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“Stephanie Plum,” I said to the fashion-forward woman at the salon reception counter. “I have an appointment.”
The woman looked at my towel. “Is this a color issue?”
“No,” I said. “Play-Doh.”
I removed the towel and the woman bit into her lower lip. I wasn’t sure if it was to keep from laughing or gagging. She stepped from behind the counter and motioned to Philip.
“We need triage here,” she said.
* * *
Potts arrived while I was in the shampoo area. He took a chair across from the reception desk and paged through the salon’s magazines, occasionally looking up to make sure I wasn’t being held at gunpoint. I was moved from the shampoo sink to Philip’s chair, and Lula came in. She breezed past Potts and came straight to me.
“Connie said you had a incident,” Lula said. “What’s that about?”
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“Ranger helped me apprehend Trotter, but before we got Trotter in cuffs I got some glop thrown at me.”
“It was in her hair,” Philip said. “We were able to get some of it out, but I’m going to have to cut the rest.”
“How much are you going to cut?” Lula asked.
“A couple inches,” Philip said. “Maybe four or five.”
I got light-headed and little black dots floated in front of my eyes.
“She looks whiter than usual,” Lula said.
“Deep breath,” Philip said to me. “Put your head down between your legs. Don’t worry. You’re going to look terrific.”
Potts rushed over. “I know CPR,” he said. “Does she need CPR? And I have an EpiPen. I always carry one because of my allergies. Does she need an EpiPen?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just had a moment.”
“It happens here all the time,” Philip said. “It’s the I’m going to cut all my hair off syndrome.”
“I can’t look,” Lula said. “I’m going out to the mall and get a big pretzel.”
“I’ll stay here,” Potts said. “Just in case she needs my EpiPen.”
“Okay, here we go,” Philip said to me. “Close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you.”
I kept my eyes closed through the cutting and the styling. Mostly because I didn’t want to embarrass myself by fainting or shrieking or jumping out of the chair before Philip was done. I heard the hair dryer cut off. Philip did some fussing with his magic fingers. And I heard Lula barge into the salon with her spike heels clacking on the tile floor.
“Omigod!” she said. “Omigod!”
“What? What omigod?” I asked. “Is it good? Is it awful?”
I opened my eyes. It was short. And kind of cute. Big curls and waves. He’d added red highlights.
I stared at myself in the mirror. “This isn’t me,” I said. “Who is this?”
“Girl, it’s the new you,” Lula said. “It’s Super Steph. This is happy hair. Kick-ass hair without going yesterday’s punk. Kudos, Mr. P.,” Lula said.
“It’s pretty,” Potts said. “Can I touch it?”
“No,” I told him. “Not ever.”
