Pretty Hurts

by Shyla Colt

  Copy Right

  Text copyright © 2016 Shyla Colt

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews are permitted.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Dreams2Media

  Edited by: There for you Editing

  Pretty Hurts

  Shyla Colt

  Playlist

  I’ve Just Seen a Face: Jim Sturgess

  I Won’t Give Up: Jason Mraz

  Drunk in Love: Beyoncé

  Pretty Hurts: Beyoncé

  My Church: Maren Morris

  Check Yes or No: George Strait

  Forever and Ever, Amen: Randy Travis

  Man! I Feel like a Woman: Shania Twain

  No One Needs to Know: Shania Twain

  Breathe: Faith Hill

  Dedication

  For the ones who went before me. You will never be forgotten. This is for you Gma.

  A special thanks to my editing crew, Melissa, Rosie. You make my shine

  This is for every woman out there dealing with hair loss in silence.

  Chapter One

  Eifa

  Some may call me vain, and they’re entitled to their opinion, but I don’t agree. I consider myself a connoisseur of beauty. Makeup, clothing, hair products, and shoes are a few of the tools I use to add loveliness to a grim, harsh, and at times unforgiving world. With these tips and tools, I can control how others perceive me with sleight of hand, cover up, and sass. I like it that way.

  The real me is a persona I only let a few witness. I learned the hard way, not everyone who smiles in your face is your friend. Nor do they automatically wish for your success. The brutal Julius-Caesar-like slaying of my character by those I trusted in high school birthed the woman I glimpse daily in the mirror. That phenom in the reflection is damn near untouchable, with her sharp tongue, shrewd business sense, and icy demeanor. I subscribe to the school that believes one should kill them with kindness and never allow others to see you sweat.

  Being on point twenty-four-seven is akin to wearing a form of visible armor. When I teach others to highlight their attributes, I boost their confidence, and issue a weapon no one can take away. The sad truth is, for women looks matter. Putting your best foot forward is more than books, degrees, and common sense. It shouldn’t be. But could, should, and would aren’t the same as what is. Woman are savvy. We adapt, adjust, and forge forward.

  So, while others assume my career as a make-up artist and stylist is a petty, frivolous, and privileged position, it’s never been the way I see it. I unwrap the red, gold, and yellow tribal print scarf from around my head and peer at the patches of scalp visible among my once thick curls. My protective layer is failing. It all started six months ago when I noticed excessive shedding a few months prior. At first, I thought it was a conditioning issue. I know hair. I go to great lengths to care for my natural locks.

  I understand health starts from the inside out. So I upped my water intake and watched what I ate. Slicing down my stress, I devoted daily time to yoga and pilates. When the problem persisted, I sought out a dermatologist. That’s when I discovered I had an autoimmune disease called alopecia. My white blood cells are attacking my hair follicles. Why? No one can say.

  There’s no rhyme or reason, though there seems to be a genetic link in the family that may make one predisposed to it according to recent research. Alopecia comes in many different forms. Some affect the entire body, others the hair on the head or the beard area. There are some causes by scarring or excess tension on the hair follicle which can be recovered from.

  It’s silly, to be so attached to my hair. But it’s a part of my culture. I can remember sitting at my grandmother’s feet getting my scalped greased, and my hair braided into intricate patterns.

  I’ve babied, trimmed, deep conditioned, dyed, and manipulated my curls within an inch of their life. It’s a statement, a part of me people meet before I open my mouth. What will I do without it? How will I ever feel feminine?

  I turn to the left and the right. I’m a hot mess. My head is a cornucopia of patch worked bald spots. When I run my fingers through what’s left of my hair, the curled strands cling to my fingers and come out. I bow my head. It’s time to accept what’s happening, and control it. So far, it’s been running me, and that stops now. It’s time to come out with what’s been happening.

  Alopecia is nothing to be ashamed of, and in my case it’s permanent. I memorize my reflection; it’s the last time I’ll see myself with a full head of hair. I have to accept that my crowning glory is fading fast.

  After rewrapping my hair, I step away from my vanity. My best friend’s husband, Houston, is meticulous about the hair on the top of his head and his face. If anyone can recommend a barber I can trust, it’s him. I’m also counting on his friends to be open-minded. With his unconventional career choice and sense of style, he’s acquired interesting friends over the years. If I walk into the shop solo and feel judged or, studied like a lab rat, I may just chicken out.

  By the time I reach the car, my heart is knocking against my chest, and sweat is beading on my forehead like it’s a million degrees outside. Fear is a vindictive bitch, and I’m fighting to wrestle free of her grip. I stumble over my feet. I’m off balance and insecure. These aren’t feelings I’m used to dealing with.

  I’ve been thrust back into my high school mentality and I loathe it. There’s nothing worse than being awkward, hesitant, and struggling to figure out who you are. Inside the vehicle, I crank the AC and give myself a mental pat on the back. I’m here. This is a significant milestone. I’ve been hiding the condition for half a year now. It’s past time I take the wheel and steer. For too long this condition has ruled me.

