Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [70]
I leaned in toward the mirror and studied my image. In past years I’d changed my hairstyle very little except for—vainly, I thought when I was in a self-critical mood—dying the gray streak that had been there since my teens. My hair was black and thick and very long; I wore it free or bound into a ponytail for casual occasions, knotted or piled high when I wanted to look like a grown-up. It was probably my most recognizable feature, and I’d always been proud of it.
But now as I stared into the mirror, I saw it for what it was and wondered why I’d kept it this way. With it flowing down my back, I looked like one of those people who are trying to make time stand still. Worse than that, I looked like a caricature that was about to take its place next to the leftover hippie.
Strange, I reflected. I’d never considered myself one who hung on to the past. I thought I’d let go of it repeatedly, so many times in so many ways. Apparently not so.
I’d let go of it two nights before, though, in the ruins of my childhood treehouse. Finding out that the man Salazar had shot on the mesa wasn’t Hy had given me hope, but it hadn’t substantially altered any of the things I’d realized during those bleak hours. After all this was over, no matter what the outcome, my life wouldn’t ever be the same. I could cherish the past—both remote and immediate—but the conditions that had existed then simply no longer applied. I would have to create a new present, one that would lead to a different future than I’d previously imagined. All of which boiled down to an inescapable conclusion: my hair had to go.
I grinned at myself in the mirror, marveling at the workings of the female mind. We make sweeping links between the philosophical and the mundane and think absolutely nothing of those logical—or illogical—leaps. Haircutting translates to destiny—and why not? Those of us who—as a gender—have spent the ages dreaming our dreams while our hands prepared food and cared for children and cleansed our surroundings instinctively know that everything is bound into one great whole.
That issue settled, I put aside the philosophical and went about the mundane task of locating a nearby stylist.
* * *
It was, of course, a hideous experience. For openers, the place was called Shear Mania. Secondly, the stylist, Becky, had an orange-and-green parrot’s crown. Before I could run screaming into the street, she sat me down and began whacking off great hanks of my hair. I closed my eyes. Kept them closed until I got up to go to the shampoo basin. Then I glanced down and saw my former mane lying on the floor like a dead animal. I shuddered and looked away from the carnage while Becky swept it up. She shampooed what was left on my head, then took me back to her work station for final shaping. Grimly I shut my eyes again. Over the hum of the blow-dryer she said, “This is a great style for you. Take a look.”
“Not until it’s done.”
Finally she turned off the dryer, combed, sprayed, made little adjustments here and there. Then she stuck a mirror in my hand. “Now look.”
I looked. My hair fell to my shoulders, glossy and full, turning under slightly at the ends. Nothing fussy, but not too severe. Perfect.
“My God,” I said.
Becky frowned, not knowing whether I was pleased or displeased.
“It is great,” I added, mentally upping her tip. “Am I going to be able to fix it this way by myself?”
She nodded. “You’ve got terrific hair. It wants to fall that way all on its own. Not like mine. It’s mouse-colored and wants to stick up. Finally I just said what the hell.” Then she proceeded to sell me shampoo, conditioner, spray, and a diffuser-type dryer. I left there over