One of my fave authors, Aven Ellis, is releasing a new book, Surviving the Rachel, on Saturday, December 20th and I have a sneak peek at the first chapter!!! Check it out!!
Chapter One
Drastic
times call for drastic measures.
I wrinkle my
nose as I stare at my reflection in my mirror. Okay, so that might be a wee bit
dramatic on my part, but I do feel the need for a change.
Like a
haircut.
A serious
haircut.
I remove the
rubber band holding my long, jet-black locks in place and shake out my hair,
which I haven’t changed since college.
Nothing
screams “I’m a woman ready for change” like an entirely new hairstyle.
And if
anyone needs a change, it’s me, Bree Logan.
I study myself
in the mirror. My green eyes stare back at me, and I think of how my summer can
be recapped into three major events.
First, I graduated with honors from the University of Arizona, but I can’t find
an entry-level job in advertising. Next, my
boyfriend Alex—who I thought was The One—dumped me after graduation and bailed
on our apartment in Chicago. And due to lack of gainful employment and
my stupid ex-boyfriend not giving me any money toward breaking the lease, I had
to move back home with my mom and dad.
I bite my
lip for a moment. Okay, yes, that’s my crappy summer. So if anyone needs a
haircut to signal change, it’s me.
I’m ready to
start over.
I’ll keep
looking for a break in advertising while working as a cocktail server at the
Bradley Scott Hotel downtown. I’ll pay off the money I borrowed from my best
friend, Avery Andrews, to break the lease of the
apartment in Lincoln Park. Then I’ll save up so I can move back to the
city and have that post-graduate life I dreamed of and planned for.
Suddenly there’s
a rap on my doorframe. I turn and see my mom standing there with a bottle of
water.
“I thought
you might need another one after unpacking these boxes,” Mom says, stepping
around the boxes that I have piled in my room.
I turn and
smile gratefully at her. “Thank you.”
Diva, my
mom’s toy Pomeranian, is right on her heels and begins barking and growling at
me.
“Now, Diva,
Bree isn’t a guest, she’s home now,” Mom says soothingly, picking her dog up
and cradling her to her chest. “You need to get used to that, Precious.”
I almost
laugh. Leave it to the dog to remind me of my inability to pay rent and land a
professional job.
“I’m
thinking of cutting my hair,” I announce, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of
water and taking a sip. “Maybe go into the city this afternoon and get it done
by some cool professional.”
“Oh, Bree,
are you sure, sweetheart? Maybe you should start with more layers or something?
I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”
“No, I’m
ready for change in my life,” I say honestly. “I feel like this is symbolic of
that change, you know?”
Mom sits
down on my bed, next to a box of pictures. She puts Diva down and begins to
sift through them.
“I can
understand that,” Mom says. “Oh, I love this picture of you and your friends.”
I smile as Mom
shows me a picture taken in July at Wrigley Field. It’s me and Avery, my best
friend since middle school, our mutual friend, Emma Davenport, Avery’s
boyfriend, Deacon Ryan, and his brother, Zach.
“That was a
fun afternoon,” I say, smiling at the memory.
Mom sifts through a few more and then glances up at
me. “I notice there are no pictures of Alex in here.”
I sit down
on the other side of the box and frown. “I got rid of all of them,” I admit.
“Looking at them was like being reminded how stupid I was to even think he could have been The
One.”
“Sweetie,
you were a young girl in love for the first time,” Mom says soothingly. “Don’t
be so hard on yourself.”
I flop backward on my bed and groan. “Oh, but Mom, I was so blind. There were
so many red flags. Like how he never wanted to do anything I wanted to do, we
always did what Alex wanted to do. He was
never interested in what I had to say. We always had to party when I
wanted to go get a Starbucks some nights. And I
was always driving him around because he got so drunk all the time. What
did I see in him? How could I ignore all that?”
Mom drops
the pictures back into the box. “You were in love with him. And sometimes that
can make you blind, Bree. But you’ve learned from this, and that’s a good
thing.”
