mad, come with me.”
Trepidation sparks in my chest. Sky’s been known for being an expert at subtly torturing her parents. Before her newest blonde hair and perfect makeup phase kicked in a few months back, she was into coming home with new piercings and new haircuts and colors and anything that would get a reaction out of her hyper-conservative mother. I understand now, of course, how thrilling the look of sheer terror on a parent’s face is when they see your newest tattoo. (I haven’t yet gone that far, though I think Sky’s up to her third).
Before I stand to follow her, fear inhibiting my legs from moving, she assures me, “Nothing extreme. Just a bit of a haircut.” When she says a bit , though, I know she means cleaving off at least a foot.
“No. Oh my god no.” I shake my head vigorously. “Dyeing it is one thing but…”
There’s no need to finish; Sky’s heard the story. Ever since I was a kid, mom’s been obsessed with long hair. She could never grow hers out long enough, so I was barely ever allowed to cut it. Even now, the cascades of crimpy, fading pink trail to the small of my back. If there’s anything that would kill my mother more than me showing up with an outsider, it would be debuting a chopped off head of hair.
“Come on , Del.” Sky has succumbed to the nickname bug that’s overtaken my family the past few years just like everyone else. “It’ll be fun. I won’t even do it myself if you don’t want me to.”
Honestly, and it’s embarrassing to admit this to myself, I can’t help but think about how Rhett’ll react if I change my hair suddenly. He’d probably like it, think it was cute and nerdy and nonconformist. The very thought slaps a smile on my face.
“That looks like a ‘yes’ to me!”
Gleefully and with abandon, Sky yanks me out the front door and we romp across the street and through her lawn and she bangs on the door. This is one of her favorite tactics to see if anyone’s home. Luckily, after a few minutes waiting, nobody answers the door and we charge forward. Through the polished wooden foyer and down the basement steps, where what could only be described as a torture chamber is kept. It’s Sky’s mom’s salon, as she’s one of the few Real Housewives of Lightfoot who actually has a job; my own mother quit her teaching job when she married Michael in favor of daily massages and spending excessive amounts of money on ‘retail therapy’ for ‘all the stress you kids have been causing me.’ Groan.
Sky leads me into the back room – her own personal station – and sits me down in a chair. Across from me is a wall-to-wall mirror and a counter loaded with cosmetics that range from every color hair dye and bottles and jars and tubes of makeup to various hair straighteners and crimpers and curlers, all of which look like medieval torture devices. The space is the antithesis of my bathroom counter, which contains hand soap and ponytail holders and not much else. I’ve only worn makeup when my mom forced me or I was prey to one of my eldest stepsister Mal’s cosmetology practice. She’s at college way up North along with my one step-brother (who I only met at mom and Michael’s wedding), Clay, so my beautifying enterprises begin and end with fancy parties.
“Shut your eyes.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
After about an hour of only hearing snipping and feeling globs of gel dabbed on my hair, Sky leads me to the front room and washes out my hair, then proceeds to style it before permitting me to see. Hot air steams across my skin and then there’s a scorching curling iron that burns my neck. All in all, she’s done in about two hours. By my calculations, Rhett’ll pick me up for mom’s ‘soiree’ in about an hour. Time enough to look at the probably frilly and too girly dress mom bought for me. Hopefully she used at least one ounce of her dwindling common sense while buying it.
Sky exclaims excitedly, “Viola! You may