Her gaze froze on me and she reached out to finger my long locks, left down for once in my life. “Have you ever had a bob? You could seriously rock a long, shaggy bob.”
And that’s how I ended up here, a hairdresser she recommended, who I am placing all of my trust in tonight as we undergo a procedure of magnitude. Or that’s what Alex said. I’ve never had a haircut take longer than a half hour before, but she told me to block off at least three or four hours, so I’m getting worried.
The consultation part of the appointment is surprisingly easy. I don’t always know what to say to strangers, Aaron’s always been the “face” of the pair of us when we make public appearances, I’m usually the one running around in the background. But Alex made sure to show up here for me tonight and her hairstylist friend is super cool, too. A few minutes of chit-chat, and they turned to each other, analyzing me and coming up with a plan right in front of me.
“So super laid back, obvi, low maintenance, but something a little fierce,” Deanna, the stylist tells Alex in an ethereal voice, both of their eyes shooting over to gauge my reaction to that assessment. Alex nods in encouragement and I bob my head once like I’m on board. I’m notnoton board. But I have no clue what they’re picturing, I must be missing the gene they both were clearly blessed with.
Deanna reaches out and lifts a chunk of my hair, feathering the strands between her fingers as she assesses what I’m working with further.
“Virgin?” she asks, pointedly, looking at me for an answer.
My eyes widen to about three times their normal size, and it feels like my eyebrows have moved into my hairline. “Um…what?”
Alex breaks out into laughter from her position slightly behind Deanna, and I look to her for a translation. “You have virgin hair, right?”
“Never dyed before?” Deanna clarifies.
The blush that swarms my neck and up my face shouldn’t be as embarrassing as it is, but what twenty-three-year-old woman is accused of being a virgin by a total stranger? I just barely remember to nod in answer before it’s beentootoo long, and Deanna’s eyes light up at the knowledge.
“Oooh and you’re willing to let me work on it?”
Again, my eyes find Alex’s for translation. It feels like this chick is speaking a language I just don’t get. Alex’s brows come down comically far, her mouth purses and she nods rapidly, discreetly, to let me know I’m good to agree, so I do, too.
Deanna actually squeals, before consulting with Alex once again, and then the process begins. I don’t know what else to call it, to be honest. It’s hours upon hours of work. First, she lobs off about two-thirds of the length of my hair, cutting it to slightly below my shoulders. Then there’s aluminum foil, as well as someconcoction that I know is coloring my hair, but I don’t know why it’s stinging my nostrils and my eyeballs. Somewhere in and amongst all of that, Alex took off for a date, and I promised to send her pics later.
While my hair is processing, I take the chance to catch up on social media. Not that I have much to catch up on. Instagram is about the only social media I use, and my account is set to private, with just shy of a couple hundred followers. I do follow a lot of people in the industry on there though, people Aaron has worked with or connected with over the years, a few bookish accounts, and as of this past month or so, with Alex’s encouragement, I’ve even found some girls to follow who have cute style I’d like to channel myself.
Scrolling through my feed aimlessly while waiting for my hair to finish processing, I save a few style posts I come across for future reference, stalk Spencer’s profile for a few minutes, going through each and every picture he’s posted for the last two years (being careful not to double tap any of them once I got beyond the third one back—a colorful shot of the two of us at an arcade, debuting our relationship to his several thousand friends, that I’d already commented a bunch of heart emojis on), until there was just no avoiding it anymore.
Aaron’s stories.
His face stares at me from that little circle at the top of my feed, the first one in line for me to click and view, a reddish ring around it to let me know there was a fresh story waiting for me, that boyish charm in his eyes daring me to click it.
As good as things have been lately with Spencer (I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still struggling to put Aaron out of mind atcertain times, but thingshavebeen good with Spencer—really good—and I have real hope for where we’re headed), as much as I’ve been trying to distance myself fromhim, I’ll admit it: I’ve been watching Aaron’s stories almost daily since he wentto Romania. My curiosity got the better of me, this aching need deep within me to know he was okay and cared for won out, and it’s become a bit of a nighttime routine for me to check up on him in this anonymous way.
Well, not fully anonymous, as I know Instagram allows you to see who’s viewed your story, but Aaron has never once looked at that before, so it’s a safe way for me to keep an eye on him without giving in to actually answering one of his texts or—God forbid—doing a FaceTime and having to come face-to-face with him for the first time since…that day.
My nose twitching from the burn of the solution in my hair, I take a deep breath for courage, dart my head to each side real quick to make sure no one is watching, and click on his circular headshot to see what he’s been up to.
The long gray bar at the top of the picture tells me this is his only story today, and my stomach seems to fall, then hover and justfloatin my midsection when I realize what the picture is of.
It’s a black and white shot (an artsy one at that) of what looks like a picturesque outdoor cafe table, this inherent European charm in the pic that we just can’t manufacture here in the States. There’s a latte to the right side, but that’s not what’s got my gut suspended. Front and center, on a small, elegant, understated white plate, is an almond croissant. Like the ones he brings me the first couple days of my period each month. (Side note: how does healwaysknow when it’s my time? It’s not like I tell him!)
I do some quick mental math and realize had my cycle not been on hiatus thanks to the IUD the doctor put in a while back, today would’ve been the first day of my period. His unfailing sixth sense strikes again.
This picture is for me.
He’s thinking of me, dare I saymissingme, from five thousand miles away.
Aaron doesn’t evenlikealmond croissants. He teases me about them at least every other month, doesn’t get why I don’t prefer the chocolate ones.
It was a long shot, posting this, thinking that of his more than four million followers, I would be the one who would see it; that I’d get his meaning behind it.
He’s sorry.
He misses me.
He’s thinking of me.
