Rock Bottom Girl(71)

“I’d like to point out that we’re not on school property, and you can’t give us detention for swearing or not listening to you,” Ruby announced, leading the way toward the back of the store.

“Understood.” Did that mean I could swear, too? I definitely did not have the vocabulary of someone shaping America’s future. “I’d also like to point out that please remember I’m low maintenance.”

“Low maintenance doesn’t have to mean absolutely zero fucks given,” Morgan E. shot back.





There were aisles and aisles of makeup, skin care products, hair tools. Artful displays of charcoal face masks and fake lashes caught my eye.

I was officially in over my head. At their mercy.

Ruby stopped at the entrance to the in-house salon and faced me. “Do you trust us?” she asked.

I looked around the circle. No one looked like they were choking on laughter or trying to cover up nefarious intent.

“Yeah. I guess so,” I said finally.

“Good,” Angela said. “Because we’ve picked a haircut for you.”

“Lemme see.” Oh, God. Was it a pixie cut? I didn’t think I had the bone structure or the hair product to pull one of those off.

Sophie S. crossed her arms. “We want you to trust us with your hair.”

I swallowed hard. It was just hair. It would grow back. Unless they used some kind of next-generation Nair that ate through my scalp. Oh my God!

My team wanted to know that I trusted them. Hair grew back.

“Okay,” I decided. “I trust you.”

They went from serious negotiators to giddy teenage girls in a heartbeat, clapping and squealing.

“Coach, this is Wilma. Wilma, this is our coach. We want you to do this to her,” Natalee said, holding up her phone to the six-foot-tall South American beauty sporting purple eye shadow and one skinny silver braid in a sea of thick, highlighted curls.

Wilma studied the screen, then me, and then the screen again. Her eyes narrowed.

“This is doable,” she decided.

She looked like she could be an authority on things like not ruining a person’s psyche with a bad haircut, so I decided to just go with it. “Let’s get this over with,” I sighed.

Wilma whirled the cape around me and pushed me into a chair.

“We’re going to get started on your makeup look,” Phoebe announced, and the girls dispersed.

“Oh, God. This has the potential to go horribly wrong, doesn’t it?” I asked Wilma.

“Darling, you will leave here better than you arrived. Now, how do you feel about defuzzing these caterpillars?” she asked, running a pink-tipped fingernail over my eyebrows.





Wilma spun me away from the mirror, presumably to prolong the torture. But at this point, it wasn’t necessary. I was resigned to my fate. I’d never had a relationship with my hair. It existed. I existed. We were two separate entities that were completely apathetic toward each other. There wasn’t much Wilma could do that I would either a) notice or b) really, truly care about.

My main concern at the moment was paying for this. I was still flat broke. I’d earned a few paychecks, but nearly every dime had gone to late fees on my credit cards and personal loans. The rest had gone to my parents and groceries and my athletic support of Libby.

I had a feeling my $500 emergency fund was about to be depleted to nearly nothing.

“Uhh. That looks like a lot of hair,” I observed, watching very large, very long chunks of my brown hair detach from my head. My eyes were still stinging with involuntary facial hair-waxing tears.

“I’m defining a shape,” Wilma said. “You have no shape. Just blah. Blah is not a shape. When was your last haircut?”

“A while ago.” I was afraid what she’d do with those scissors if I admitted that it had been close to a year and a half. I’d been busy. Then broke. I wasn’t going to spend money on a mane when there were bills to pay and alcohol to buy to numb my pain. It was thick, brown, and, well, that was it. Even when I worked in an office, I wore it in a tail or a knot. Elastic bands were my only accessories.

She continued violently snipping, and I tried to tune it out.

As long as it was long enough to pull back, I’d be fine. I comforted myself with that thought. When the scissors stopped, I breathed a short-lived sigh of relief. Then it was on to color or highlights or God knows what. I’d never had my hair professionally colored. The few times I’d been desperate for a change, I’d grabbed a box off the grocery store shelf and thrown it in my cart. That’s how I ended up with burgundy hair that one Thanksgiving.

“This isn’t a weird, punk rock color is it?” I asked Wilma. “I kinda have to set an example for students and not get fired by the school board.”

“Your example will be a much more attractive one,” she said. I noticed she hadn’t bothered answering my question.

I submitted to the foil, the heat, the rinsing, all the while listening to my girls pick up and comment on every single freaking product in the store. And I vowed that no matter what it took, someday I would be in a position where I didn’t have to freak out over every expense.

Wilma turned on the hair dryer and drowned out my internal pity party.

Slowly, the audience around my chair began to grow. The girls were grinning smugly as Wilma worked her long fingers through whatever was left on my head.