Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Camille seems satisfied. She stands, smoothing her skirt. “Perfect. I’ll have the receptionist send some salon recommendations to you, and then please return tomorrow once your hair is done. We’ll take the photos then.”
I nod and swallow, my fingers numb. “That’s it?”
She nods. “That’s it. I’m sorry you’ve had to come in so many times already, Ms. Vreeland, but as you can see, our vetting procedures are arduous for a reason. We want the best, and it takes many rounds to winnow the candidate pool. Please, let me know when you’re ready for your photos.”
I manage to smile and nod, before exiting the building.
I walk out into the cold, bright city, the sun like a searchlight. In the reflection of the glass, I see myself: a pink-haired girl with a future she can’t quite believe in yet. But I don’t want to get rid of the pink hair! It’s me!
A ping sounds on my phone then, and sure enough, another one thousand dollars was just deposited in my account. It seems that rich people can do, and will do anything, to get what they want. There’s simply no stopping the train.
I swallow because I haven’t even been hired, yet I’ve already made two thousand dollars.
But now, I’m even more determined to see the process through.
When I get home, I throw myself onto the sagging futon, and stare at my ceiling, mentally calculating the value of each dyed lock. Tuition: $2700. Rent: $780. Groceries, utilities, one (1) functional pair of boots. It’s math, but it’s also a referendum on my entire identity. Every time I close my eyes, I see Camille’s face, the way her gaze didn’t even flicker when she said “return your hair to its natural color.” Like pink was a temporary error. Like she could see straight through to the wheat-blonde underneath and knew that was who I was supposed to be.
I flip my phone over and stare at the screen. No texts from Simone. For a second, I debate calling my mom, but I can already hear the speech: “Be yourself, unless you can be better.” I don’t need that right now.
I pad over to my bathroom and stare in the mirror. My roots are showing—a good half-inch of blonde—but the rest is bubblegum, faded at the ends from too many cheap box dyes. Fortunately, my skin looks creamy under the bathroom light, and my blue eyes are a clear cornflower color. I touch my pink strands, twirling a lock between my fingers.
I try to picture myself with “normal” hair, and suppose going back to blonde should be okay. After all, it’s just hair and hair always grows back.
When I show up at the salon recommended by Sweet Lies the next morning, the front desk woman greets me by name, which is unnerving. She leads me to a chair in the back, where a colorist with the arms of a linebacker and the voice of a preschool teacher waits.
“Golden or ash?” she asks, patting my scalp with alarming gentleness.
I smile.
“Whatever you think best.”
She nods, eyeing my hair.
“We’ll need to strip the pink, then tone. It’ll be a few hours, hon.”
“Okay,” I say, then settle in to wait. For the next three hours, I’m trapped in a cloud of fumes, reading old gossip magazines and listening to the colorist’s monologue about her rescue chihuahua. I lose all track of time until she finally spins me around to face the mirror.
Gone is the shield of pink, but what’s left is absolutely gorgeous. I gasp because the my hair resembles a golden river trailing over my shoulders. My skin looks brighter, somehow, and my entire mien lifted. Who knew?
When I leave, I text Camille as instructed: “Done. Blonde again.”
The reply is instantaneous. “Excellent. Please return to the office at 10 a.m. tomorrow for the final onboarding.” Sure enough, my phone chimes within minutes with another one thousand dollar deposit. They really know how to motivate someone, don’t they?
I stand on the sidewalk, the wind blowing my new hair into my eyes, and think: this is how you become someone else. You sign a contract. You do what you’re told, and wait for your reward. Is that really so bad? It’s how the world works.
That night, Simone finally texts: “Hey, still alive? Did you take the job?”
“Still waiting,” I type. “They have sooo many rounds of interviews.”
The read receipt comes, but no reply.
I crawl into bed and hug the pillow tight. I tell myself I know what I’m doing. That I’m not in over my head. That I’m not scared. That the position is only temporary, anyways, and I can go back to being me afterwards.
In the morning, I pull on a blue sweater and dark slacks, and for a second, I almost look like every other girl on campus. I wonder if anyone will even recognize me, with luscious blonde locks instead of pink.