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“Fine.” He starts pacing the tile floor.
“What has gotten into you?” I ask.
Finally, he stops and demands, “Who told you that you could do this?”
“Who said I had to ask?” My hands go to my hips, hoping for a reasonable answer.
One hand on his own, he points aggressively at the floor as if the gesture helps make his point. “You don’t make any major decisions without my consent. You understand?”
“Major? It’s hair.” I feel a giggle bubbling up. Do not laugh, Fiona. Do not laugh at this massive, angry giant of a man who is now practically foaming at the mouth. “Um…it was ten foils at the most. Does that make you feel better?”
“What the hell is a foil?” he demands.
The giggle pushes upward, threatening to bubble over.
Gosh, Fiona. Do not do it.
He runs a hand over his beard. “You should have consulted me. It’s permanent disfiguration.”
I put my newly manicured pink fingers over my lips but can’t hide the laughter. “Are you serious right now?”
“Serious? Serious? Do I not look serious to you?”
I throw my hands in the air in surrender. “It’s just a few highlights. And it can be dyed back.”
His eyes light up. “It can?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be doing that?—”
“Change it. Change it back. Right now.” Suddenly, he stops. “Wait…when you say dyed back, you mean back to the real color?—"
“Of course I do, but?—”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know how these things work.”
“I see that,” I say. “It’s hair dye. You can always go back, BUT?—”
“But what?” he snaps.
“What if I like it?” I say.
“I don’t.” He stares at me. “I want it back.” Gently taking the end of a strand of my hair between his fingers, the man looks like he might cry. “Your beautiful red hair…”
The tenderness and sadness in his voice softens me. “Did you like it red?”
“Like it? I loved it. It was perfect. Stunning. Gorgeous.”
I melt. “You really feel that way?”
My red hair has always been in a love/hate relationship with me because pink has always been my favorite color. And as Susie Dryer informed me when I was six, redheads aren’t supposed to wear pink.
“Nighean raudh,” he says in Gaelic.
“Little red-haired girl,” I translate. “Raudh gu brath! That one means, ‘Red Heads Forever.’”
He twirls my hair around his fingers, giving it a tug. “I love your red hair. I love your freckles. I love your body. I love everything about you. You’re beautiful and perfect and flawless, and I’m obsessed with you.” He leans down, placing a soft kiss on my forehead. “So, forgive me if I don’t want you to change a thing.”
I’m stunned, literally without a response, my lips slightly parted as I take in his words. He’s the only one who has ever called me beautiful. He’s the only one who has ever made me feel beautiful.
