Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
We arrive at a sleek salon, the name Claire Huntington etched in elegant script on the glass door. Inside, the air is scented with the smell of hair products. The space itself is all white and chrome. Mirrors line the walls. Claire, the hairdresser, comes out to the reception to greet us. She air kisses Sara, then her sharp blue eyes turn to me. She takes one look at my waist-length blonde hair and claps her hands, her bracelets jangling.
“Oh, honey, we’re going to make your hair sing,” she says, her voice brimming with excitement, her energy infectious.
I sink into the plush chair, its leather cool against my back, and face the mirror. One of her girls starts washing my hair while Sara and her go off into the interior of the salon.
When I’m prepped and ready, Claire comes to stand behind me. She grins at me in the mirror, then her hands begin to move with practiced grace, her scissors snipping with precision, trimming just enough to shape my hair, styling it into bangs and layers that frame my face and fall over my shoulders down to the middle of my back.
Then she starts to blow-dry my hair, cascading down my back like a golden curtain. Fifteen minutes later, and the transformation is startling—my eyes seem bigger and brighter, my face softer, more alive, as if she’s peeled back a layer of the woman I’ve hidden away.
“Bet you didn’t know you could look so beautiful, did you?” Claire asks. Her smile is wide and genuine, but I flush with embarrassment.
Sara, who has been sitting on one of the chairs further along and having her roots done while flipping through magazines and sipping from a glass of champagne, comes over and beams her approval.
“Told you,” she says, nodding with satisfaction.
I touch a glowing lock, and my fingers tremble, still startled by the woman staring back—her green eyes brighter, her face softer, as if Claire’s scissors have carved away a layer of the terrible grief I’ve worn for years.
“You’ve made it shiny… like you,” I whisper, my voice clogged with guilt. My jealous heart has judged her too harshly. She is too kind to hurt. As soon as possible, I must leave her house and her family.
Sara’s hand grazes my arm, warm and encouraging. “Ready for the fun part?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with eagerness.
I nod and smile brightly, hiding my sadness.
We step out into the city’s chic streets, the crisp blue sky stretching above us like a promise. Boutiques line the boulevard, their glass storefronts displaying mannequins draped in fabrics that shimmer under the midday sun.
The air hums with life—honking taxis, the chatter of passersby, the faint jingle of a street musician’s guitar—and I let Sara lead, her stride confident, her tote bag swinging at her side. We duck into the first shop, a long, narrow space with exposed brick walls and racks of dresses that spill color like a painter’s palette.
The air inside is scented, the soft melody of a piano recital blending with the rustle of silk and satin. Sara waves to the sales assistant, whom she is clearly familiar with, and moves through the aisles, her fingers deftly pulling pieces from the racks.
“Try this,” she says, holding up a sultry black dress, its fabric sleek and form-fitting, cut low at the neckline and high on the thigh, and a clear promise to hug every curve in between.
My cheeks flush, the boldness of it catching me off guard, and I shake my head, a nervous laugh escaping.
“That’s… a little too much for me,” I protest politely.
She arches a brow, her smile teasing. “Nonsense,” she dismisses, and presses it into my hands. “Go try it. You’ll feel like a goddess in this.”
I look at the dress doubtfully.
“Trust me,” she says persuasively.
I look up at her. Her confidence is implacable and infectious, and with a resigned sigh, I relent, taking the dress to the curtained fitting room. The thick burgundy drapes muffle the shop’s sounds, as I slip out of my sundress. The black dress slides over my body like a second skin, clinging to my hips, my waist, the neckline dipping to reveal the swell of my breasts. In the mirror, a stranger with glowing hair and a lot of her body on show stares back at me. My breath catches, a thrill of excitement fizzles through me. Is it really that easy to step into this new version of myself?
Sara’s voice calls from outside. “Come on, let me see!”
I step out, and her eyes widen. For an instant, just an instant, her eyes flash with some strange emotion. Something unkind, something hateful. Then the almost imperceptible moment is suddenly gone. Almost as if it never existed, as though I imagined it. I must have, because she claps and joyfully cries out. “Oh, Amelia, you look absolutely stunning. You have to get it.”