’re thinking loose waves with some honey?—”
“No.”
She blinked. “But?—”
I sipped from the flask my brother had given me and shook it in front of her. “No.”
A second stylist slid in from the left with a picture on her phone. “What about this—layered, textured, a little surfer?—”
“No.”
Maya shoved my head forward so they could get at the back. “Ignore him. He says ‘no’ to everything. He says it makes you yearn for the yes, or something like that.”
“Ew, god, I can hear you,” I muttered. Huh, good whiskey. Top shelf.
“Good,” she said sweetly. “Means you’re still alive. For now.”
“Did you just kick me?”
She did it again. “What? No. I get these weird convulsions every now and again, just ask your brother.”
“Afraid to now.” I muttered.
The third stylist, a man in a scarf that cost more than my first car, I’m assuming, started tousling my hair experimentally. “Ooh, you’ve gotvolume. We could go full K-drama lead—messy fringe, the teased forehead thing?—”
I groaned. Was it because I was half Korean? I mean really... “That’s a lot of maintenance.”
“It’s a lot of sex appeal,” he corrected. “And sir, you have sex oozing from every crevice of that, that,” He made a face. “Whatever’s beneath that awful black zip up sweatshirt. H&M?”
“It was on sale.” I grinned. “Bought it in two colors.”
“Absolutely shocked.” He winked.
Okay, I liked him. He got me. We could be friends. “I like your scarf.”
“Gucci.”
“Expensive like this whiskey,” I lifted the flask.
Maya slapped my hand when I reached for the flask again. “You’re cut off until we finish the first round.”
The next thirty minutes were a blur of hair gel, product samples, and me giving increasingly unimpressed looks into the mirror.
“No.”
“Nope.”