I sit back
up. “Oh, yes, I’ve learned all right. My next boyfriend isn’t going to be a
selfish partying jerk.”
“So are you
ready to date again?” Mom asks in a hopeful tone.
I see she’s
grinning at the prospect, no doubt eager to start finding potential men for me.
“No. The
last thing I need is to be dealing with dating when I’m trying to get my career
off the ground.”
“Are you
sure? Have you seen the Cheltens’ grandsons, Jack and Eric, yet? I keep telling
you to go over next door and introduce yourself. They are such nice boys and
they are your age, Jack is the older one, he’s twenty-five, and Eric is—”
“Oh no. No,
no, no. I know what you’re thinking. No.”
“What am I
thinking?”
“That I’ll
end up dating one of them,” I say, giving my mom the suspicious eye.
“Well, Eric
is very charming and available,” Mom declares.
I furrow my
brow. “How do you know?”
“I asked.”
“Gah, Mom,”
I wail, putting my hands over my face.
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“Of course I
did,” she explains. “It’s called making conversation.”
No, it’s
called scouting the field for your daughter.
“Well, I’m
not interested. I’m not ready.”
“That’s too
bad, because that Eric is so cute. Jack is, too, but Eric is just charming,”
she says as she stands up. “Well, I’m going out to the garden. Lots of work to
do. Oh, by the way, your father and I have plans for a movie and dinner
tonight. If you are home by five, you can join us.”
Good lord. I
thought being a third wheel with Avery
and Deke was bad enough, but resorting to being a third wheel on my parents’
date?
That is a
whole new level of hideousness I do not want to experience.
“Um, thanks,
but I think I’ll just stay in tonight,” I say honestly. Which appeals to me. I haven’t had a Saturday night off in forever,
and I want to order a pizza and have a movie marathon.
“All right,”
Mom says. “Come on, Diva, let’s go outside.”
Diva barks
happily and follows my mom out the door. I pick up my phone and do a search for
some modern, hip, downtown Chicago salon. City chic, that’s what I want. I
scroll through suggestions from Google until I see this:
Fringe
Chic Spa & Salon—Modern Hair for Chicago’s Modern Woman
Perfect.
I call the
salon, hoping against hope there might be a cancellation
or opening today.
“Fringe Chic
Spa & Salon, how can I help you?” says an utterly bored-sounding woman.
“Erm, yes,
I’m calling to see if it is possible to get a haircut today?” I ask hopefully.
“Frederic is
booked solid for months. So are Javier and Orlando,” she says as I hear
keystrokes on her keyboard. “But you can have an appointment with Marcolo if
you can get here in one hour.”
One hour? It takes about 45 minutes to drive
there if traffic is awesome.
“Okay,” I say as if suddenly this haircut is the most
important thing ever. “Um, how much is a
haircut?” I ask as I realize I neglected
to look at the prices on the website.
“$70.”
Wow? That’s
not bad at all for a downtown salon.
“For the cut,”
the receptionist says haughtily, interrupting my thoughts. “If you want it
dried and styled, as I am sure you do, that will be an additional $120.”
Shit.
“Of course,”
I say, mentally calculating cut + style + tip
+ parking downtown and the slim availability left on my MasterCard . . . and I’ll just make it.
By five
dollars.
The
receptionist takes my name, says they’ll see me at two o’clock, and hangs up. I
frantically toss on a coral-colored maxi dress. I slide into my flip-flops and
hesitate as I glance down at my toes. Crap, my pedicure looks like hell. I
ditch those shoes and put on some espadrilles instead. Better.
I grab my
purse and dash down the stairs. I slide the patio door open and pop my head
out. As soon as I do, Diva begins barking and growling at me again.
“Mom,” I say
over the barking, “I’m going into the city to get my hair cut.”
My mom
glances up from the rose bush she’s pruning. “Okay, good luck.”
“All the way
to the city for a haircut?” my dad asks. “That sounds extreme.”
