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“What is this color at the end?” she demands, dropping the lock of hair unceremoniously before taking a step back to eye me closely.
“That’s my color. I’ve just got through growing out a terrible brown I got from some online company that has since disappeared.”
“Are you saying that’s your natural color?” she asks, disbelief plain in her voice.
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“I’ve been trying to mix a blonde just this shade for the last six years, and I’ve never managed to get it quite like this.” She picks the hair up again and strokes it. She slides her hand closer to my roots and says, “This color, though, it needs some help. I saw you want a color, cut, blow out?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay, well, you’ve got such heavy hair, I think we should cut about five inches from the back and maybe seven from the front,” she says casually.
“Um, no. I was thinking maybe half an inch off the ends,” I say.
“Well, if that’s what you want, there are about eight chain hair salons within two miles of here. Go there. They can do that. You do not need me for that,” she says, and I jump out of my seat.
“No, I don’t want to go there. But I don’t want to cut all my hair off,” I say.
“Why not?” she asks like it’s a true puzzle.
“Because that’s not what I had in mind, and you can’t expect me to just say okay when you’re talking about cutting my hair up to shoulders,” I say.
“Trust me. If you do not like it, I will do your hair for you every single week for a year and not charge you a single cent,” she says.
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
“You will love it. But yes, in case you’re truly an idiot, I will abide by my word and put up with having a person with bad taste in my chair every week for a year without getting paid a penny,” she says.
“Okay, although somehow that doesn’t sound like it would be very much fun,” I say.
“Oh, it would be a lot of fun. I do not take orders. I style what I see. The heads of hair that lead you here are all my vision—not what those men and women walked in and demanded. So, if you want to keep this long towel of hair on your head, you can go find someone else to help you with that. But I will never give you another appointment, so think carefully before you leave,” she says.
“God, you’re ruthless,” I say. I look in the mirror. I lift my hair off my neck and turn my head to look at my profile.
“It wouldn’t be that short. Your neck isn’t long enough to make that flattering,” she says.
“Please think nothing for my tender feelings, pick me apart, I can take it,” I say.
“Did you come for flattery or because you want to walk out of here looking like the very best version of yourself?”
“The latter. I’m ready. Do what you will.”
“You’ll be happy. My motto is if you leave pretty, you’ll come often. And I’ve only had two clients in twenty years leave here unhappy. And they were both insane.” She says this with a straight face.
“I’m ready. Do what you will,” I say in resignation.
“Excellent.” She claps her bejeweled hands together. I look past her into the mirror and say a silent goodbye to my hair.
“Let me ask you some questions before we go ahead with the color,” she says and pulls a small piece of paper out of her pocket. “DOB, April 25, 1990.” She glances up at me. “You need to start using eye cream. You’ve got the beginnings of fine lines that no twenty-eight-year-old should have,” she says and then glances back down.
“Yeah, just have at my ego, I wasn’t going to use it today, anyway,” I say.
“That was just advice from woman to woman. I’ve got melanin on my side, but I’ve been using eye cream since I was fifteen. I’m forty-five and look the same age as you,” she says with a shrug. “If you want to age terribly, feel free to ignore me,” she says.
I smile stiffly and make a mental note to visit Sephora before the weekend is out.
“When was your last period?” she asks. “You left that blank.” She points at the paper when I don’t answer.
