I agree instantly because the smell of garbage soiling my hair is bringing the nausea back tenfold.
“I’m Margarette, by the way.”
“Amira,” I say, following her to the back of the room, walking in the aisle between chairs of other customers on my way to the sinks.
The firm leather of the chair squeaks underneath me as I lean back and drop my head into the sink. I help Margarette fasten the towel around my neck before allowing her to drag my hair from behind me and place it in the bowl.
I haven't had my hair done since I was seven years old and went with mom to get her hair bleached. I didn’t know relaxation until I felt the hairdresser's fingers combing through my locks, washing me into tranquility.
The same sensation overcomes me now as Margarette’s fingers scrub at my scalp, washing my hair from roots to ends until froth bubbles over my eyebrows, and the artificial scent of banana is the only thing I can smell.
I can’t help but melt into the leather and soak in this much-needed care. I could fall asleep to the rhythm of her fingers, but all too quickly, my wash is over, and she’s leading me to her booth on the far right, closest to the entrance.
I avoid my reflection as she drapes a cape around my front. Taking a clean comb from her dispenser, Margarette begins brushing out my hair.
“Damn, honey! You got some long ass hair! I could make a rope out of this baby.”
“You like that, baby? How does it feel wrapped around your neck?”
It feels like death slowly drawing my soul from the inside out, like burning flames clawing from my chest out of my gaping mouth.
My fingers dig under the thick cord of hair dad has strangled around my neck, searching for any weak point so I can get a sliver of breath, but as he watches me struggle, he uses his knee on my back to shove me down, choking me until the stars dancing in front of my eyes fade to black.
“Cut it,” I say, glaring at my reflection, picturing the purplish-black bruise that lingered on my neck for weeks after that incident.
“Are you sure, honey? You have gorgeous hair.”
“Yes, I’m sure... Cut it.”
“How much?” she asks, holding the ends of my hair between two of her fingers.
“All of it.”
†††
I walk up behind the girls as they converse by Sage’s truck, slowing my pace once Eden’s wide mossy green eyes land on me.
“Holy fucking shit! Amira!” she screeches, drawing Sage’s gaze to land on my newly cropped hair.
I can barely feel the tips as they bush along my shoulders, my head feeling so much lighter now that twelve inches of my hair are gone. Off to be donated to someone who needs it more than I do.
“Damn. Will Roman flip?” Sage asks, gently pulling on the ends.
Her comment has me faltering in my steps, tripping over a broken piece of the sidewalk as I consider that I never took Roman into consideration before I cut off most of my hair.
Should I have asked permission?
Will he be upset?
What have I done?
You took control.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head. “No. He’ll be fine.”
I mean, it’s just hair, right?
Hair that Roman runs his fingers through every night.