  I had a lunch date with the Mahoneys planned weeks ago. It’s the perfect opportunity to come clean. It’s strange thinking of my best friend, Liv, as an official part of the clan, but oddly right. They’ve enjoyed six months of wedded bliss, and I couldn’t be happier. What Tony and Rain did to them was cold and devastating. She did more than leave her fiancé at the altar and steal her maid of honor’s man—she abandoned her triplets, and that’s despicable.

  I couldn’t believe the heifer had the nerve to show up this year and try to get them back. I don’t want kids, and that act made my black heart bleed. Bitch messed around and got me in the feels. The triplets are adorable, well-behaved, sweet-tempered, and so eager to please. Being abandoned left its mark on them, but Houston worked hard to ensure it didn’t define them. It’s one of the many qualities I appreciate about him. I hate the pain Liv had to go through to get him, but damn did she trade up.

  I feel the chains of secrecy, shame, and embarrassment loosening with every mile I drive. I’ve backed myself into a corner. I need to come out swinging, or I’m not going to make it. When I’m not in balance with myself, everything feels off. One thing I’ve learned in thirty plus years it this: you have to love all of you. The good, the bad, and the in-between combine to make up all the parts of me. I can do no less than embrace, nurture, and learn to appreciate this curveball.

  I’m going to need strength to face the adversity that will come my way. Especially given my line of work. In a world where looks are everything you have to remain on twenty-four-seven, and have thick skin.

  I’m hyper aware of everything as I walk up the drive. The grass is greener than usual, and the sky is a bold, bright hue. Happy clouds fill the sky like puffy cotton balls. It’s a
Bob Ross painting come to life. The picturesque Texas beauty mocks my mood. At one of my darkest days I’m bombarded with beauty. Life’s little ironies have me thinking the Universe very well may be flipping me the bird. The humidity is sticky and the heat clings to my skin like jersey knit.

  I squint in an effort to curb the sun’s wicked rays. Texas is out for blood this summer. As I step up onto the porch, I’m thankful for the shade. I knock. A few moments later, Liv answers with a grin and a flowing top. She just reached the stage where she had to reach into the back of her closet.

  “Come on in.”

  ‘Where’s the crew?” I scan the room for signs of the littles.

  “Down for a nap.”

  “That’s perfect. I need to talk to you and Houston.” I swallow around the lump in my throat.

  “This sounds serious,” Liv states.

  “It is,” I reply.

  “Hey, Liv, what’s up?” Houston asks, coming in from outside.

  “She wants to talk to us,” Liv says.

  His eyes grow stormy with concern.

  “Why don’t we sit on the couch?” I gesture toward the massive chocolate brown sectional.

  We move to the area, and I perch on the edge of the cushions. “I’ve been hiding this for the past six months. So, I ask that you bear with my while I work up the courage to come clean. It’s not anything that’s life or death, but it’s difficult to deal with nonetheless.” I smooth down the black material of my knit skirt and decide it’s better to just go for it. “I noticed my hair was coming out in noticeable amounts, so I made an appointment with a dermatologist. From there we discovered I have Alopecia … Alopecia Areata to be exact. My condition causes anything from a bald patch to extensive hair loss, potentially all over my body. So far, it’s been contained to my scalp. I should be grateful for that. In a way, I think I’m getting to the point where I can I am. There’s no cure.”

  “Oh my God,” Liv whispers. She covers her mouth.

  “I spent the past few months in a state of denial. I hid it from you because that would be admitting it to myself. I’m done with that. It only made me feel worse. I’m ready to take charge of what’s happening. I want to shave my head.”

  Liv shakes her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I understand it’s a lot to take in.”

  “What do you need from us?” Houston asks.

  “A really good recommendation on a barber?” I reply only half joking.

  He looks thoughtful for a moment. “I have a good friend, Edgar Gilborn. He keeps me trimmed up and runs an old school style barbershop not too far from the house. He uses talcum powder and hot towels. He’s got a varied clientele. You’ll fit right in.”

  “You promise you’re not just saying this to make me feel better, are you?”

  He laughs. “No. You and Liv have long memories. I would never do that.”

  “Good.”

  Standing, Liv rushes over to hug me. “I can’t believe you’ve been going through this alone.”

  “It’s not your fault. I had to get my head right before I shared this with anyone else.”

  “I should’ve known.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m a master at hiding things. It’s pretty much what I do for a living, hiding what others would perceive to be a flaw.”

  “I know, but I’m your best friend.”

  “Which is why I told you first.”

  “No one else knows?”

  “Not even my mother,” I admit, ashamed of my cowardice.

  “You know I’m here for you whatever you need, right?”

  Warmth fills my body. “I do. Thank you for that.”

  “Of course.”

  “Enough about me, how’s the little bean in your belly?” I ask.

  “Craving crazy things,” she answers with a huff.

  I laugh. It feels good to do that. “Like what?”

  “Garlic and onions on everything when I hate both of those things.”

  I smile. “Could be worse. It could be like soap or soap powder.”

  “Gross. Maybe I’ll count myself lucky then.”

  “When were you thinking about going in, Eifa?” Houston asks.

