The chipper hairstylist checked the watch on her wrist before beaming back at me. “Are you Crew Hayes?”
I nodded.
“Great! I’m Camie, it’s nice to meet you. Go ahead and hop on in my chair. Your friend can sit on the side there.” She pointed to her station, a lone chair by its side for Willow to sit on.
Camie threaded her fingers through my hair, her grim expression visible from the mirror I was seated in front of. She popped the gum she was chewing on before meeting my eyes.
“This is a mess, hon.”
Willow laughed from the sidelines.
I glared at her just before snorting a laugh myself. “I’m aware. That’s why I’m here to see you.”
Camie prodded at my head a bit more, sectioning it into awkward pieces. “Did you do it yourself?”
“Yes, and I fucked it up greatly.”
She pulled a longer piece from the back of my head, looking it over from root to end. “I see that. I like the cut. Fits your face and style. It’s a bit raggedy, though. The color, on the other hand?” She let out a low whistle. “Rough. Tell me what you want to do, darling.”
From the corner, I could hear more than see Willow cracking up at my public shaming. I never should’ve asked her to come with me. “I want to keep the cut but make it better. Make all the blond go away. I want it to match my natural color.”
Camie seemed to ponder my request for a moment. “Are the waves natural?”
“Yeah, but they’re a fucking mess.”
With atsk,she lightly tapped me on the head. “Don’t shame your texture. You’ve got some curl going on with the wave, so that can make it hard to know what to do with it. It’ll work in your favor, though.” She took a few steps back, gazing at me through the mirror once more. “I’ve got an idea, and then I’ll teach you how to take care of these luscious locks of yours.”
Maybe it was the no-shit attitude or the desperation in me to get rid of the disaster I called my hair, but the next words out of my mouth had never been truer.
“I trust you, Camie.”
“Dude, it’s literally a six-minute walk,”I argued.
Willow slanted her hands on her hips, popping one to the side. “In December with snow on the ground! You’re so dense sometimes, I swear.”
Rolling my eyes, I turned on my heel. “I’m going now. I’ll text when I get there if that makes you feel better.”
From behind me, I could hear her yelling. “You better! If not, I’m calling lover boy!”
The sidewalks were mostly clear. Every few steps, snow would crunch under my shoes as I walked. I was desperate to feel the bite of cold against my skin. Being stuck in the house had been stifling andexhausting. Willow was fretting over me, refusing to leave me even though she didn’t know I’d cut myself.
When Price contacted her, it had given her a scare. She had a propensity to become quite the mother hen when it came to me. I let her do what made her feel better, even if I was secretly suffocating.
As I walked, I noticed the multitude of bright and merry Christmas decorations people had put out. A lot of businesses had put up wreaths on their doors, along with bright, colorful lights that glowed during the nighttime. Windows were covered in sticky decorations of every festive possibility.
I couldn’t help but smile at them. Mom loved Christmas almost as much as Santa. We always had a huge tree in our living room with a different theme every year. It was a fake tree, and over the years, it shed its plastic pine needles and became barer, but it was ours. Mom had different ornaments and tinsel for a different theme she’d run with.
One year, it’d be blue and silver. The next, red and gold. The house would be covered floor to ceiling in ridiculous, cheesy statues and paintings that made me want to barf. Outside, our porch would be so lit up, planes could land there safely.
I moaned and groaned every year, telling her it was too much. Now, I missed it more than anything. No matter what man she was with, how drunk she was, or how sick she felt, Christmas was as full blast as she could make it.
And when she let me help her make her famous pumpkin pie? Oh, the things I’d do to have that even one more time.
Willow and I didn’t care much for decorating, and it didn’t seem Price did either. We saw it as a hassle, more often than not. I think deep down, it reminded us both of Mom too much. The wound was still fresh, keeping us from attempting something so festivious when it only made us sad to see.
The Arch wasn’t too far off now. I was nervous about Price seeing my new hair. I wasn’t worried he wouldn’t like it. I was worried he’d like it too much, and then we’d have an issue containing our sexual tension and professionalism at work.
Imagining his face in my head had me almost skipping the rest of the way there, strange butterflies flapping around in my stomach as I thought about it. It’d been a long time since I had something to lookforward to that made me this excited. My stomach felt almost warm, spreading its way up my spine and across my cheeks.
