Page 18 of Not Another Beach Read
Marnie draped a cape around my shoulders and started mixing the bleach. "So what made you decide on pink? Any particular reason?"
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. How could I explain that I wanted to look different than the girl in all my school photos? The one with the sad eyes and forced smile, the one teachers looked at with pity and classmates avoided because her mom was "that lady" who showed up to school events high... or not at all.
"I just like it," I said finally.
But it was more than that. Pink wasn't my mother's color. It wasn't my grandparents' color. It wasn't a color anyone would choose for me. It was mine.
Marnie began applying the bleach, working methodically from the back of my head forward. The chemical smell was strong, making my eyes water slightly.
"So you're staying with your aunt and uncle now?" she asked conversationally. Of course she knew—everyone in this town seemed to know everyone else's business.
"Yeah," I said, not elaborating.
"Elyse is good people," Marnie continued, unbothered by my brevity. "She helped my sister out a while back when herhusband was... well, let's just say he wasn't winning any Husband of the Year awards."
I glanced at Aunt Elyse, who was suddenly very interested in an article about fall fashion trends. I knew about her hobby—her "side gig" as Uncle Drew called it with a mix of exasperation and reluctant defeat.
I could see why she did it. Sometimes people needed someone to show them what they couldn't, or wouldn't, see for themselves.
"Almost done with the bleach," Marnie announced, applying the last section around my face. "Now we wait. It'll tingle a bit, that's normal."
More than a tingle, my scalp was starting to burn slightly. I shifted in the chair, trying to distract myself.
"Want some water?" Aunt Elyse asked, noticing my discomfort.
"I'm fine," I said automatically, the response so ingrained I hardly thought about it anymore. I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I won't be any trouble.
She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me, but didn't push. Another thing I was still getting used to—people noticing when I wasn't okay but not making a big deal about it.
Forty-five minutes later, after a shampoo that left my hair looking and feeling like pale yellow straw, Marnie was applying the pink dye.
"We're going for an all-over pink base, then I'll add these deeper magenta pieces for dimension," she explained, painting sections with a darker shade.
I watched, fascinated, as my reflection changed bit by bit. The boring brown disappeared under vibrant pink. Even wet and unstyled, I could tell it was going to be exactly what I wanted.
"What do you think?" Marnie asked Aunt Elyse, who had abandoned her magazine to watch the transformation.
"It suits her," Aunt Elyse said, surprising me. "Brings out the spark in her eyes."
Something warm unfurled in my chest. Not disapproval or reluctant tolerance, but genuine appreciation. Like she was seeing me—really seeing me, not just looking through me like so many people did.
After another shampoo and condition, Marnie blew my hair dry and ran a flat iron through it to smooth it out and make the color pop. With each pass of the straightener, my new hair emerged—bright, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.
When she was finished, I hardly recognized myself. The girl in the mirror had my features, but there was something different about her. Something bold and unapologetic. Her eyes looked brighter against the pink frame of her hair, her skin less sallow, her expression less guarded.
"Well?" Marnie prompted, spinning the chair so I could see all angles. "What's the verdict?"
"I love it," I said, unable to keep the wonder from my voice. I reached up to touch it, half-expecting the color to come off on my fingers. But it was real. It was mine.
"It's absolutely you," Aunt Elyse said, coming to stand behind me. Our eyes met in the mirror—hers warm with approval, mine bright with something that felt dangerously like happiness.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what my mother would say if she could see me now. Would she be angry? Dismissive? Or would she even notice?
But for once, I realized I didn't care. This wasn't about her. This was about me. The me I was becoming, not the me I'd been forced to be.
As we left the salon, I caught my reflection in the storefront windows we passed. Pink hair. My choice. My statement.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt likeI was writing my own story instead of just being a character in someone else's. Maybe I would even have a happily ever after.
