The salon buzzeswith excitement as my stylist—a vision with cascading black hair and a constellation of ear piercings—greets me with a champagne flute and a genuine smile.
"Transform me," I tell her, downing the bubbly like I need courage for what's coming. "Make me look… rich. Make me look… sexy. Hell. Fuck it. Make me look like a goddamned trophy wife."
She laughs. "Darling, by the time I'm done with you, you'll shine like the fucking sun. " She tosses her glossy mane, assessing me with the gleaming eyes of someone who creates magic daily.
I'm seated in the VIP room. Mirrors everywhere. Music pulsing like a heartbeat. Two assistants appear with a platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries. I eat them without reservation.
"Platinum will make those gorgeous eyes pop," the stylist declares, fluffing my hair up as I watch in the mirror.
I drink more champagne, my flute never empty, as she paints my head with bleach. Transforming it into a gleaming sculpture of metallic promise.
I'm seated at a nail station while I process. Gel tips coated in a metallic purple. I've never had long nails in my life. I could look at them for hours, watching them change in the shifting light.
I have the sudden urge to tap things.
The rinse and shampoo massage sends waves of pleasure cascading through my scalp and down my spine. My eyes flutter closed involuntarily as I surrender to sensations so delicious, they border on orgasmic.
Then, I watch—utterly, completely, brazenly transfixed at the magic happening with a blow dryer.
The long, frizzy dirty-blonde hair I walked in with is gone. Replaced by a perfect platinum waterfall that catches every light in the room. Subtle layers framing a face I almost don't recognize.
She was right.
I shine like the fucking sun.
Back in my hotel room, I order room service. A steak that's seared to perfection. A baked potato with everything you can imagine on top. And a gelato that tastes like it came straight from Italy.
This is what money buys.
Not happiness.
Contentment.
I sleep propped up against the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the lights on the Strip, feeling like a platinum-tipped angel instead of a good little slut.
The next morningI have an appointment with an image consultant at ten. I get up extra early to try out the styling products I bought at the salon yesterday. My bathroom counter is a battlefield of unfamiliar bottles and tools, but I'm determined.
I watch a quick tutorial on my phone before attempting to recreate what the stylist did, working the product through my damp hair section by section. I even manage to do a half-good blow out, despite my arms aching halfway through.
My hair doesn't look like it did yesterday—that professional shine and bounce is missing—but it's a thousand times better than it was twenty-four hours ago.
The woman in the mirror actually looks like she gives a damn about herself.
It's startling to see.
I'm pleased with the result. Not ecstatic, not transformed, but pleased.
And realistic.
I know what this is and what it isn't. I'm not some superstar about to walk the red carpet. I'm not deluding myself into thinking a hairstyle will change my life.
Hell, I don't even have a job. Don't want one, either.
My needs are simple, modest.
I just want to feel good about myself. To look in the mirror and not immediately search for flaws. To walk into a room without wanting to disappear.
There has never been a day—not one single day that I can recall—where I ever felt good about myself. Ever.
