“Okay, you’ve got a yellow undertone,” she said. “We’re gonna need something cool-toned so it doesn’t go Barney the Dinosaur.”
Before I could answer, a lady with a name tag that saidMimiswooped in, eyes sharp in that I’ve-seen-things way.
“You’ll want toner first,” she said, eyeing my hair critically. “You’ve got gold in there, sweetheart. That’ll mess up how the purple takes.”
I blinked at her. “Mess up as in... clown wig?”
“Mess up as in patchy, muddy, regret,” she said matter-of-factly.
Rachel snorted. “Regret’s kind of our aesthetic right now.”
We started comparing brands, and within minutes, it turned into this ridiculous debate that probably should’ve been televised. Rachel was Team Semi-Permanent—“less commitment, more fun”—while I argued for permanent because, well, wasn’t I already kind of committed to the bit?
“Frankie, if you hate it, you’ll be stuck like that for months,” Rachel said, holding a box of lavender dye like it was a moral argument.
“And if I love it?” I shot back. “Then I’ll be glad it lasts.”
“Or you’ll get suspended,” she said, half laughing, half not.
That’s when it hit me. Hard.
“What the hell am I even doing?” I asked, my voice too sharp, too full. “Like seriously, what if I show up Monday and they boot me out because my hair’s not ‘natural’ enough?”
Rachel tilted her head, that slow, thoughtful way she does when she’s about to hit me with something both obvious and profound.
“Homecoming,” she said.
I blinked. “What about it?”
She smiled—a little soft, a little dangerous. “Purple’s the school color.”
And somehow that made everything both better and worse.
Mimi, the toner prophet, chimed in again. “You could always dye just the under layer,” she said. “When your hair’s down, it’s hidden. But when you put it up…” She wiggled her fingers like jazz hands. “Surprise.”
I could almost see it—me with my hair twisted up, streaks of violet flashing like rebellion in sunlight. Quiet on the outside, storm underneath. Story of my life.
While I was still picturing it, my phone buzzed in my back pocket.Coop.
The name lit up my screen like it always did—bright and wrong.
Rachel glanced over. “You can answer him,” she said softly. “If you’re ready.”
I wasn’t. God, I wasn’t. So I left it unread, like if I ignored it long enough, the ache would dissolve on its own.
A quick glance at the clock reminded me I had maybe two hours before I had to feed the cats. They’d be pacing by now, tails flicking like judgment. The thought of going home—of possibly running into Mr. Standish or Maddy—made my stomach twist.
“I hate leaving them,” I murmured. “But I really don’t want to deal with?—”
“Then don’t.” Rachel’s voice was calm, certain. “I’ll go with you. We’ll do your hair there. And trust me,” she added with a grin that made me both laugh and believe her, “I can be pretty ferocious if I need to be.”
Something in me unclenched then. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was the wild, stupid hope that purple hair could mean something other than trouble.
I picked up the toner, the dye, gloves, container to put the dye in, random hair dye paraphernaliathat we didn’t already own. and a brush I probably didn’t need but wanted anyway.
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Let’s make a mess.”
Rachel smiled. “Now you’re talking.”
