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“Do you know what you’re doing?” She’s a personal shopper and while I have no doubt she has great taste when it comes to makeovers, actually doing the cutting work herself is a completely different story.
“It’s okay. I watched a YouTube how-to video on the way back from shopping. It looks easy,” she retorts.
She’s kidding, right?
Miranda is a lot like Rhia, I remind myself. And Rhia would most definitely say something like that.
“Ha. The look on your face is priceless,” she laughs. “Don’t fret, pet. I was a hairdresser long before I was a personal shopper. It was pretty much my only career option growing up in a small town. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, but that’s a story for another time.
“Remember Gary’s words. You’re in good hands with me. And the man is a genius. You listen to him.”
Should I point out he said that under duress?
Miranda drags a chair across the room to the full-length mirror and then grabs my hand and sits me down. Out of nowhere, she produces a hairdresser’s cape and wraps me in it.
“I’m proposing to cut your hair first, and then we make you a brunette. These are your color choices.” She points at three different packages of hair dye.
Sweat is gathering on my forehead. I had sworn to myself never to cut my hair short again. I look awful.
“Do we really have to cut it?”
“Yes,” both girls say in unison.
Miranda begins brushing my hair and wetting it with a spray bottle. “You know, a fresh haircut is a great way to mark a new beginning. It can be a literal trigger for new and better things. It can also be an intense release of emotions.”
“How short are we talking?” I ask, interrupting her dissertation on the psychology of haircutting.
“Pixie haircut,” she answers without hesitation.
“Uh, uh. No way!” I exclaim. “You’re not cutting my hair that short.”
Miranda scowls at me, putting her hands on her hips.
“I’m not changing my mind,” I tell her. “You might as well move on now.”
“Fine. Shoulder length is the longest I’ll agree to.”
I scrunch up my face. “Okay,” I say through gritted teeth, taking one last look at my golden locks. I love my hair. It’s the perfect length for me.
It will grow back, I reassure myself.
When Miranda gets the scissors, I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t watch this.
Then she begins.
It’s like I can feel the scissors cut through my mane, and I grimace as if in pain. But strangely, with every snip, the load on my head becomes lighter.
All along, Miranda shares more of her hair wisdom with me and even quotes studies that were done on the mental health benefits of cutting hair. Perhaps there’s some truth in it. Because my sense of confidence seems to be growing. Or am I imagining it?
Eventually, I even open my eyes and watch Miranda work her magic. Trina is sitting on the lounge with the stacking cups spread out on the coffee table. She’s watching a YouTube video and focusing hard to reproduce the movements. She’s actually pretty good, her movements fluid and graceful. I smile at her… we’ll have some fun with this later.
It’s now evening and dark outside. This has been the longest day in the history of days. I’m exhausted and ready to collapse.
Ethan and Garrett came in occasionally to supply us with drinks and food, and to assist Trina in her lesson on keeping a low profile. After that, my head was spinning with too much information. Lucky we’re going through it all over again tomorrow.
I’m finally alone after the guys did a photo shoot with the new me. By the end of tomorrow, I should hold my new passport in my hands and any other documentation I might need.
I go to the bathroom and stare at the stranger in the mirror.
