Page 77 of Untruly With You

The roar of blow dryers and the rhythmic beat of a carefully curated playlist welcome me in. Stylists, clad in chic black attire, wield scissors like artists' brushes. And the best part, along one wall, a massive collage of avant-garde hairstyles smiles down at me, every bit as beautiful as the Sistine Chapel to me in this moment.

“That better not be Laine Rodriguez,” a familiar voice says from the washing station at the back.

“Hi, Paul,” I say in a singsong voice.

Paul, a close friend of Dad’s, has been cutting my hair since I was a toddler. In fact, he’s been cutting my hair in theexactsame bang-and-bob combo since I was a toddler. At every appointment, I start with twenty minutes of rambling about the endless possibilities I could do with my hair.Eventually, Paul gets sick of that and cuts it the same way he always has. He was the one to give me my first tube of lipstick, telling me that if I wear a red lip every day, it’s one less decision I’ll need to make.

“You know I won’t do it,” Paul says as I stalk up to him.

I smile innocently. “Do what?”

Paul points an accusing finger at me. “Whatever it is you want me to do. You were eight years old when you made me swear to never change your hair. And every few months, you come back in here, we have this conversation, and you end it by making me renew this vow.”

I fold my hands together and hold them to my chest in a begging motion. “I just need a change. A change that won’t alter my life, but that will distract me for at least an hour.”

Paul narrows his eyes at me. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

“Not a chance!” Paul holds his arms out to the side in a wide gesture, drawing the attention of half the patrons in the salon. He goes back to rinsing his client’s hair.

I smirk, shrugging. “If you don’t do it, I’ll just get the old rusty craft scissors I have in my junk drawer. Or maybe I’ll buy clippers and really go to town. I’ll look like that chick fromMad Max.”

Turning my attention to the collage on the wall, I point at the first one that jumps out at me. “That one.” In the picture, the model’s bangs were cut to maybe an inch below her hairline. The sides of her hair were trimmed short, and the back is left longer. To top it all off, her hair is a vibrant cobalt blue.

“Sorry, no,” Paul scoffs. “Those pictures are for art’s sake, not for normal people. I’m not having you walk out of here with a futuristic mullet the shade of Cookie Monster’s ass.”

“You’ve got to give me something,” I plead. “Something fresh, something to mark a new chapter in my life.”

My puppy-dog eyes must have been pitiful enough, because Paul slumps his shoulders a touch. After a long groan, he concedes. “Baby bangs.”

I nod my approval.

“And a pixie cut,” he adds. “VeryRoman Holiday.”

“You’re the visionary,” I say, happy at the prospect of having my hands stuck under a big black cape soon. Because at least for an hour, during the cut, I can’t be tempted to text Sutton.

“But I have appointments all day, kid,” Paul says, looking pointedly at his hands, wrist-deep in the shampoo bowl amidst strips of discarded foil. “If you need this done today, you’ll have to be patient. I might be able to fit you in while a client’s color is processing.”

“Beyond fair.” I head toward the waiting area but turn back quickly, holding my phone up to Paul. “Do you mind if I stash this back here?”

Paul, too busy to bother asking why I don’t want my phone during the wait, just gives me a go-ahead wave of his hand.

Time drags on. Paul’s salon is too upscale to have TVs in the waiting area. In fact, there is only one thing to occupy my time with: fashion magazines in a perfect line on the coffee table. I wait around long enough to read through each one multiple times.

With every second that ticks by, I have to fight myself. Everything in me wants to grab my phone from the shelf in the back of the room. It sits among the shampoo bottles. I can almost hear it singing to me like a siren from a Greek myth.

I have to wait through one and a half appointments before Paul squeezes me in. He gives me a single tip of his head, calling me to the wash station in the back. As soon as I’mseated, he swishes the cape around me and finger-combs through my bob. The corners of his mouth twitch.

“You’re absolutely certain about this?” His eyes are full of remorse, like he’s personally mourning the loss of my trademark style.

“Come on, Paul. You know me better than that. I’m never absolutely certain about anything.”

He gives my hair another longing stare, and then, probably remembering that he only has so much time, he goes to work. After a quick wash, we’re at his station. Thanks to years of experience, Paul dives on in without wasting a second. The moment I hear the first snap of the shears, I drop my eyes to my lap and play with my rings under the black cape. And for the rest of the cut, I second-guess my choice.

That is, however, until Paul blow-dries my hair, styles it, and instructs me to—finally—look up.

“I cut my hair,”I tell Mom over the phone, pacing down the street. I felt lighter immediately after the haircut, like I was shedding my old self.ThisLaine Rodriguez will be organized. Stable. Predictable. She will not tack up every poster and art print on her wall or clutter her calendar with nonsensical Post-it notes.

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