“I want it
to be chic,” I explain.
“They can’t
cut chic hair in the suburbs?”
“Dad, I want
it done in the city. So I’m going now,” I yell over Diva’s yip-yap-yip-yapping.
“See you later.” And with those words, I bolt out the door.
Luckily
traffic into the city isn’t bad, and I pull up to the valet stand with a few
minutes to spare. After I hand over my keys, I step inside the posh salon. It’s
all black and white and silver, with funky light fixtures hanging down from the
ceiling. I see Chicago’s elite drinking champagne and being fussed over by
stylists all dressed in black. The music is edgy sounding. Everything, in one
word, is incredibly hip.
Hip. That is who the new Bree is going to
be. Edgy and hip and ready to reclaim her life.
I approach
the receptionist, who appears just as bored in person as she sounded on the
phone. She is texting on her iPhone and only looks up after I clear my throat.
“Hello, I’m
Bree. I have an appointment with Marcolo,” I say.
The girl
nods. She punches a button on her headset and speaks into her mic. “Marcolo,
your appointment is here.” She disconnects and shifts her attention back to her
iPhone, not even glancing at me. “He will be right up.”
Alrighty
then.
I take a
seat in a sleek black and chrome chair and restlessly tap my foot. I’m excited
about this. I haven’t deviated from my style much since college, and this will
give me just the boost of confidence I need to go out and attack the
advertising job front again.
I see a
young man with a bright pink Mohawk approaching me. He’s very tall—about
6’4—and rail thin. He is wearing all black, of course, and has piercings in his
nose. And tattoo sleeves.
Perfect, I think happily. He’s cool and young
and will totally be able to give me an awesome new hairstyle.
“Bree?” he
asks in a high-pitch feminine-sounding voice.
I stand up
and smile. “I’m Bree.”
“Hello, I’m
Marcolo,” he says, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Bree. Come on
back.”
I nod and
follow Marcolo to his station. I slide
into the chair, and he lifts up my hair. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need a
change,” I say. In more ways than one. “I’m open to anything.”
“Ooooh, I
love that,” Marcolo says excitedly. “Tell me about yourself. Your interests,
what you do, so I can create a vision for you.”
Wow, Marcolo
is going to create a vision? I totally lucked out getting in to see him today!
“Well, I
recently graduated from the University of Arizona,” I start out, meeting
Marcolo’s eyes in the mirror. “I want to work in advertising, as an account
representative.”
“Mmmmmmm,
what about your interests?” Marcolo says, playing with my hair.
“I like
being outside,” I say. “I like taking nature walks. I love good conversations,
whether over a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. I love shopping. And I’m
obsessed with the show Friends. I know every episode by heart.”
Marcolo
stops playing with my hair. “Interesting. Who is your favorite Friends
character?”
“Oh, easy.
Rachel. I love Rachel Green.”
Marcolo
spins the chair around, so I’m facing him. “I’m inspired. I have a
brilliant idea.”
Yes! I’m
going to look fabulous when he’s finished;
I can just tell.
“Really?” I
ask, smiling at him.
“Let’s give
you a modified Rachel cut.”
I pause. “Do
you mean The Rachel?” I say, referring to the haircut that exploded
during the 90’s when Friends came on the scene.
“Yes. But
with an edge.”
I bite my
lip. “But . . . that cut was popular a long time ago. I’m not sure about all those
layers.”
“This is not
going to be that cut,” Marcolo explains excitedly. “Fewer layers, some
bangs. It will be fresh and sexy.”
“I don’t know.”
“Bree, you
said you wanted a change. I’m offering you something fresh and familiar at the
same time. What do you think?
Marcolo works at one of the best salons in Chicago. He wouldn’t lead me wrong, right?
Marcolo works at one of the best salons in Chicago. He wouldn’t lead me wrong, right?
I take a
deep breath and nod excitedly. “Let’s do it. Give me the modern Rachel.”
