by Amy Weitman

Created on: December 11, 2008

Immediately after the divorce papers were signed she went to a new hair salon. It wasn't that Heather had become dissatisfied with Paula. It was just that she needed a change. In her Malibu bungalow, Paula would suggest a vegetable dye as a color safe alternative. She would hold up a Polaroid of caramel colored celebrity and Heather would walk out momentarily subdued.

Today was different. The streets of Beverly Hills seemed electrified beneath her stilettos. And she hoped that she had made a lasting impression on the notary. That she would be remembered as the one who did not cry. She had held the pen steadily in her hand and pressed hard when she signed the divorce papers.

Now she strolls into the salon through a frosted glass door. The air is cold. She is greeted promptly. Martin leads her to his chair. She drops her two thousand dollar handbag onto the floor. Martin covers her with a smock.

"I want to go blond," she says.

He doesn't know her well enough to say no.

Paula used to cut her bangs while her eyes were puffy from crying.

Not Martin. He has never met her by any other name.

Here she is someone new. No longer Mrs. Anyone.

Martin lifts up a strand of her hair and studies it. He seems pleased with the condition that it's in.

She stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her freckles suggest a carefree life at the beach. Surely Saks Fifth Avenue will sell a foundation thick enough to cover them.

The sounds of high-heels come close to her chair. Martin swivels her around and she faces a younger woman dressed in a too tight black dress. Heather shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The woman whispers in Martin's ear. He nods and she promptly disappears.

There is no friendly chitchat here. No catching up and making nice. Heather immediately decides that she will no longer see Paula. Besides Malibu is too far away now that the beach house will be sold.

While Martin mixes her color Heather studies her chewed off nails. She tucks her hands beneath the smock. Martin dips a brush into a container and begins to systematically coat her mousy brown hair. The smell is poisonous. Already she feels more alive than she did one hour ago. She hears the neighboring stylist snipping with long thin scissors. Bits of a man's black hair cover the highly polished marble floor. She studies his profile. A long straight nose and strong jaw give him the air of nobility. His eyes hold firmly onto his own reflection. Heather stops watching him and considers her own. Who will she become now that her

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