Chapter Nineteen Soundtrack: Blonde by Maisie Peters

My feet are throbbing when I wake up, and with them comes the flood of memories.

Nas gave me his shoes and walked across London in his socks. Already, I can hear the jokes that will come on Monday:

No one carrying you into work today?

When you said the gala swept you off your feet, I didn't think you meant literally.

Next time you want me to come home with you, you can just ask.

But still. Even if it was just to mock me, he did walk through London, cold and damp, with only socks, so that I wasn't in pain.

Even though it was just to mock me. It must have been just to mock me, though I haven't figured out why.

I don't know why I'm smiling.

My phone pings with a calendar reminder of my haircut. Ugh. Shoes. Clothes. Bag. Out, off, for another trim at the same salon that I always go to, with the same coffee in hand, walking there on the same route.

As I pass the neighbouring salons, perfume wafting through each open door, I glimpse my hair again in the windows' reflections. Blonde-ish. Long-ish. Not really wavy, not really straight. It frames my face in the same way a coffin frames a corpse.

Not everyone's faces should be framed, my mother's voice whispers in my ear.

Has she said that to me, or am I just imagining her? When I was a girl, tugging her brush through my tangles, muttering at how long it took to make me presentable? Or while encouraging me to fake tan before my prom, because it would hide the cellulite better? Asking me why I wore a headband when it showed off my huge forehead?

Without realising, I've stopped at the door of my salon. I look back at myself in the window. What does my hair say about me? Nothing. I have said nothing about myself.

What do I want to say?

There's my mother's voice again: Attention seeking. Harlot. Tacky.

But she says those things anyway.

So what do I want to say?

It's just hair, I know. But it's mine, and it's hurting no one, and she'll judge me either way. So maybe I could change it, just this once. Just to see what happens.

My hands are shaking as I walk to reception, but I ball them into fists and I ignore them.

Not everyone's faces should be framed.

My voice cracks as I give my name. It's just hair. It's just hair, I repeat to myself as Shari takes me through to the chair.

'Same as usual?' she asks, pinning the towel to my shoulders.

And I tell her, 'I think it's time for a change.'

*

Obviously I am not living in a 90s film. But, walking into work on Monday, it's so easy to pretend.

Because my haircut is really, really good.

In the hairdressers, I had an out-of-body experience: some alien voice rose within me and directed my cut, pulling an idea from the depths of my mind and speaking it before I could chicken out. Now, my hair is bobbed just below my chin, bleached like a rockstar's girlfriend, and, without the length dragging it down, floats in loose waves with only a quick shampoo. My eyes are brighter against the colour; my jawline is sharper. With only sunglasses and dungarees, I have become a cover girl - at least in my mind. And, it turns out, my mind is a powerful thing, because I have never felt this good.

Maybe I just needed a haircut.

I have deliberately not told anyone, holding onto this little change like a child on Christmas morning. No one can take this from me, not yet.

My phone buzzes as I enter the building. Joanna, it tells me, with a little devil emoji. Her agent still hasn't sorted her contract. My fingers are poised to send an apologetic email, but something stops me. I can't fix this. She needs to fix this.

I slide my phone back in my pocket.

'Love the hair!' Katie calls as I walk to the lift. I wave back to her, hoping she doesn't see the blush climbing my cheeks.

And maybe Joanna will call me again, and maybe Barry will insist on bothering me, and maybe I'll be called out to another production crisis. But I'll get through it, because I'm good at being nice. I'm going to be so fucking nice.

Barry calls out as I slide into my desk, 'Ellie! I've decided we're making NFTs of Pendleton. I heard that 80% of people want to buy them.'

'That cannot possibly be true,' I shout back without thinking.

Oh no. So much for being nice.

Silence greets me. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Hello, unemployment.

Then Barry calls back, 'Well, maybe it was 8%. Could you look for me?'

'Sure,' I reply, filing this mentally under 'Things I will never do.'

'How's Joanna?' he shouts.

Shit. Bollocks. I did email him about Joanna, three weeks ago, and now he's going to give me a motivational talk about the value of problem-solving.

'Because,' he continues, 'I don't think it's good for your personal growth and resilience if I fix every little issue for you. Okay? My focus is really on Big Picture Thinking.' I can just imagine the smug smile on his face. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

'Thanks, Barry!'

I ignore the rest of his lecture and open my emails. My eye goes straight to:

Sender: Nasir Naji

Subject: Animated project brief

My fingers tremble before I open it. The feeling is not fear, but - nerves? I'm nervous?

It's an email. It's just an email.

I twist my engagement ring and open it.

It's perfect. It's the perfect project brief for a head writer: charming without overselling, outlining the possibilities without limiting the scope. Even better, he's added a line at the bottom of the email.

E- I read Kehinde's CV when you sent it over. I agree that she's talented - let's start a conversation with her. N x

I twirl my ring with extra force.

N x

Then I forward the brief to Kehinde. We're doing this. We're creating something together.

As though my thoughts conjured him, another email:

Tube stopped - walking instead - there in 5. N x

I picture him striding across the pavement, emailing with one hand, the other hand pushing back that loose strand of hair that catches in his glasses. Maybe he's smiling; probably he's frowning, muttering to himself about how no one else is capable of basic problem solving.

I twirl my ring one final time, then catch myself.

I manage very little work before the lift dings open and Nas emerges. He is frowning, and his hair is flopping, and the realisation nearly makes me chuckle.

Nas strides across the office, passing my desk and dropping into his seat without looking up at me. When he finally does, his mouth moves, as though he was about to ask me something but is instead rendered speechless. Have I got something in my teeth?

'You cut your hair,' he says.

'What an extraordinary gift for observation.' He doesn't reply, still staring. Prickling unease spreads through me. 'Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? You always have something to say.'

'I'm not sure my thoughts are suitable for the workplace.' He finally looks away.

Great. He hates it. That shouldn't bother me.

Then he adds, 'I like it. Maybe later I'll show you how much.'

I'm always flirting with you.

*

this is the haircut: 

i will not hear a bad word about bleachella. i am obsessed with it and ellie is too x