Exposed (Madame X, #2)(79)

FOURTEEN


My heart is in my throat, thick coil of black hair in one hand, scissors in the other. I blink and let out a breath, stare at myself in the hairdresser’s mirror, at Logan’s reflection. He’s standing behind me, hands in his pockets, watching. His friend, Mei, the stylist—who actually owns the entire salon—has my head in her small, delicate hands. Holding me steady. Soothing. Stroking nimble fingers over my scalp.

She understands, I think, even though I’ve told her nothing of myself, nothing of my story. I told her only that I needed to change my appearance drastically, and she met my eyes, stared at me knowingly for a long moment, and just smiled at me. Sat me in her chair, stroked her fingers through my hair, fanning it out, billowing it, pulling it back severely to assess the shape of my face, folding it up and under to get an approximation of what I might look like with shorter hair.

And then hands me her scissors. “You make the first cut,” Mei says.

Despite having been moments from shaving it to the scalp mere hours ago, now that I have my hair in hand and scissors ready to make the first cut, I’m having a moment of doubt. Of hesitation.

Logan says nothing. Just watches.

Mei takes the scissors from me. Moves to stand in front of me. She is short and slight, hair dyed lavender and clipped close on the sides, left longer on top, twisted and pulled back over her head. She speaks English fluently but with a pronounced Asian accent. “It’s your choice. You do it, you don’t do it, only one who matters is you. But I think you want to do it. We donate it to Locks of Love.” Her fingers run almost compulsively through my hair again. “You make first cut, I make you beautiful. Make you more beautiful. You already beautiful.”

She hands me the scissors again, lifts my hair bound between her fingers in a thick rope, a small gap between her two hands. “Cut between hands.”

I breathe out. Snip the scissors open and closed—snicksnick-snicksnick—and then, before I can second-guess myself any further, I open the scissors wide and cut between Mei’s hands. I feel weight float free from the column of my neck. My head feels lighter. Mei takes the scissors from me and moves around to stand in front of me, blocking my view of myself in the mirror. I shake my head, and the sensation is bizarre. No thick sheaf of hair waving at my back, no long strands tangling around my ears, draping over my shoulder. There is nothing. I want to cry, yet also laugh. I’m not sure which.

“Let me see,” I say.

Mei just shakes her head. “Not until I’m done. Close eyes.” I close my eyes. She spins me around, pats me on the shoulder. “Okay, open, but no peeking.”

She buttons a black cape around my neck, and her fingers run through my hair several times. Oh god. It’s short. So short. There’s so little up there for her fingers to even move through.

And then she starts cutting. Snick . . . snicksnicksnick . . . snicksnick. I feel bits of hair flutter down and land on the black cape, on my shoulders and sliding down to my lap. A bit here, a bit there, my hair going shorter and shorter and shorter. Her scissors are so fast, moving unerringly, never hesitating. As if she has a vision and knows exactly what to do to make it reality. Like a painter utterly sure of her brushstrokes. I’m staring at Logan, who is just standing in the middle of the deserted salon, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes on me, on Mei, watching intently. His expression is inscrutable, which makes me nervous. What does he think? Does he like it? Hate it?

What will I think?

I have no idea. I like the way it feels, though. Loose, light, free. Everything I want to be, everything I’m striving to be.

After what seems like an eternity of cutting, she steps away, gestures for me to stand up. “Come, come. Almost done. Wash, style, and then you see.” She leads me to a sink with a U-shaped divot in the front, puts me in the reclining chair, and settles me backward, so my neck rests in the U. Warm water, strong hands. She doesn’t just wash my hair, she massages my scalp, powerful fingers digging into my scalp and the back of my neck, loosening tension, relaxing me. Kneads shampoo into my now-short hair, rinsing it away. Towels me dry.

“Okay, back to chair.” She sprays a little foam into her palm, rubs her hands together a few times, then works the mousse into my hair. “It will take time to remember, but you only need a very little product now. Shampoo, conditioner, mousse, only a little. Before, so much hair, you need a lot. First few showers, you will squirt too much. Just laugh, every girl who cuts all her hair away does it. I had long hair, like you, once. Cut it all off, dyed it purple like so.” She gestures at her head. “To make my father angry. I use too much shampoo for weeks. Never remembered.”

She uses a blow dryer on my hair, brushing stiffened fingers through it, working it forward, smoothing it down on the sides. I feel it tickling my forehead, my temple, brushing my eyebrow.

It took her perhaps fifteen minutes total to wash, dry, and style my hair. It feels miraculous. It took me fifteen minutes just to shampoo all my hair, another fifteen to rinse it. And it would still be sopping wet for at least twelve hours after washing it. Sometimes a full day, or more.

Now, it’s washed, dried, and styled in fifteen minutes. No hours of brushing.

This alone makes me giddy.

“Yes, very good.” Mei places her hands on my shoulders, squeezes, leans down close to my ear. “Ready?”