A few hours—and galaxies—later, I’m nodding off midway through an alien romance that stretches evenmypenchant for creativity.
And when I fall asleep, I have a … disturbing dream, for lack of a better word.
I wake up grumpy, because I haven’t had a dream like that about Keegan in years. I thought ... no, I knew ... I’d gotten over that fantasy. Keegan isn’t some guy I don’t know. He’s my best friend. A real person, not some fictional creation of my mind.
Despite that, I can’t keep my mind from wandering.
The dream had been an unsettling combination of the real events from the past several days mixed with pure, erotic fantasy. Like all dreams, it’s a senseless jumble of images until it’s not. Keegan and I are lying side by side on the floor. Except instead of getting up and putting away the vacuum, I kiss him. And then he’s above me, grinding his hips against mine as he kisses me, one hard leg between mine. Then he’s kissing a path down my neck.
Then suddenly, we’re not on the floor, but in his kitchen. I’m seated on the counter and he’s still kissing his way down my body.
By the time I woke up, my body was a trembling mass of nerves and tension. I was more turned on from a dream about Keegan than from any actual experience I’d ever had with Ollie. I don’t know what that says about my relationship with Ollie or about my imagination.
All I know is that this has to stop.
If it’s crossing a line to fantasize about your boss, then fantasizing about your best friend is the equivalent of jumping into a formula one race car and speeding over the line at a hundred miles an hour.
Or however fast formula one race cars go. I’m not a car-speed expert.
Whatever. The point is, it’s not cool to have dirty dreams about your best friend. It’s weird, and I thought I was past it. Which means I’m already in a pissy mood when I pick up Thea for my appointment to get my hair done.
By the time we make it to the salon and I’m ensconced in the chair, things are not any better. Reb breezes into the salon with Thea, who’s lugging a caddy of lattes, just as I’m questioning every decision in my life that led me to this point.
The salon Reb goes to is a ridiculously expensive, undoubtedly exclusive hair salon in central Austin. The stylishly dressed receptionist took one look at me and asked for a down payment before she would even let me in.
Reb huffs in indignation and asks them to check the card on file. Thankfully, Thea prevents an all-out brawl. She’s brought fancy lattes for everyone, including the stylist and the receptionist, and smooths over everything.
Once I'm in the salon chair, Reb’s stylist, a guy named Rafe, consults with Thea and Reb about what to do with my hair. I quell my nerves at the potential price tag by reminding myself I firmly believe people deserve a living wage. Given the person-power involved in my makeover, it should be expensive—ethically speaking.
The result is I’m being treated like royalty. Specifically, that girl fromThe Princess Diaries, who desperately needed a makeover, but still. Everyone seems to have a different opinion about what should be done with my hair. Thea is in favor of a platinum bob reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. Reb suggests shoulder-length cut and streaks dyed the colors of a peacock—no big surprise there. Rafe makes a chuckling sound of disapproval as he shifts my hair between his fingers and declares I need babylights and a Brazilian Blowout, which will make me look sophisticated.
I don’t know what a Brazilian blowout is, but it sounds dirty enough that I don’t dare Google it, since my phone is a company phone and therefore Forester+Blake can legally review my search history.
This is probably why Tad has a work phone and a personal phone. I bet he spends at least some of those “naps” in the meditation rooms watching porn on his phone. I only have the one phone, because a) I’m too cheap to pay for a second phone, and b) I rarely need to google things Forester+Blake might find offensive. Maybe I should buy one of those burner phones from the gas station for occasions just like this. I wonder if anyone else at work has a burner phone to watch porn on. Or maybe no one else ...
Rafe snaps his fingers beside my ear, bringing me back into the moment. When I meet his gaze in the mirror, he leans over and says in a husky voice, “In the end, my dear, only you can decide.”
His tone implies that the fate of the nation depends on my choice. Or possibly the fate of Middle Earth if I imagine him with a long graying beard. Clearly he’s determined to give me “The Haircut of Destiny.”
The salon employees all nod, as though in awe of Rafe’s wisdom. Thank God Thea steps in and sums up my options.
“What do you think? A sexy blonde, artsy peacock streaks, or a few face-framing babylights with a Brazilian blowout for a more sophisticated edge?”
Trying not to feel overwhelmed by my options, I blow out a breath. “Okay, so my choices are: sexy, artsy, or s-s-s-sophisticated.”
“I pick sexy.”
Sexy is the obvious choice, right? After all, my idea is sexy. This character I'm creating—Sasha—she is sexy.
I’m not, but she is. When Sasha walks into Monday's meeting, she needs to exude that confidence, that va-va-voom sexiness of Jessica Rabbit. If I'm going to be Sasha, then I need a sexy haircut to pull it off.
But just how blonde are we talking here? Platinum blonde doesn’t feel right to me. I don’t really feel like a blonde, and I definitely don’t feel like a platinum blonde.
“Could we do honey blonde? That’s still sexy, right? Like Cameron Diaz blonde?”
Reb frowns. “Who is Cameron Diaz?”
I look at her in shock. “Oh, my god! Cameron Diaz. FromThere’s Something About Mary? AndThe Holiday? How do you not know who Cameron Diaz is?”
