Pink

You feel a little embarrassed as you say, "Pink, please."

She nods head, "Uh, yes, I thought you would go for pink. Very pretty on a young woman."

She carefully paints your nails a girly pink. You watch placidly as she brushes the color on, stroke by stroke. In some way it feels like the most feminine thing to happen to you so far. The body is just flesh, the clothes just hide or reveal your body. But this.. this is a man-made sign, an announcement. You're pretty. You're inviting attention. You want to be admired.

When your fingers and toes are both finished, she begins removing the foil from your hair, wiping any excess gel away with a dry cloth. In the mirror you can see that the color, once a dark blond, now seems to shimmer with light.

"Next, we clean this tangle up," she says, running her fingers through the strands. She thinks for a minute, tugging your hair this way and that, looking at the shape it makes on your face. "Uh, I know what to do," she says, and picks up a sharp pair of scissors.

You can barely follow her hands as she flits about your head, amputating a lock of hair here, texturing there, shaping, always shaping. "Your hair was a big mess, and I'm gonna fix that, but not all. I'm gonna leave a little mess, a little crazy."

When she steps away, you realize you were wrong to ever doubt her skills. She's an artist. Your hair cascades around your face in a classic bob, framing it and enhancing it. As you move it seems to have a life all its own with an element of wildness to it that only serves to draw you in further.

"So, you like?" she asks, although from her tone, she makes it clear there's only one correct answer.

"It's beautiful," you reply. It's the simple truth.

She nods, pleased with herself.

"Almost done. Did you bring makeup?"