My makeup will be my mask, hiding how I’m really feeling inside. I remember I need to message Danielle back, I forgot to message her last night. She’s tried to call me and left a couple of texts asking if Iwas okay.
Me: It’s done. I’m safe. Staying at the Central Lane Motel. Love you x
Danielle: Thank fuck. I was so worried when you didn’t get back to me last night, I was about one minute away from calling the cops. I’m glad you’re safe. Please tell me if you need anything < 3
Me: I just need you ready to move in as soon as we can find a place. Wish we weren’t so busy with work this week, I want to see you already. I’ll see you next week xxx
Danielle: I will be ready girl! I know :(
It couldn’t come soon enough. Love you < 3
I set my phone on the bathroom bench and put on “Just Pretend”by Bad Omens.
As I start getting ready, I’m interrupted by Gizmo clawing at the door, clearly busting to go for a wee.
I quickly take her outside. She trots to the small patch of garden in front of my room, does her business, then comes back to weave herself through my legs. I plan to drop her back home on my lunch break, so she’s not cooped up in this motel room all day. Thankfully, I bought some puppy pads and food to hold her over until then.
I just need to finish getting ready and head to the salon for my 9 a.m. shift.
I keep reminding myself, to just get through the next week of work, and then I’ll finally get to see Danielle—my closest friend and coworker—next Friday night at our bar job.
She’s the only one who knows about Sean and I having issues.
I haven’t even told Dad yet.
I walk into the salon for my shift atSnipsand the smell of perm solution is overpowering, it’s a smell you think I’d be used to after hairdressing for 10 years, but I’m still not.
The salon is outdated in that early-2000s-never-left kind of way. The walls are painted black, with a bright red feature wall at the back, there are faded posters of celebrity hairstyles from at least a decade ago hanging on the walls. The gloss white floor tiles have cracks, some have stains on them from years of colour spills. The chairs are worn black faux-leather with duct tape covering the rips, and the mirrors have that telltale silvering around the edges. Even the music plays from an old stereo—there’s a radio station on that never changes.
I put my bag away in the back room and say hey to Sandy and Louise, my fellow hairdressers. They’re older ladies, they both have bleach blonde hair and thin bodies from way too many cigarette breaks and not enough lunch breaks. I’ve been working here for a year and they still don’t include me in their chatter, in their eyes I’m still the younger newbie who steals their chance at commissions. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been here a year, or how friendly I am, I will never fit in with them. I never understood why but I always remain polite, even if it’s not reciprocated.
My boss Rhonda isn’t in yet, she’s not a hairdresser but she normally does the reception work. I check the computer, I’m fully booked out.
Great. I love the work, I really do, but it means a whole day of keeping my mask intact. Forced small talk and fake smiles.
I sigh and set up my station. My tools gleam in contrast to everything else here. My scissors are sharp, my brushes clean, sectioning clips are lined up likesoldiers.
My job grounds me. I get to be creative, to transform someone, make them feel good, even when I’m struggling to hold myself together.
My first client takes a seat in the chair. I run my fingers through her hair, letting her soft waves slip between them like silk. She’s been coming to me every eight weeks since I started here, and today she says, “Surprise me.”
God, I love those words.
It’s like someone just handed me a paintbrush and a blank canvas. I pull swatches out and we scroll through my phone for inspo pictures. Once we come to a decision, I head out to the back room. I mix up bleach and grab the foil, ready to take her a little lighter—a bit creamier. Her eyes are deep blue, so I want to bring out that colour and make her feel luminous.
As I section her hair and start foiling, the world fades. It always does when I’m in the zone. The ticking of the wall clock, the faint hum of the blow dryers, even Sandy and Louise’s muffled gossip—all of it disappears. It’s just me and my brush, and the quiet thrill of transformation.
When I’m creating like this, I feel like myself. Like maybe I’m not just surviving the day. I’m adding something beautiful to it.
I clean up after finishing my client. I’m grateful to have a job I care about, I really am. There’s something soothing in the rhythm of scissors snipping and colours transforming. But pretending to be cheerful for hours is exhausting, like every polite smile pulled a thread loose in me, threatening to unravel what I’m trying so hard to holdtogether.
I let Rhonda know I’ll be heading out for my lunch break today.
I drive on auto pilot, listening to Sleep Token,until I pull up at my house.
My old house, I guess.
I don’t even know what to call it anymore.
