“How are you going to wear your hair? I think you should leave your curls, they’re gorgeous and you never wear it like that.”
I don’t know how old I was when my dad realized he had no idea how to manage my tight curls and started taking me to get relaxers. If you don’t know what relaxers are, bless you, child, and thank the heavens that your scalp never suffered. Relaxers are perms that chemically straighten your hair. Your stylist puts on gloves (probably the first sign that you don’t want that junk on your head) and slathers the white cream directly to your roots. You then sit with it on your head as it starts to burn your scalp. Once the burn gets too intense—like it might start melting your brain at any second—you tell your stylist and they wash it out of your hair. The end result is perfectly straight, perfectly damaged hair.
I remember when I was in elementary school and another mixed girl came to my class. She had these beautiful ringlet curls and I wanted them so bad. And I’ll never forget what happened when I asked my dad and the hairstylist if I could have curls like that. “Girl no,” she said. “You don’t got those good curls. Your hair’s too nappy for that and your daddy can’t handle all of that.” They both laughed as she slipped on the gloves and started parting my hair.
I stopped getting relaxers in high school when I realized how much damage they were doing to my hair, but I never stopped straightening it. I love the way natural hair is being accepted and I think curly hair is beautiful, but I hate it on me and I always will.
I appreciate the compliment from Liv, though.
“Thanks, but I’m going to straighten it. You know I don’t even know how to begin to style my curly hair.”
“Fine.” She sticks out her bottom lip, the same way she does every time I don’t abide by her exact styling requests. “One day I’m going to convince you to go curly and you’re going to regret not listening to me sooner.”
She’s been saying that since college. Still hasn’t happened, but I do admire her tenacity.
“If that happens, feel free to throw it in my face.”
“Like I need permission,” she scoffs. “Okay, I have a photo shoot to get to. I need you to promise me you will not wear your UGGs.”
“I promise.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll even send you a picture before I leave.”
“Yes, I want one.” She opens my bedroom door and walks through my condo. “Now, I know most people say don’t go too far on the first date, but I’m going to say the opposite. You need to let loose and live a little. If the opportunity arises, go for it. You only live once and it’s time for you to have some fun with yours.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s terrible advice.” I unlock the front door and hold it open for her. “But I will keep it under consideration.”
“That’s all I ask,” she says before spinning around. “Well, that and a bold lip. I left you three choices from MAC in your bathroom. I will find you on your date and apply it myself if I see any hint of clear lip gloss in the picture you send me.”
“Leather boots and bold lip, promise.” I push her out of my door; she’s totally going to be late. “Now go, I think you’re forgetting how bad traffic is . . . even on a Saturday.”
“Fucking transplants,” she groans as she stomps away.
I close the door on her, laughing at what an old lady she sounds like before checking the clock. T-minus two hours before my first real date with Quinton.
—
A KNOCK COMES on my door at four o’clock exactly. I would be impressed if I wasn’t a nervous wreck. I even used the essential oils Greer gave me, but now I smell like a lavender plant and I hope I don’t give Quinton a headache.
“Here I come!” I take one last look in the mirror, resisting the urge to wipe off the dark red lipstick and put on my clear gloss instead, before turning off the light and grabbing my purse. “Hey!” I pull open the door and get my first look at Quinton and man, it’s like he gets better looking every single day.
I think I do a pretty good job not staring at how handsome he looks in his plaid button-up and puffy vest, a combination I didn’t even know worked for me until this very moment. His beard is still on his face, but I can tell he’s been to the barber recently because it’s lined up so well that I swear it just creates a bull’s-eye around his full lips. It’s all very lumberjack in a way that makes my insides quiver.
“You look gorgeous.” He leans in and drops a quick kiss on my red painted lips, his facial hair tickling against my face and making my mind drift to places it shouldn’t . . . like what that beard would feel like against the inside of my thighs.
“Thank you,” I say, hoping he’ll think the blush in my cheeks is from the cold wind blowing around us. “You look very handsome as well. Very outdoorsy.”
“I figured it was fitting for what I have planned today.” He pulls a hand out of his pocket and wraps it around mine. It’s such an innocent, sweet gesture that it makes my heart feel like it’s going to explode.
“Outdoors?” I look at the deceptively cloudless sky and the bright Colorado sun. Sure it looks beautiful, but it’s freezing outside. And I might not do heat, but I definitely do not do the cold. Plus, I brought my cute jacket, not my warm one. I’m not prepared for outdoors. “Isn’t it a little cold for that?”
“Ouch, Elliot!” He brings his free hand to his chest and holds it over his heart.
