The Grace of Demons

I sat in the chair at the beauty salon in Georgia, staring down at my feet. “What can I do for you, sweetie?” A woman asks from the desk.

I look up, replying, “I’d like to dye my hair and cut it, please.”

“Now, why would you want to dye your hair, sweetie? It’s such a beautiful color as it is,” the woman says, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s starting to become a problem,” I say quietly, looking back down.

“Alright, it’s your hair. Just come on back and take a seat.” I nod, grabbing my bag, and following the woman to an empty chair. “Now, what color do you want it?”

I ponder that for a moment. What color could I get that would still look natural? “Blonde,” I say quietly, “And is there any way to get the roots, too?”

“I can try, sweetie. How short?”

“I just want a short bob.”

“Okay.”