Before I Go

Chapter 2- Your Hair

I walk confidently into the salon, my head held high and a smile on my face. I'm wholly ready to take this step, to venture out of my comfort zone in all the different ways this impromptu appointment is about to present to me. I can do this. I can talk to a stranger without being awkward. I can change my appearance without panicking. I can fork over the significant amount of my father's money that it will cost to have my hair done by a professional in this building. I can do this.

Okay, so that's a bald-faced lie.

In fact, the way my hands are stuffed into the pocket of my oversized hoodie has my shoulders slumping in an entirely unattractive way. My eyes are glued to the floor, fully believing that making eye contact with any of the people in the salon is going to make me melt into a puddle on the shiny tiles. The muscles in my legs are twitching with the urge to turn around and run, to simply bolt directly out of here and never look back. My steps are slow, my feet barely lifting from the floor as I try to convince myself that everything will be okay. That I can do this. There's nothing to be afraid of. My heart, however, hasn't gotten the memo, and it's thrumming in my chest so fast that the individual beats have blended and blurred together into a single, steady vibration. My mind doesn't seem to agree with the thought, either, sending waves of panic throughout my entire body. I suddenly stop in my tracks and turn on my heel, ready to bolt back out the door.

"Can I help you?" a cheery voice asks, halting my escape.

My eyes close as I breathe deeply, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip as I desperately try to collect myself. I will myself to calm down, hoping that I won't have a panic attack and make a scene. The last thing I want right now is to embarrass myself.

Might as well get it over with now, Morgan. You're already here.

Slowly, I turn toward the woman at the counter, my eyes taking their time to travel upwards to meet hers. With an audible gulp, I gather all of my courage and force the words out of my mouth. "I'd like to have my hair dyed, please," I say, hardly louder than a whisper.

The woman smiles brightly, the sheer happiness on her face reaching clear up to her eyes. It almost calms me, in a way, the acceptance of my apparent awkwardness. Not quite, though. "Why don't you come on back with me, Sweetie, and we'll get you taken care of," she says.

With one final deep breath, I halfheartedly place my trust in her hands.

--

Well, I did it.

It's definitely different.

My hair has been professionally dyed a dark shade of brown, making my grayish-blue eyes pop. That's what the overly friendly stylist said, anyway-- I found out that that's the proper term for "hair color person," or whatever I had called her before. She also cut a few inches off, getting rid of my split ends and making me look "more mature." Her words, not mine. I have to admit that it looks good; she has some incredible skills.

I'm not sure if there's any "popping" going on here, though... But I guess my eyes maybe look a little brighter.

Or maybe she was just being nice...

I don't think I look any older, either. But my hair definitely looks nicer. I like it. I mean, I guess I do.

What if my dad hates it? I hope he doesn't get mad...

I take one last glance in the mirror before heading to the counter to pay the stylist. I give her a big tip, but I can't decide if it's because she did a good job or because she had to put up with my awkwardness for so long... I guess that doesn't really matter. Either way, she deserves the money. And I appreciate the kindness she's shown me despite my evident lack of social skills and sometimes overwhelming awkwardness.

I worry about what my dad will say when he sees my hair the entire way home. Will he like it? Hate it? Will he even notice? Will he care? Is he going to be mad that I spent so much money on having my hair done? Will he even ask about the money? As the questions race through my mind, I don't even notice that I've arrived at my house. It's a good thing I was walking; I can't imagine the things that could have happened if I had become that distracted behind the wheel of a car. I don't even want to...

I shove the thoughts aside as I enter the front door of my house, preparing myself for the worst. Expecting it, yet hoping that the opposite will happen. My dad sits in the living room, going over some paperwork at the coffee table, his steaming cup of black coffee next to him.

"Hi, Dad," I say cautiously, hoping that this currently serene version of him won't turn into "Scary Dad" the second he sees me.

"Welcome home, Buttercup," he says, glancing up from his work. I silently study my dad's face as he takes an extra few seconds to look at me, his eyes widening slightly and his lips parting in surprise. I see a small swirl of emotions quickly pass through his eyes, but none of them stay present long enough for me to put a name to them. "Your hair..."

I don't say anything; I don't think I physically can as the panic starts pooling in my stomach. I hold my breath, hoping whatever comes out of Dad's mouth next doesn't hurt.

"It looks nice," is all he says before returning to his work.

The air in my lungs slowly releases as I try to regain my ability to move. Somehow, I manage to climb up the stairs to my room. Closing the door behind me, I lean back into it, allowing the wave of relief to wash over me.

I guess that wasn't so bad, after all.