Page 41 of The Ashes of Summer

"Jackson, please." My voice cracks around his name. "Please don't."

His hand settles lightly against the top of my head, steadying me.

The first stroke begins at the roots.

The mixture feels cold. So much colder than I expected.

The brush drags slowly across my scalp before gliding backward through my hair, coating every strand in something that smells so aggressively chemical my eyes begin to sting.

I gasp, then a sob escapes me.

Another stroke. Then another.

The copper disappears beneath the dark paste almost immediately.

My vision blurs. This can't be happening. This can't⁠—

Another sob tears free before I can swallow it back.

My hair.

God...

My hair.

Mama used to laugh whenever I complained about it taking too long to dry. She'd sit me on the bathroom counter with a towel around my shoulders, patiently working conditioner through the knots while telling me one day I'd be glad it was different.

"One day you'll realize people spend hundreds trying to get a color like yours."

I'd rolled my eyes every single time. Now I'd give anything to hear her say it again.

Another brushfull slides through my hair. Another section disappears.

Jackson works in silence, separating each piece with careful precision before coating it from root to tip. There's nothing rushed about him. Like every strand has to be exactly right.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't stop the tears spilling over. They slide down my cheeks unchecked, dripping from my chin into my lap.

My scalp tingles where the dye settles against my skin, a constant reminder that every second passing is another second stealing something I can't get back.

I don't understand why this matters so much to him. I don't understand why he's looking at my hair with such awful concentration. I don't understand any of it.

I just know that when I walked into this room, I still looked like me.

And with every slow stroke of that brush, he’s stripping me away.

Warm water cascades over my head the second I step beneath the shower, soaking through the thick paste clinging to my hair. It carries the harsh chemical smell down with it until the steam can no longer hide it.

Dark ribbons twist through the water at my feet, curling around the drain before disappearing into it. They spiral away so easily, washing over white tiles that make the color look almost black, and with every second that passes, something inside me splinters a little further.

No.

No, no, no...

My hands fly to my hair, scrubbing frantically at the strands as if I can somehow force the color back out before it settles. My fingers tangle through it again and again until my scalp stings beneath my nails, but the water only keeps running dark.

I rake my fingers through it one last time before dragging the soaked lengths over my shoulder.

They aren't copper anymore. They aren't auburn. They're… Gone.