Chapter 11
eleven
Is there some scientific law mandating that salon chairs and mirrors have to turn you into an ogre?
Cringing, I cast my attention away from the floor-to-ceiling reflection in front of me, distracting myself from the way my stomach pooches and my limp, gray-blonde hair. Tris catches my eye with a wink, holding up her complementary champagne with a wide grin. “Is this not to die for?”
The salon really is beautiful. The sort of place I’d never be able to afford in a hundred lifetimes. Every mouthful of bubbly I swallow has me wondering how much this congratulatory gift cost her.
So far, I’ve been waxed from my eyebrows to my ankles, scrubbed, wrapped in seaweed, manicured, pedicured, moisturized, and now, apparently, someone will do my hair. All because Tris found a special for both of us and decided to book it to celebrate my first real paycheck.
I started to argue with her, but she pointed out that I needed headshots for my website. Now that I can afford them, I figured a little trim couldn’t hurt.
But leave it to Tris to dream big.
She holds a palette of pastel hair extensions beside my face, pursing her lips as if a cotton-candy mane is a true possibility. I bat her away, giggling. “Don’t even think about it.”
My best friend pouts for half a second before resuming her musings, isolating one of the lighter yellow shades and holding it beside my face. “I keep telling you how good light colors look on you, Alley Cat.”
My eyes start to roll, but they snag on the image across from me. I still look like I crawled out of a swamp… but I have to admit, she has a point.
“Tris,” I start, “You know what my mom says about dyeing it and my natural skin color…”
My mother is nothing if not an expert on my many inadequacies.
Over the years, she’s tried just about everything to help me look “presentable.” She paid to have my natural hair straightened and covered in keratin.
She took me to every makeup counter imaginable, lamenting that none of the cosmetics could quite disguise my paleness, my plump cheeks, or—worst of all—the “caveman” ledge of my eyebrows.
I can just picture her horrified face staring at me through FaceTime, berating whatever Tris’s hairdresser attempts to do to the flat, ashy-blonde-brindle tresses hanging around my face.
“Your mom can kiss my entire ass,” Tris announces, flouncing into the seat beside mine. “If having it done the way you want for once will piss her off, all the better.”
My mother and best friend have long-standing mutual hatred for one another.
Mom thinks Tris is loose, spoiled, and about fifteen other words that are all Southern Belle Code for “slutty and stupid.” Tris, on the other hand, thinks my mother is bitter, callous, and, in her words, “the world’s most insufferable bitch. ”
I think they both give me a headache.
“But, Tris—”
She cuts me off with a whine. “Oh, come on, Ali. Damien is amazing. Just let him do your hair this once, and if you hate it, I swear, I’ll help you dye it back to Dull As Dishwater Blonde, m’kay?”
I swallow a lump of hurt and look at my lap. I can’t exactly argue with her. I’ve spent most of the week hating how self-conscious I feel every time I’m around Ella, in their fancy townhouse. Or—worse—if Marco happened to be lurking in the background.
Blinking at my own image, I tug on the oatmeal-colored sweater I hate and comb out the wet ends of my frizzy hair. Tris has a point—these are all my mother’s choices. Do I like any of them? Would changing anything make me feel more confident?
Before I can decide, a long, lean man with gorgeous dark skin, a head full of shiny braids, and a gold septum piercing saunters into the salon space. “Okay, gorgeous, what are you—”
He spots me in his chair and stops short, his eyes leaping to Tris. “And… who is this in my chair?”
Tris goes for nonchalant, turning to me first. “Damien is the most sought-after stylist in the city. He only sees pre-vetted clients by appointment, but…” She tosses Damien a playful shrug and nods at me as she informs him, “She’s going to take my appointment today.”
The beautiful man rakes a critical glare over my hair, crosses his arms, and shakes his head. “Nuh-uh,” he says, evil-eyeing her. “No ma’am.”
Tris flashes her dazzling smile. “Damien,” she purrs. “You beautiful genius. Meet my best friend in the whole wide world, Alice Moore. She’s fabulous. You’ll love her.”
Damien’s glower doesn’t so much as flicker. He stares her down, tapping his black boot against the lacquered floor. “Mmhmm.”
At his sarcastic dismissal, I shrink. Tris doesn’t seem bothered at all. “She’s planning the Wedding of the Century, D,” my best friend pushes. “She needs to look the part. And everyone knows you’re the best in town. And the best stylist in New York is basically the best in the world, no?”
He blows air out of his nose, his slim shoulders falling forward. “Pain in my ass,” he snaps at her, closing the distance. He comes up behind me and offers a wry smile in the mirror. “Hello. Your friend is the worst.”
It’s hard to stay offended when he is so funny. “I know. She really is.”
He sifts long fingers through my locks, scowling once more. “Now, tell me, what sort of heinous criminal did this to you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he lifts my tresses, examining the hair around my neck. “Lord Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head again. “Beatrice Dunn, you owe me.”
He cuts her a look before once again regarding me in the mirror. His eyes soften when he sees the mortification staining my cheeks. “You ready?”
I hesitate. “W-what are you going to do to it?”
Damien grins. “Oh, baby. Everything.”
Tris keeps us all entertained while Damien works. She asks about Ella’s latest color selections—our bride is still on a pink kick, though I don’t tell either of them—and whether Grayson ever walks around shirtless in front of me. That leads to an in-depth retelling of Tris’s antics last Sunday.
Damien moves with leonine grace, brushing various serums and creams over my hair without bothering to explain his process.
I recognize foil for highlights and the burn of bleach wafting in the air.
After a wash, he gets to work with scissors, knocking a few inches off before adding layers, plus a few shorter pieces around my face that he calls “The Moneymakers.”
I expect him to pull out the hairdryer and a round brush like every other stylist I’ve ever met. Instead, he brandishes a diffuser and a bottle of gel.
“Here’s the deal,” he announces. “If I ever hear of you straightening this beautiful hair again, I will come to your house and slap the bejesus out of you.”
I blink at my reflection, noting the lighter blonde woven into the kinky, wet clumps. “Umm… then, what am I supposed to do? It’s a mess if I don’t straighten it.”
He glares at me. “It’s a mess because you straighten it.
Baby, I don’t know what kind of disastrous white-bread bitch told you to use a flat iron, but they’re assholes.
You have curly hair. Gorgeous curls. I’m going to show you how to do them.
” He rolls his head toward Tris. “And Miss Thing over there is going to buy all the products. Right?”
Tris grins. “Right.”
When I pout, Tris giggles. “Come on, Alley Cat. You look hot. And you never know when a gorgeous man will show up on your doorstep, right?”
I almost snort. Yeah. Right.