"So," Taylor says, spinning me around in the chair and grinning, "what are we thinking?"
I shrug. "Surprise me."
That mischievous glint flashes in her hazel eyes. "A pixie cut?!"
"Okay, notthatsurprising," I laugh, and Taylor giggles, combing through my hair.
It's in desperate need of a cut, my hair falling down to my belly button with straggly, broken ends. I've been just throwing it up in a mom bun, a claw clip, or braiding it down my back to keep it out of my face while I work or run errands, too tired to actually style it.
I used to love my hair, thick and curly and voluminous when I really tried. I should get back to that. I think taking some pride in something—putting actual effort into my appearance—might help rebuild what I've allowed to erode inside me: my self-esteem.
Atlas has always thought I was beautiful.
He's seen me at my worst, and he's seen me at my best, and he's never thought otherwise. But along the way, I stopped doing my hair and makeup because I had two boys who needed my attention.
I would get haircuts with Taylor that were more about function than expression. There was no me-time left, and any scraps I found went toward catching up on sleep.
Not anymore.
It's time to really find Wendy again.
Or maybe make a new Wendy.
"Hm..." Taylor says, running her hand through my hair. Her eyes scan my head of hair, eyes glazed over as she works her hair magic in her mind.
"Ooh," she says suddenly. "I've got it.Victoria's Secret Bombshell."
I smile immediately, remembering our teen years were spent flipping through her mom's Victoria's Secret catalogues, sprawled on the floor, admiring the women with their big, glossy curls and unapologetic confidence.
For every special occasion, Taylor would give me a blowoutlike that. I guess we're returning to form.
Taylor bounces in excitement at my nod, grabbing some clips to section my hair. She looks at me in the mirror, my hair between the blades of her scissors, and asks, "Ready?"
I smile.
Snip.
An hour later, she's adding some finishing spray to my hair.
"You truly are my pièce de résistance," she says, affecting a French accent, and making me laugh. She puts the bottle down, fluffs my hair, and spins me around to the mirror.
My eyes widen.
"Taylor..."
"I know."
"Taylor."
"I know, I'm a fucking artist," she says, kissing her fingers like a chef.
Taylor really outdid herself. She cut about seven inches, and now it bounces, falling to my breasts in glossy and bouncy curls.
I feel beautiful, and I know it's not only because of the hair. It's because my smile comes easily to my face now. It's the independence I've been cultivating, and from my own happiness, my boys seem to smile a little easier these days, too.
For the last year, I've completely wrung myself out running the house, trying to get Atlas to just talk with me, and facing the reality of my failing marriage.
Every single time I've tried to speak to him, I’ve been shut down or completely ignored, like I’m not even there.
