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The shower felt exquisite. It looked like I'd lost a little weight through this ordeal. I lathered my hair with shampoo, twice, then rinsed and conditioned. Denise had found a fresh hospital gown, which would have to do until Ray returned with my clothes.
Once I’d toweled off, Denise had me sit on the bedside chair while she combed out my wet locks. “Now, I’m going to spray on a little detangler here, honey,” she explained. I felt so good under her careful hands.
“Honey, are you particularly fond of wearing your hair this long and with this blunt cut that you have?” she asked me, wrinkling her nose slightly.
“Why?” I asked, eying her a bit suspiciously, noting she wasn't fond of my current hairstyle.
My thoughts strayed back to my freshman year of high school, two days before class pictures were being taken. Mom decided that my hair needed a bit of a trim before picture day. My hair fell to my shoulders and I loved the way it swung softly about.
“Just an inch or so, Ty,” Mom prods. “Just let me get the split ends off. It will lay better and look much healthier for your pictures. If I’m paying for those pictures then you can damn well make sure you look your best in them, hear?”
An hour later, I look at the pile of hair laying on the bathroom floor in shock. I grab the hand mirror off the vanity. I see the look of horror that appears on my face as I see my own reflection. My hair is in a short, butch cut. My mom's beside me, watching my reaction. I turn and face her incredulously.
“Now don’t blame me!” she says, holding her hands up defensively. “You got that funny shaped head and it makes it hard when I’m trying to even up both sides of it. Had to keep taking more off so I could get it evened up, but I think it’s cute. You ought to see the back. I think they call this a bob.”
When she sees I’m not buying it she gets more flustered with me. “It’s just hair, dammit! It’s not like it won’t grow back. I swear, I try and do something nice for my girl and do you think she appreciates it? Hell no - no way!"
“I’m sorry, I’m sure once I wash and style it myself it will be fine. I'm sorry, Mom."
“Tylar? Earth to Tylar?” It was Denise’s voice bringing me back to the present. “How about it? I've a really cute cut in mind. I want to take a little length off; I’ll mostly just put it in long layers to frame around that beautiful face of yours. And how about if I put in some highlights?” she coaxed eagerly. “Nothing major, mind you, just to soften the look and highlights will give this gorgeous hair of yours more depth. What do you think?"
“Go for it, Denise,” I allowed.
Forty-five minutes later Denise had finished.
“All done,” she announced pleased with the look. We hurried into the bathroom so she could show me the results. Flipping on the light, she spread out her arms, “Voila!”
“Wow,” I said, then another “Wow!”
“You like?” she beamed proudly.
“Yes, Denise, actually, it looks really great. I look like—”
“—Rachel!”
Yep, that was what I thought. The style was gorgeous; the highlights were radiant. I swung my head from side to side. The layers bounced. I stared at my reflection. How could I not love looking like Jennifer Aniston’s hair double?
Denise was clearly pleased with her workmanship. My hair was now an exact replica of Jennifer Aniston’s style from, oh, 15 years ago? I liked it well enough and it was an improvement over the last cut. It was still long enough to pull up into a ponytail when I worked. I knew Denise was waiting for more.
“Denise,” I said, turning to her and smiling, “I love it!”
I gave her a big hug and watched as she beamed proudly.
It was a little after five when my dinner tray arrived. Denise and I'd been chatting away, losing track of the time. I was famished and ate hungrily as Denise busily put her tools of the trade away in her case.
“You go on and eat, honey. Don’t mind me,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Ray should be here any minute with your stuff, and then we're going to grab a bucket of cluck on our way back to my place.”
I'd just finished eating and Denise was watching the news when Ray arrived. He carried a wrapped box along with my cell phone and charger. He placed the items down on my bed.
“What’s this?” I asked peering at the gift-wrapped box.
“Oh,” he shrugged, “I think maybe Jenna felt guilty about what happened. Instead of going into your cottage, she went out shopping. She said that this would fit you fine, and to give you her best wishes.”
“Open it,” Denise directed excitedly.
I complied, tearing the wrapping paper off.
Oh, my!