And with
those words, I put my faith in Marcolo’s vision—and his scissors.
***
I sit in my
car and stare at my reflection in the mirror on the driver’s side visor.
My hair does
not look like a fresh, modern, version of The Rachel.
It looks exactly
like The Rachel.
Which might be awesome if it were 1994.
But it’s
not.
Arrrrrrrrrrrgh!
Oh, but I don’t just have The Rachel. I have one with heavy bangs cut in,
Marcolo’s “modern” twist.
My beautiful
black hair is now in that infamous, choppy cut. Looking incredibly old and
dated. And the bangs make it extra hideous.
Why, why,
why, did I agree to this? Why?
I slam my
visor up. I hear a driver leaning on the horn behind me, so I need to focus and
move.
Anger fills
me as I think about my hideous new hair. New, hip, edgy woman, my ass!
If I were to slap a denim vest on over a floral dress, I’d be a perfect
specimen from the Central Perk set on Friends in the 90’s.
I groan
aloud. Of course, I want to work in “Image is everything” advertising. Who the
hell is going to hire me with this outdated haircut?
Hmmm, let’s see . . . Nobody!
I fume as I
navigate my way toward the expressway. And not that I’m remotely ready to think
about dating, but no guy is going to ask me out with this shitty hair either.
A bit of my anger
dissipates with that thought. I guess that’s a bonus. Maybe by the time all these
freaking layers have grown out, I’ll be ready to go on a date.
There is
more traffic on the way back, but I don’t care. I have no plans for tonight,
other than to sit around with hair clips and try to figure out if there is any
way to fix Marcolo’s disaster of a haircut. Oh, yes. And maybe I’ll get a
bottle of wine and down a few glasses. Along with a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint
cookies that my mother keeps stashed in the freezer. Crappy haircuts call for a
crappy dinner.
I park in
front of the garage, then I make my way up the front steps and thrust the key
into the lock. Diva is already growling and yipping at the door. Ah, yes, the
perfect ender to the evening. Diva will probably bark more now because I look
scary with this stupid outdated hair, too.
I open the
door, and before I know it, Diva shoots in between my legs and down the steps,
and across the lawn to the Cheltens’ house.
“Diva!” I
scream, taking off after her. “Diva, come back here!”
I watch in
horror as she runs up to the neighbor’s porch. A young man is coming outside
and stops when Diva moves straight toward him.
“Stop her,”
I plead.
The guy goes
to shut his door, but Diva shoots right past him—and into his house.
“Hey, hey, come back here,” he says, heading back inside
after Diva.
I sprint up
the steps and bound into his house after him, only to find Diva running around
in circles around his living room.
“What is
wrong with her?” he asks.
“She’s
insane,” I cry. “Diva, stop!”
Diva jumps on a chintz couch to avoid me. I dive toward
her, but she leaps down onto the floor and under a dark, cherry-wood table. Now
the guy is trying to catch her, but he misses as she dodges around a white
Queen Anne style chair to avoid his grasp. Finally, she stops. And pees all
over his hardwood floor, narrowly avoiding the floral rug that is the
centerpiece of the living room.
“Oh no,” I
gasp, my hand flying over my mouth. “I’m so
sorry!”
I turn to
the guy, who is gazing back at me. For a brief second, I’m distracted from the
disaster at hand. His dark-blue eyes flicker at me, and I stare back into his
face, one filled with freckles. It’s an interesting combination—the
reddish-brown hair, tousled with gel, the dark-blue eyes, and the freckled face . . .
Then I
realize I need to clean up after Diva.
“Please, let
me get some paper towels so I can blot it up,” I say in an embarrassed rush.
“Then I’ll take Diva home, and I’ll come back to clean the floor for you.”
He’s silent
for a moment. I’m waiting for him to explode, but then he simply clears his
throat.
“So is this,”
he says, sweeping his arm out toward Diva and her puddle, “how you planned to
introduce yourself to me, Breanna Logan?”
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