He smirked. “I like you, Knox. You sure you’re not interested in our girl?”
“Definitely not,” I lied.
Stef studied me. “Hmm. You’re either dumber than you look or you’re a better liar than I thought.”
“Are you done? I’d like to get back to not having you in my house.”
EIGHTEEN
MAKEOVERS FOR EVERYONE
Naomi
“Surprise!” Stef said as he pulled into a parking space directly in front of Whiskey Clipper.
Uh-oh.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Back-to-school hair,” Stef said.
“Seriously?” Waylay asked, biting her lip. She couldn’t quite pull off the bored pre-teen vibe, and I knew it was going to be a good idea, even if it meant braving a run-in with Knox.
“Deadly, darling,” Stef said, hopping out from behind the wheel of his spiffy little Porsche SUV. He opened the back door for her. “First day of school is a fresh start for everyone. And from the reviews, this is the place for hair.”
I climbed out and joined them on the sidewalk.
Stef slung an arm around both of us. “First hair. Then lunch. Then nails. Then fashion show for first-day outfits.”
I grinned. “Outfits?”
“You’re walking Way to the bus. You need something that says ‘responsible yet hot aunt.’”
Waylay giggled. “Most moms just show up in pajamas or in sweaty workout stuff.”
“Exactly. We need to make a statement that the Witt women are fierce and fashionable.”
I rolled my eyes.
Stef caught me and crossed his arms in impatience. “What have I always told you, Naomi? And you listen to this too, Way.”
“When you look good, you feel good,” I recited.
“Good girl. Now get your cute little asses in there.”
The interior of Whiskey Clipper was cooler than any salon I’d ever set foot in. Instead of the muted pastels and spa music typical in most hair establishments, here it was brick walls and ’70s rock. Black-and-white photos of Knockemout in the early part of the 20th century hung in stylish gallery frames. One entire wall was dominated by a bar of decanters and bottles of whiskey. Exotic flower arrangements occupied the low, curved front desk and the whiskey bar.
The waiting area looked more like a VIP lounge with its leather couches and glass side tables. The concrete floor was covered with a faux cowhide rug.
It felt cool, a little steam-punky. And a lot expensive.
I turned to my friend and lowered my voice. “Stef, I know you were being nice, but money—”
“Shut your stupid beautiful face, Witty. This is on me.”
He held up a hand when I opened my mouth to argue. “I didn’t get you a wedding present.”
“Why not?”
He looked at me dryly for a long beat.
“Right. Of course you predicted it.”
“Look, you’re getting your ‘my fiancé likes my hair long’ shit cut into something you love. And that adorable smartass niece of ours is getting a style that is going to be more interesting to those little fuckers in the sixth grade.”
“You’re impossible to argue with, you know that?”
“You might as well save your energy and quit trying.”
“Hello, ladies and gentleman,” Jeremiah called from a station with an ornate mirror and a scarlet cape draped over the chair. “Who’s ready to change their lives today?”
Waylay sidled up to me. “Is he serious?”
Stef took her by the shoulders. “Listen, shorty. You’ve never experienced the miracle of the kind of haircut that is so good it parts the clouds and makes the angels sing. You’re in for a treat today.”
“What if I don’t like it?” she whispered.
“If you don’t like it, our next stop will be Target, and I’ll buy you every hair accessory in existence until we find the perfect way to style your new hair.”
“Your hair is yours. You get to decide what to do with it,” I assured her.
“You get to decide how you show up in this world. No one else gets to dictate to you who you are,” Stef said.
I knew he was saying it for Waylay’s benefit, but the truth resonated deep down inside me too. I’d lost myself while trying to convince someone else that I was what he wanted. I’d forgotten who I was because I’d let someone else take over the definition.
“Okay,” Waylay said. “But if I hate it, I’m going to blame you guys.”
“Let’s do this,” I said with conviction.