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Bliss inspected herself in the mirror while her colorist painted brightness around her face. She wore a white button-down over black leggings because the salon advised all three of us to arrive in shirts that didn’t need to be pulled over our heads after styling. Bliss interpreted practical advice as an opportunity to dress like she was attending a bridal business meeting.
“It’s wedding maintenance,” she said. “There’s a difference.”
“You’ve had three wedding-maintenance appointments this month.”
“And I’ve looked incredible at all of them.”
“You cried during the spray-tan consultation.”
“The color was called Sunset Bride. That felt aggressive.”
Aura closed her eyes when her stylist drew a comb through the final section of her natural hair. Her braids had taken most of the morning to remove. What began as a careful process involving four sets of hands became increasingly hostile after the second hour, when Aura accused every braid of conspiring against her scalp.
Now her dark hair fell past her shoulders, freshly washed and stretched beneath the heat of the dryer before being pressed into the sleek style she’d chosen for the wedding.
“You’re both amateurs,” she said. “I’ve spent six hours in this chair and lost enough hair to construct a fourth bridesmaid.”
“You wanted it straight,” Bliss reminded her.
“I want several things. None of them should require this much patience.”
“Easton will lose his mind,” I said.
Aura’s mouth curved. “Easton loses his mind when I change my lip gloss.”
“He’s a supportive boyfriend.”
“He’s a sexual-harassment seminar with an NHL contract.”
Her stylist coughed to hide a laugh.
“He’ll be worse when he sees the maid-of-honor dress,” Bliss said.
Aura opened one eye. “You mean the dress Charm designed specifically to threaten the structural integrity of Easton’s patience?”
“I designed it to flatter you.”
“You designed it with a slit high enough to keep East breathless.”
“It ends six inches below your vagina.”
“Only because you finally accepted feedback.”
Bliss looked at me through the mirror. “I’m still concerned about the neckline.”
“You approved the neckline.”
“I approved it before I understood how much breast Aura intended to bring.”
Aura lifted her chin. “All of it.”
My laugh came easily, filling the private salon room before I considered whether anyone outside it might hear.
That remained one of the strangest changes from the last year. I laughed without checking who noticed. I spoke without rewriting every sentence inside my head first. When something was funny, I let it be funny. When something pissed me off, people usually found out before resentment had time to twist itself into anxiety.
A customer complained at the boutique last week because the vintage skirt she ordered fit according to the measurements clearly listed online instead of the size printed on the label. She informed me that refusing to issue a full refund after she removed the tags constituted terrible customer service.
I told her cutting off a tag didn’t alter the return policy any more than cutting down a speed-limit sign made speeding legal.
