Could This Be Love?

A quick call, and I haul ass to Beverly Hills–it’s my second date, with my new hair stylist. Since I moved back to the left coast, I’ve been a salon slut of one appointment stands, doing it all over L.A., trading up from my Santa Monica stand-by to 90210 salons. And now I’ve met Sally, a Japanese middle-aged girl with a face rounded like my mother’s. Her nose is gently balled at the tip like my mom’s, her eyebrows her same soft arches, and I see the powder puffs of skin under her earthy eyes and think of the trust of paying someone to do with your head whatever they like.

“Yes, I think you go slightly red, just with a glaze,” she says. She fingers my hair, a convincing caress like her soft sales pitch that I de-virginize my brown bob with a popping cherry color.

“How much maintenance?” I ask, already overbooked.

“It fades and grows out if you don’t like it. You won’t see any roots.”

Life’s short, like my skirt. Fuck it, “let’s do it.”

I lie back, cradled in black leather while a woman washes my hair, her fingers tangling into its wetness, her hands moving in and out of my hair. My back’s lightly arched, my Lucite heels lifted slightly off the floor, while I lift my eyelids so I can read a 17th century novelized porn on my iPhone. Soon Sally comes with blood dye, and I feel her fingers rubbing slowly into my skin. She covers my hair with a plastic cap, stroking the frame of my face with a towel, leading me to simmer under a heater for a few minutes. Then she comes again and rinses my head, and I’m dripping wet as she guides me to her chair.

I’m excited for the change, and then I wonder, “What if I grew my hair out? I haven’t had long hair since I popped out of my mom’s pussy. Or since I was 15. What do you think?”

“I think that’ll make you blend in. Right now you are… Like I see you on the street and look twice.” She mimes double-checking me, as I watch her in the mirror. “Not many people have this hair. They see it, but they do not want to go that short. This should be your signature cut.”

I smile, I’m all trust, “I’m sold. But what about blond highlights, maybe bronde hair?”

“Oh, no.” She shakes her head, and the black lines of her hair turn into soft waves in the air. “It is not you.”

“I’d have to invest in Juicy sweats and extensions to match, you mean?”

She tilts my head back, tugs lightly on my hair, controlling its shape with gentle snips, relieving my bob of fluff. Then she blows me dry, the hairdryer hot breath on my head, and soon my locks are slicked comic-book shiny, glowing a satisfied, subtle red.

“I love it,” I say, my voice a sigh. “It’s brightened up everything. My cheeks even look rosier, and my eyes are popping like I put on five coats of mascara. You were right.”

She just smiles at me in the mirror, fingering my hair.

I think I’ve met the one.

� Erica Weiner scissors necklace $50, Chocosho.com

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