Page 27 of Friends to WHAT?!

And when I seal the envelope with a press of a moon-shaped seal on ivy-green wax, that buzz digs deep, going past veins and muscle to settle in my bones. I welcome it, letting it lead me out of the shop and down the street to the post box.

I drop the letter into the box.

Then I ride the buzz of anticipation clean through to next Friday.

Chapter Twelve

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What’s that? Almond’s tiles need replacing? How foreshadowy.

Leora

My roots are showing. Not just a little, either.Inchesof my roots are showing, dim blonde peeking out above fading purple—a far cry from the pretty, vivid violet I like to keep the locks, and it’s making me itch.

“I did tell you that you needed a six week appointment, not an eight week,” Almond says, flicking a long, black plastic cape out beside her. She shifts, gliding the cape gently over my body before securing it around my neck. “You come in here every eight weeks to gripe about your regrowth, and every eight weeks I tell you to go to six weeks. And do you? No. You do not. Instead, at six weeks, we have a book club, and during that book club, I have to harass you into making an appointment on my booking site because you’re walking around with nearly an inch of blonde sticking out of your head. And I know that you know that it doesn’t look good.Everyoneknows that it doesn’t look good, andeveryoneknows that I do your hair, andeveryonethinks that I purposefully let you walk around like that!”

I pull my lips between my teeth and try to look contrite in the mirror when my pink-haired friend pauses to shake her head at me.Shedoesn’t have roots showing.Shehas never had roots showing. I’m not even sure what her natural hair color is.

“I’m sorry,” I say, truly meaning it. It’s not like Itryto go so long. I just don’t think about it until the blonde is practicallyslapping me in the face—until it’s the only thing Icanthink about.

“Don’t be sorry,” she orders, pointing a rattail comb at my reflection. “Bebooked.”

I nod, the exact same way I have every other time I’ve received the exact same order.

Almond sighs, the exact same way she has every other time she’s given it.

“You’re not going to book an appointment in a timely manner, are you?”

I grimace and answer truthfully, “Probably not.” I’d certainly like to be a person who schedules her hair appointments for when she needs them, but I know myself too well to commit to it, and Almond knows me too well to push any harder. She’s ranted. She’s raved. And now she’ll put her hands in my hair and do her magic, regardless of how much magic it needs. It’s what shedoes.

“You want the same purple?” she asks, even though I always want the same purple. I’ve been dying my hair this shade since we settled on it last year after months of trialing darker and lighter options. I haven’t strayed since we landed here, at the shade that sits best next to my pale complexion and jewel-green eyes.

She runs her hands through my shoulder-length strands as I confirm that yes, I want the same color. When she reaches the bottom of my hair, she pinches a lock between her fingers to examine the ends. She hums. “You may not be good about dye upkeep, but I can’t fault your overall care. No split ends, and your hair is really soft. Have you been using that deep conditioner you bought last time?”

I perk up. “Yes!” I nod enthusiastically, the high praise of a hair girl going straight to my head. Sure, my roots are horrendous. But she said my hair is soft,andI don’t have splitends, even though it’s beentwo whole monthssince my last hair cut.

“Very good.” She punctuates her approval with a squint as she appears to x-ray my hair follicles with naught but her eyes. “Bangs again?” she asks. “And the same length as last time?”

“Everything the same,” I confirm. “Unless you think something different would be better, in which case nothing the same.” Almond is a genius with hair. I love the purple, and the bangs, and the just-above-shoulder length. But if she told me to shave it all off and dye my scalp lime green, I’d do it in a heartbeat. When it comes to hair, no one knows better than Almond—not even the person the hair belongs to.

Almond agrees that continuing the vision she’s already curated for me is best, and she gets to work mixing my color. Then, casually—slyly—she says, “It’s a good thing you came in today. I think I’d die a professional death if you went on your date tonight with that hair.”

My green eyes widen in the mirror, and my dark, thick lashes almost touch my eyebrows. A smirk teases Almond’s lips before she can hide it. She turns her back to me to set her bowl on a scale at the cabinet-turned-workspace behind me. She squirts a few mystery liquid-ish substances in the bowl, then stirs vigorously until the mixture turns a shade of pink that never fails to make me nervous, no matter how many times it changes to purple on my head.

“It’s not a date,” I dispute. “Don’t be silly.”

She faces me once more, eyebrows raised. “It’s definitely a date,” she says. “What else would meeting a man at a bar be?”

“There are a million things meeting a man at a bar could be,” I inform her. “And nearly all of them have nothing to do with romance.”

She waves that away. “Oh, sure, butthosemeetings don’t support my current point, so they don’t matter.” She grins.“Yourmeeting is a date! You’re doing the friends-to-lovers, just like I said!”

My nose scrunches. “It’s not a date,” I repeat. “It’s nothing like a date at all. It’s more of a…” I consider, tilting my head. My hair shifts as I do, drawing Almond’s attention and spurring her to grab her bowl and get to work. Gently, she tips my head straight and starts applying the pink concoction to my roots.

“More of a what?” she asks.

I shrug, careful not to jostle my head too much with the movement. “A chance meeting,” I decide.