Without The Words

Chapter 9

I hadn't let somebody wash my hair since my mother used to. I could vaguely remember the way her hands felt drenched in shampoo, caressing my scalp. I used to close my eyes and lean my head back into our kitchen sink, staring up at the ceiling with the smudge of a pancake we once flipped up there that had gotten stuck.

The lady worked skillfully at my hair, her gloved hands roughly scrubbing lavender scented shampoo into my scalp. She would rinse and repeat the process, but my focus zoned out because the sensation was far too relaxing. The warm water would splash into my eyes and the lady would mutter a distracted "sorry" but truthfully I couldn't care less, mainly because my eyes were already closed.

"Okay honey, go on and take a seat in the chair over there." The lady said, her voice laced with a thick southern accent. She gently placed a towel on my neck and gave me a tiny nudge. I shuffled over to the chair, already feeling my heart pace quicken with the fear of having to speak. I wrapped the fluffy pink towel tighter around my neck, letting my damp hair fall over it and dampen the towel in its' path.

I waited in the black salon-type chair, my feet dangling off the edge and my reflection staring back at me. Vera appeared behind me, a smile lingering on her lips. I raised my eyebrow.

"You're going to look so good once you're done," she said. "Oh, and you're also getting a manicure and some new clothes. I'm buying some for myself too, though, so don't worry. And the lady is coming over right now, so you can't argue with me because you're makeover is about to proceed." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and backed up a few feet, letting the southern accented lady stand behind me. I noticed Vera whisper in her ear.

"Dark brown?" The lady asked.

"Yeah. Not too noticeable, though. Just a little change."

"Okay. Any different style?"

"Make the tips blond. And some layers- oh yes, definitely some layers."

"Blond or ombré?"

"Definitely ombré."

"Alright."

All these decisions were being made for me, and in many ways I was so grateful for it that it made me upset. I would never be able to repay Vera for this. What she was doing do me was so wonderful that it almost felt unrealistic.

The lady instantly worked at my hair. She started cutting with specialized scissors, the snapping noise sounding oddly relaxing. She put some type of foil on the tips of my hair and added a liquid, then covered it up with more foil; a process I didn't question because she clearly knew what she was doing. Not that I would question, anyways.

She then blow-dried my hair and yanked at my knots with a different type of comb; a comb that actually hurt quite a bit but I suppressed my pained yelps by biting down on my bottom lip. Each strand of hair would be combed through and blow-dried at the same time, something I had never seen before.

When I was finally allowed off the chair because my hair was finished, I stretched out my legs and arms, with Vera sneaking pictures of me and claiming that I looked so "hot." I hadn't dared to look in the mirror yet. I didn't want anyone to see my reaction. What if I didn't like it? I wanted to prepare a facial expression for if I had to fake a way of expressing that I loved it.

I excused myself to the bathroom, and what stared back at me was a human I hardly recognized.

My hair was cropped a tiny bit above my shoulders, with blond tips that faded back into brown as it reached my scalp. My hair was shiny and knot-less and went surprisingly well with my skin-tone. Not once had I ever felt good about myself. This new sense of satisfaction in my appearance was exhilarating.