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“I need a makeover.”
At the prospect, her eyes sparkle. She calls out various names. A team of beauty professionals and personal shoppers appears. Chiara drags me to her the moment I take a step back. “Remember the higher goal.”
“And that would be?”
“You. You’re doing this for you. And it will be quite the bonus for Cam to choke on his spit when he sees you.”
I wish. But she’s right. I could continue playing in the disguise that’s made me famous because that’s also a part of me. I just want to reveal my other side too.
The woman turns to the other three. “And you lovelies?”
“The whole spa menu until she’s done.”
The girls send me supportive glances and leave me alone with the beauty team.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
A young woman approaches me and she points toward a sitting area.
“Something to drink? Perhaps a chai latte?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Excuse my colleagues. They hear ‘makeover’ and they lose it.”
I smile at her efforts to put me at ease.
“You knew I was freaking out.”
“I studied psychology, but being a hairdresser is my calling.”
She brings me the tea, and I take a few sips.
“Ready?” she asks.
Nodding, I sit in a chair in front of the mirror and take off my glasses. With trembling fingers, I place them on the counter. Catching my green eyes in the mirror, I inhale deeply. Soon, every protective layer will be gone. A shudder rattles through me at the thought.
When she peels my wig off, I shift in my seat, gripping the armchair to stay grounded.
I can do this. I have to do this despite every fiber in me revolting.
My strawberry-blond hair spills over my shoulders. Exposed, I force myself to remain seated. Going back to my disguise means I remain a prisoner. Changes don’t care about you being comfortable; they’re all about pushing you out of your comfort zone. Strength and resilience are earned.
As she brushes my hair, she says, “You’re beautiful. And your eyes are... I didn’t even know such a green color existed.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have something in mind?”
I shake my head. While she gets to work, I get a manicure, a pedicure, and a new eyebrow shape that makes my eyes pop even more.
When she’s done, I look at myself and gasp. My hair shines with the extra highlights. It’s trimmed in layers, reaching my breasts in light waves.
The woman looking back at me is not the one I’ve been hiding for years—it’s a newer version. Putting my hands over my face, I cry. This time in relief. It feels so good to finally drop the baggage that almost broke me. I’m strong. I’m alive. I can deal with anything life throws at me.
I see a woman and a young man looking at me from the corner of my eye. They introduce themselves and I learn one is a stylist and the other a personal shopper. After they’re done fawning all over me, which feels pretty damn good, I follow them downstairs, where a clothes boutique occupies the entire floor.
I spend the next two hours going through different styles, discovering a love for skirts of all kinds. The recurring colors are tones of beige, camel, and salmon. Black remains, but just as an accent. Blazers, various types of blouses and pants, decadent, lacy underwear, and over twenty pairs of shoes complete my new wardrobe. The shoppers call my style casual edging on elegant. I think it represents me well. When I have enough clothes to fill my entire walk-in closet, I change into a plaid short skirt, a green blouse that exposes my shoulders, and knee-high boots.
