Well, that didn’t sound promising. If he couldn’t fix those spots, I was doomed to having perpetual bedhead. I sighed as he took my chin in his fingers and moved my head this way and that, looking at me in the mirror and from all sides.
“We also want to emphasize that jawline.”
“We do?”
“Mm-hmm. And the color, of course. God! That color.”
I grimaced. Bane of my existence. “I hate it. I look like a carrot.”
He gave me a disbelieving look. “Are you insane? I can’t tell you how many clients have asked me to reproduce this shade. But you simply can’t get it from a bottle. And even if you could, the skin tone would be all wrong for most people. No, this coloring is a natural wonder, unreproducible.”
An older lady in the next chair leaned over and said, “Dear, I’d kill for that shade of hair. Trust Antony. It’s a color we wish we could dye for.” She laughed at her own joke, and I smiled.
I had no doubt Antony and this lady were correct about the inability to reproduce my hair chemically. But then, it was hard for me to imagine hair color manufacturers lining up to create a shade like carrot on fire.
“Hang on. I think I know just the thing.” He went to a stack of magazines in a nearby rack and pulled one out, searching through it. He pointed at a photo showing a stunning dark-haired man in a dramatic raincoat on a city street. “What do you think of this cut?”
The man’s hair was very short at the bottom but graduated longer as it swept up. The top was longish and fully upright with curls and spikey bits.
“My hair won’t do that,” I said.
“Au contraire.” He moved the magazine to one hand so he could comb through the top of my hair with the other. “With the right product, it absolutely could. And with your color? This would look amazing.”
I was highly dubious, but I reminded myself that one did not seek expert advice and then dismiss it. And what did I have to lose? It wasn’t as though my current hair was anything but an orange mop. “If you recommend it, fine.”
He smiled as though I’d awarded him a prize. “Good call! You won’t regret it.”
What followed this pronouncement was so much combing and clipping that it became tedious in the extreme. Antony was far pickier than our barber at home, fixating on tiny millimeters of hair. To escape boredom, I closed my eyes and thought out a population genetic problem involving Inuit that we were currently studying in my Genetics 458 class.
“Okay. You can look now.” Antony startled me out of my thoughts, and I opened my eyes.
I didn’t see well without my glasses, but I was pretty sure I couldn’t believe my eyes. I grabbed my chunky tortoiseshell frames and put them on to be sure. Great heavens, I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like a sophisticated stranger. The top of my hair was sticking up but on purpose now, with a mess of little curls and tufts that was thick and effortlessly jumbled. The sides were buzzed short at my ears and below, which made my face look squarer and less wimpy. There was a sheen to my hair. I carefully touched it. It was dry and stiff with some substance, which was apparently the mechanism by which the top was held into place.
The lady clapped her hands. “You look gorgeous! Antony’s a genius.”
“I’ll throw in a bottle of that hair gel,” Antony announced, looking pleased. “Just put some on after you shampoo and work your hair upward for a few minutes. Easy peasy.”
From the waiting area, Bubba stood and walked over slowly, staring at me in the mirror. “Wow,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if he meant “wow that’s excellent” or “wow what a disaster.” I didn’t feel like myself. But then, feeling like myself had never gotten me very far—not with my social life, in any case.
Antony adjusted a lamp to shine more directly on my hair and spoke to Bubba. “Look at these strawberry-blond highlights and darker rusty bits. So rich! And it’s entirely natural. Wouldn’t you just die for hair like that?”
“It’s nice.” Bubba offered me a tentative smile. His eyes were wide and a little shifty. Probably he was uncomfortable having to give me compliments.
Antony took off the cape and brushed off my shoulders, then regarded me with a tilted head. “Oh my God, that green sweater is perfect. Stick to colors that complement your hair like this—all shades of green, but no pastels, blue of all tones, you might even be able to wear certain shades of yellow, and don’t forget pink and rust.”
That lined up with most of the clothes Quig had pulled. I’d spent my life wearing tan, off-white, or black just trying to be as plain as possible. It had never occurred to me that the color of my clothes could make my awkwardly red hair look less awkward. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see the color I hated or my plain face. I saw someone new, someone you’d look at twice, and then maybe once again.
Whether or not that would actually turn into meaningful conversation or, eventually, touching was yet to be seen. But I felt a thrill of hope all the same.
I insisted on taking Bubba to dinner after we left the salon. It was the least I could do after the many hours he’d wasted on my makeover. We found a place nearby that had an Indian buffet. The amount of food Bubba piled on his plate was truly astonishing. I stuck to the chicken tikka masala and aloo gobi.
We sat in a booth near the window. It was pleasant since it was a sunny March day. I checked my phone for any important emails. There was one from my mother. It wasn’t anything critical, just her usual weekly check-in, asking about my classes.
On impulse, I took a discreet selfie while Bubba went back to the buffet for naan and texted it to her.
Sean! What on earth? she texted back.
I wasn’t at all certain what she was referencing, so I stated the obvious. I changed my hair.
Why? I’d think studying would keep you too busy for such things.
I grimaced. Typical.
I want to meet a boy. I typed and hit SEND. I saw no harm in honesty, though I certainly wasn’t going to explain to my mother the hormonal imperative I was experiencing.
It took me a moment to realize I’d just come out to her.
Dots danced and faded. Ah. I suppose I might have eased into that revelation. But I couldn’t see why they’d care that I was gay. They were geneticists. If they had concerns about my reproducing, they knew perfectly well a gay man could do so in multiple ways.
I see. I’m uncertain what hair has to do with that. Any partner worth considering wouldn’t care about your hairstyle. If you date someone, make sure he’s worthy. There should be multiple disciplines at Madison where you might focus your search. The science department is vast, isn’t it?
Bubba came back to the table, and I shut off my phone. I put it down to find Bubba watching me. “What?”
He tore off a piece of naan. “That hair guy was right. In the light from the window, your hair is sort of…” He got a constipated look. “It has all kinds of colors. Pretty.” His cheeks went red, and his gaze dropped to his food.
Pretty? I was fairly certain no one had used that adjective in a context adjacent to me ever in my life. The idea gave me a warm flush. I wished for a mirror, wanting to look at my hair in the sunlight from the window. But I didn’t have one, and anyway, I wouldn’t want to appear vain by gawking at myself.