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Belinda had been my hairdresser for years, but I’d been mad at her when she’d encouraged me to stop bleaching it. She told me she thought I’d look much better as a brunette and that my hair condition would improve. I’d taken offense and found a hairdresser who would do what I asked and not what she thought would look better. It is ironic, really, that I’m returning to her chair for her to transform me.
Belinda smiles triumphantly while assessing the haystack that’s my hair. I take a breath and prepare myself to be humble.
“Well, as you can see, I’ve still been bleaching my hair, but I think it’s time for a change.” She looks from my hair to me. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and there’s a slight hint of a smile in the corners of her mouth. “I’d like to be a brunette if that’s possible?”
“Are you sure?” Belinda asks, quickly continuing before I change my mind, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m in total agreement, as I’m sure you can remember. I always thought you would look better with dark hair.”
“I remember.” I smile. “But I wasn’t ready to lose the blonde.”
“But you are now?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Great. Let’s get started.” Belinda pulls up a trolley, pulling out drawers with large shade charts and combs. She’s suddenly animated, a beam to her face as she places her tools on the trolley.
I take the pins out of my hair, embarrassed at how dry the ends are. The lack of styling in the last twenty-four hours means I closely resemble an old Girl’s World styling head that has seen better days.
“Are we going to cut some off today?”
“Yes.” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the commitment I’m about to make. “I’m actually looking for a complete restyle.” There, it is done. No going back now. Belinda leans in, her hands lost in my hair.
“Great. I’ve always had the perfect style for you in mind, but I never thought that you would ever let me cut it. I presume it still has that great natural curl you insist on ironing out.”
“Yes, it is still curly.”
“Fabulous.” She grins.
I smile, telling myself this will be worth it.
* * *
Belinda works quickly and with an enthusiasm that must have been stored up since my last visit, but even so, I’m in the salon for several hours.
My eyes glaze over the glossy magazines, but every face is Carl’s, every celebrity resembles Lewis, and every model looks like Gianni’s wife.
I’m still in shock, and my brain is playing tricks on me. Recent events have unearthed my past from the depths where I’d hidden it.
Once it went to youth court, the evidence spoke for itself. The police had spoken to teachers from my school about the graffiti. They’d spoken to Frank, who’d told them what I’d confided in him. They asked me repeatedly why I did not tell my parents. When they learned about my grandad, they understood why I didn’t want to burden them with anything else.
I told my version of events, never wavering. I told them about the joint, the argument, and the lighter. I told them everything.
“I tried to fight him. I tried to push him off me, but he was too strong. I thought we were both going to die.”
“It’s okay, Chloe. You’ve done well. It must be hard going over this again and again, but you understand how important your statement is, right?” I nod. “What you say will affect what happens at the trial, so let’s be clear on one thing. Carl intentionally set fire to your house. Is that what you are saying?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
But that’s not exactly what happened.
“What do you think?” Belinda pulls me from the murky waters. She’s holding up a large round mirror aimed at the back of my head. I stare at the reflection. I can’t quite believe how different I look. I’d not counted on the extent of the transformation before me.
My hair sits patiently upon my shoulders, with several shades of brown running through my crown, giving a feeling of autumn as the warmth of my new color lights up my skin. My blonde hair had been long with no shaping at the front. It hung like a lifeless pair of curtains that were never closed. Now I have softer pieces framing my face, changing its shape entirely. The movement from the curls feels surreal. And even though I don’t want to admit it, the color brings out the green in my eyes and gives my skin a glow I’ve never seen before. It will take some getting used to, but I’m too relieved to mourn my old look. I smile, my face is my own again, and the dead woman has disappeared among the offcuts of hair that lay on the floor, ready to be swept away.
I thank Belinda profusely and leave her a generous tip on top of the hefty bill. She’s beaming as I leave, swinging my hair over my shoulder as if I’m in a cliché shampoo advertisement.
My phone buzzes as I stride to the car, almost forgetting what car I’m in. My phone has been going mad the entire time I’ve been in the salon, but I have ignored every single message and missed call. The majority have been from Gianni.Where are you? Are you okay? Have you been to the police station?
But I’m not ready to talk to him yet.