  “As soon as possible.” I swallow. “The longer I wait, the more anxious I become.”

  “Let me give him a call, okay?” Houston asks.

  I nod my head as my anxiety spikes.

  “Hey, don’t worry. We’ve got this together. You’re not alone anymore.”

  He squeezes my shoulder, and I rest my hand over his, enjoying the feeling of support and inclusion.

  ***

  Edgar

  I’ve been cutting hair as long as I can remember. As the oldest of three boys and two girls, it came naturally to me. I went to hair school with the intention of owning my own business one day. I’ve had my shop for over ten years now. I know what I’m doing. I haven’t been anxious about an appointment in a long time. Today, I’m nervous. Houston called me yesterday asking me if I had a spot today for a friend. He said there were special circumstances and he’d be in early to explain it before she arrived. I don’t get many women in here.

  Not that I mind. I’m down to style whoever sits in my chair. This woman sounds like a rare case. My first thought is she might have cancer. I’ve seen the ravaging that disease can do, so my heart goes out to her.

  I come through the back entrance of the shop, flip on the lights, and go to make sure my booth is properly stocked. Our normal hours are ten o’clock to seven, but I’m in at eight-thirty to open up the shop at nine for her. Houston wanted to make sure she had privacy. I refill the Barbasol, open up a fresh pack of talcum powder, and arrange the brushes that have dried out overnight from my washing the previous day. I’m meticulous when it comes to my station and cleanliness. You’re dealing with people’s scalps. It’s a much more sensitive area than people realize.

  I’m sitting on my chair when I see Houston approach. I turn off my word search app, set down my phone, and rise to open the door and greet him.

  “Hey, man, it’s good to see you,” I say as we shake hands and do a manly hug.

  “Same here. Thank you for fitting my girl in.”

  “Anything for you. You want to break down what’s actually happening?” I lock the door behind him and lead him to the leather couches set up for our waiting room.

  “Yeah. The other day my wife’s best friend, Efia, came over and told us as she has Alopecia.”

  I whistle. “That’s tough. What type?”

  “She has Alopecia Areata. She says it means for the rest of her life she’ll lose her hair in varying patches. So far it’s been focused on her scalp. She’s taking the plunge and going bald.”

  “Wow. That’s gutsy as hell,” I say.

  “Yes, if you knew her you’d say even more so. She works as a make-up artist and stylist, so looks are everything.”

  “How’s she handling it?” I ask.

  “Like a fucking champ. I think this is her way of managing a situation she really has no real control over.”

  “Could be. You know I have no problem walking her through everything. It has to be daunting going bald as woman. Society has some very antiquated concepts on femininity.”

  Houston nods. “It has to be disconcerting. She’s putting up a brave front though. You’re the only person I’d trust her with. She’s vulnerable right now. It’s a given you’ll be nice, but if you can maybe boost her confidence a little, that’d be awesome, too.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Are you trying to be a matchmaker or a friend?” I ask, hearing an undertone in his words.

  “A friend. She needs a solid support system right now. You’ll be seeing her every other week or so, and you know hair. It’s a good match. You’ll get along well.”

  “With a stylist?” I ask skeptically. I envision a superficial model look alike with an upturned nose and haughty attitude. She probably lives like those chicks on Sex in the City. I know all about them thanks to
the torture my sisters put me through growing up. After my father died when I was nineteen, I took the role of man of the house and moved back in to help my mother raise my siblings. It’s why at forty, I have no plans on having kids of my own. There’s no need when I practically raised four already.

  I wouldn’t change a moment of the sacrifices necessary to give my siblings a good foundation and the start of decent lives. But that means this is my time now. I’m looking forward to traveling, indulging in things I want instead of need, and pursuing my hobbies like making my own beer and wood carving. I’m an odd duck. I have no problem admitting it. I’m past the age of needing to fit in, and I don’t think I ever really cared what others thought of me. It’s the influence of my Italian father.

  Houston shakes his head. “Don’t judge her by her career. She’s not what one imagines when they think of a stylist. She’s funny, down-to-earth, and incredibly unique.”

  I glance over at the photo of my father hanging on the wall. Remembering where I came from helps me stay on track. He’d be ashamed of the assumptions I’m making right now.

  Loud, boisterous, charismatic, and confident. At six foot two and three-hundred pounds he wasn’t traditionally handsome, but he made up for it with personality and moxie. He taught me you could have whatever you wanted if you were willing to put in the work, and ignore the naysayers.

  Maybe she is. Houston is good people. I can’t imagine him caring so much about someone who didn’t deserve it. “I’ll make sure she’s comfortable and happy when she leaves. That doesn’t mean I’m going to ask her out for drinks or anything.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Thought you might just want to after it’s all said and done,” Houston says, looking thoughtful.

  Chuckling, I shake my head. “I’m free and happy about it.”

  Houston smirks. “Fair enough.”

  “Speaking of commitment, how’s the missus?” I ask, thinking of Liv, whom I’d loved for years.

  “She’s good, man. Six months pregnant and her belly just popped.”