I set my bag on the floor and sit my ass down on her immaculate, cozy bed. Christ.
“So, did you get finished early?” she asks.
“Yeah, sorry if that threw you off.” I nod toward the explosion of beauty products.
“No big deal, as long as you don’t mind waiting a bit.”
“Nah, I’m good. My last class got cancelled, so I was able to head over to the gym ahead of time and get an early start.”
“Nice.” She smiles, threading her fingers through a section of hair, almost squeezing the goop away. I guess my face shows my confusion, because she laughs and says, “I’m just checking the color.”
“You’re dyeing your hair purple, huh?” I say dumbly. Jesus. Of course she’s dyeing it purple. That’s why there’s purple stuff plastered to her head.
And going with what seems to be our pattern, she laughs. “Nope. Just keeping it blonde.”
“Uh...then what’s with all the… uh, purple?” I gesture to her hair and her hands and that damn bowl. What’s with that? Is it a vat of moisturizer? I don’t think it works that way.
“Purple’s opposite yellow on the color wheel,” she says, as if that explains everything.
“Yeah. I suck at art. Actually, I suck at everything that isn’t hockey. And isn’t blonde yellow?”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “It’s basic color theory. If you look at a color wheel, purple and yellow are opposites. So, to cancel out any of the brassy yellow tones, I put purple toner on my hair every few weeks. And no, blonde hair isn’t yellow unless you’re six and coloring with crayons. Unless I should call you Big Red from now on? I mean, given your height and your—”
“Point taken. And my hair isn’t red. It’s auburn.” The words sound silly to my ears, so I laugh right along with her. “And I’ve been called Big Red on just about every hockey team I’ve been on. Even at 5 years old, I towered over everyone and my hair was brighter then.”
“It’s a gorgeous color,” she says, and for a second, I think she might reach out and touch it. “People pay hundreds at a salon to get that exact shade.”
“My mom said the same thing, but I always thought that was because I get my hair from her.”
“But the hockey guys don’t call you Big Red?”
“Nah, I’d check each one of them into the boards if they tried that shit. Thankfully, the nickname died out in middle school.”
“They all call you Briggsy, right?”
“Yeah, hockey players love nicknames, but we’re not generally a creative crew when it comes to picking them. It’s mostly just shortened versions of last names. Birdy’s last name is Nightingale, so that one’s a little better, I guess.”
She checks her hair again and mutters, “Dammit…”
“What’s up?”
“I need to rinse before this actually dyes my hair lavender.”
“That’s cool, I’ll wait. I can catch up on my reading for Anthro.”
“Um...here’s the thing. I need to rinse the hair on my head, but I need to keep working the toner into the hair in the bowl. And that’s hard to do at the same time. I should have started them later…”
“The hair in the bowl? Who the fuck keeps hair in a bowl?” I swear my voice goes up an octave.
Again, she laughs. “Oh my god, Spence, you should see your face. They’re hair extensions. And I like to tone them at the same time I tone my hair, so it all matches when I wear them.”
“You wear fake hair?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. Not that people can’t wear wigs or whatever, but… “I don’t think I’ve known anyone who wears fake hair before.”
She coughs the wordbullshit. “It’s way more common than you’d think. Half of Hollywood has fake hair. I’d bet some of your coaches have worn hair pieces, and I guarantee ten other girls in this dorm wear extensions. Not everyday, just when we feel like having a little more hair to play around with.”
Her phone buzzes again.
“It’s go time, Spence. Put these gloves on, stick your hands in the bowl and massage the toner into the hair like it’s your job. I’ll be out in a few.”
