I swallow because I haven’t even been hired, yet I’ve already made two thousand dollars.
But now, I’m even more determined to see the process through.
When I get home,I throw myself onto the sagging futon, and stare at my ceiling, mentally calculating the value of each dyed lock. Tuition: $2700. Rent: $780. Groceries, utilities, one (1) functional pair of boots. It’s math, but it’s also a referendum on my entire identity. Every time I close my eyes, I see Camille’s face, the way her gaze didn’t even flicker when she said “return your hair to its natural color.” Like pink was a temporary error. Like she could see straight through to the wheat-blonde underneath and knew that was who I was supposed to be.
I flip my phone over and stare at the screen. No texts from Simone. For a second, I debate calling my mom, but I can already hear the speech: “Be yourself, unless you can be better.” I don’t need that right now.
I pad over to my bathroom and stare in the mirror. My roots are showing—a good half-inch of blonde—but the rest is bubblegum, faded at the ends from too many cheap box dyes. Fortunately, my skin looks creamy under the bathroom light, and my blue eyes are a clear cornflower color. I touch my pink strands, twirling a lock between my fingers.
I try to picture myself with “normal” hair, and suppose going back to blonde should be okay. After all, it’s just hair and hair always grows back.
When I show up at the salon recommended by Sweet Lies the next morning, the front desk woman greets me by name, which is unnerving. She leads me to a chair in the back, where a colorist with the arms of a linebacker and the voice of a preschool teacher waits.
“Golden or ash?” she asks, patting my scalp with alarming gentleness.
I smile.
“Whatever you think best.”
She nods, eyeing my hair.
“We’ll need to strip the pink, then tone. It’ll be a few hours, hon.”
“Okay,” I say, then settle in to wait. For the next three hours, I’m trapped in a cloud of fumes, reading old gossip magazines and listening to the colorist’s monologue about her rescuechihuahua. I lose all track of time until she finally spins me around to face the mirror.
Gone is the shield of pink, but what’s left is absolutely gorgeous. I gasp because the my hair resembles a golden river trailing over my shoulders. My skin looks brighter, somehow, and my entire mien lifted. Who knew?
When I leave, I text Camille as instructed: “Done. Blonde again.”
The reply is instantaneous. “Excellent. Please return to the office at 10 a.m. tomorrow for the final onboarding.” Sure enough, my phone chimes within minutes with another one thousand dollar deposit. They really know how to motivate someone, don’t they?
I stand on the sidewalk, the wind blowing my new hair into my eyes, and think: this is how you become someone else. You sign a contract. You do what you’re told, and wait for your reward. Is that really so bad? It’s how the world works.
That night, Simone finally texts: “Hey, still alive? Did you take the job?”
“Still waiting,” I type. “They have sooo many rounds of interviews.”
The read receipt comes, but no reply.
I crawl into bed and hug the pillow tight. I tell myself I know what I’m doing. That I’m not in over my head. That I’m not scared. That the position is only temporary, anyways, and I can go back to being me afterwards.
In the morning, I pull on a blue sweater and dark slacks, and for a second, I almost look like every other girl on campus. I wonder if anyone will even recognize me, with luscious blonde locks instead of pink.
At Sweet Lies, the receptionist clocks me with a nod, but doesn’t say anything about the transformation. I take the orange chair again and fidget a bit. My hands feel clumsy. I keep wanting to check my reflection in my phone, but it would be awkward to be caught staring at my own image.
Camille appears exactly at ten, this time in a navy suit, her hair just as severe, her shoes a patent black. She pauses, giving me a once-over that is part evaluation, part silent approval.
“Very good,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “You look very beautiful, Katherine. Very much to our client’s tastes.”
I resist the urge to say something and instead nod, careful not to disturb my new, glossy golden tresses.
“Come with me, please,” she says, turning on her heel.
We walk together in silence, her heels making soft, expensive sounds on the tile. I notice the faint scent of her perfume—bergamot, maybe, with something sharper underneath. I wonder if she chooses it to seem terrifying or just to remind everyone she’s in charge.
She leads me into the same conference room as before, only this time the table is covered with a neat row of folders and a stack of plain white envelopes. She gestures for me to sit, then places a folder in front of me.
“We need to confirm a few details before we proceed. Height, weight, clothing sizes. For our records, of course.”
