The Halo Effect

31 | haunted

I was in and out of the Cambridge salon in under an hour. It didn't matter that the salon had no available booking times, Gretchen England had a way with words and more than enough money to offer.

Our go-to stylist Veronica didn't question the uneven ends of my hair or force me to engage in any of the usual small talk that transpired at salons. I suspected that this also had to do with Mom having a way with words, but I wasn't complaining. Instead, I sat in the plush salon chair in silence, watching the stylist in the mirror as she expertly snipped away at the hair of a girl who looked fucking miserable.

To my great displeasure, Mom did not look fucking miserable or even remotely miserable. She sat behind me on an equally plush couch with what seemed to be a thoughtful expression and occasionally sipped from the cup of tea that the guy at reception had so graciously offered to one of their most treasured customers.

After Veronica finished blowing out my hair, she sprayed it with something that gave it that model-like glossiness and left me smelling like vanilla. I delicately ran my fingers through my hair and reached the blunt ends directly below my collarbones. It was shorter than it had been in a decade, but I could still pull it up into a ponytail for lacrosse. That was all I cared about.

"It looks lovely," Mom said to Veronica, but I knew she was talking to me.

"Agreed, thank you," I added, mustering up a polite smile because Veronica deserved one. While I hadn't done a terrible job of cutting my own hair, I certainly needed the skilled hand of a professional to perform damage control.

"My pleasure," Veronica flashed me an effervescent smile in the mirror. 'I'll throw together some fresh product samples for you to take back to that fancy school of yours.'

Mom took an intentionally long gander at the wall of all the upscale hair products before picking up what I recognized as her favorite Kerastase shampoo and conditioner.

We returned to the Jaguar, and as Mom steered back into Boston traffic, I couldn't help but think that she looked far too at home behind the wheel of her ex-husband's beloved car.

Before we'd left for the salon, I heard her tell Dad that she refused to go through the hassle of obtaining a last-minute rental car and hailed a cab from Logan Airport. I doubted that this would've actually constituted a hassle, but I definitely didn't have room to judge.

"You were seven the last time your hair was this short," Mom said. "You hated going to the salon, hated all the fragrances, and said that you were going to cut it all off so you never had to go back."

I slid my gaze over to the driver's side. "Never is a really long time."

"Indeed I was so terrified that I hid all of the scissors and anything else that you could possibly use because you were so determined...but luckily, your Dad managed to strike a compromise that involved dessert and only going once per year at a little salon on Nantucket. He's always been the Chandler Whisperer."

"I don't remember wanting to cut off all of my hair, but I do remember the salon." I felt a smile lift my lips, and I stole a glance at Mom. "You and Mrs. Gunther would take Dallas and me together."

"Dallas hated haircuts almost as much as you did." The soft laugh that followed Mom's words held a hint of nostalgia. I knew she loved those summers on Nantucket, and I wondered when she looked back at them now if they seemed to exist outside of time and space as they did for me.

"I assume Dal still hates them because he still has ridiculous hair," I remarked, recalling the unruliness of Dallas's hair from when we were on Nantucket.

An arched eyebrow appeared over the lens of Mom's Burberry sunglasses.

I frowned. "What?"

"I didn't say anything," Mom mused, her attention strictly on the road.