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again, like an outsider.
    They were pulling tops and skirts out of Amber’s closet, talking about things like straightening irons and bronzer and how this person or that should only wear wedges because they didn’t know how to walk in heels. It was like they were speaking a different language.
    I stood to leave the room, feeling sad and defeated, when I suddenly realized that I could do this. It wasn’t as if I was ingratiating myself in a world of lies and espionage; this was gossip and lip gloss. Although I probably know more about lies and espionage than what kinds of shoes are easier to walk in, I could do it.
    At the same moment I had this little epiphany, Amber noticed that I had stood up.
    "Where you going, Ash?" she asked. She looked a little perturbed. I don’t think she’d even noticed until that moment that I hadn’t been involved in the conversation.
    I could do it.
    I walked to my closet. "Just wanted to look through my things to try and find something to wear."
    "Oh! Let us help!" She looked a little too excited.
    I had guessed that my lack of fashion — or hair or makeup — sense irked Amber, and I’m sure Randi, but you’d think I’d just invited her to completely make me over.
    Which, apparently, I had.
     

Chapter Four
     
    It wasn’t until Thursday, two days later, that I finally started to get used to my new look. The look consisted of only two additions to my daily routine: the application of mascara and lip gloss, both of which made a surprisingly positive difference to my face. However, the major change was not an addition; it was a subtraction.
    Amber had cut my hair.
    About thirty seconds into our search for a suitable outfit for me to wear to the party, Amber announced that I should do something different with my hair.
    I’d actually been thinking along that same route for the past few weeks.
    I hadn’t had my hair cut in years, and I’d never had it cut — or styled for that matter — by an actual hair professional in a real salon. The closest I’d ever gotten was my grand mom who had taken hair school classes in the 1960’s.
    I considered what Amber said for a second and agreed, thinking that in a few days or weeks she’d accompany me to a nearby salon.
    I thought wrong.
    Unbeknownst to me, Amber was the hairstylist in residence at this particular dormitory, a fact I would have benefitted from knowing before agreeing with her.
    She screeched and squealed and cheered and — after I subsequently tried running away — begged. Eventually, I relented, simultaneously giggling at her — and Randi and Becca’s — antics and fearing the demise of my plain, but pretty, hair.
    And while all of this transpired, somewhere in the back of my head, it registered that this was exactly the way life was supposed to be lived: surrounded by laughing friends, doing crazy things and just being happy. I looked around the room at the group of silly girls, just laughing and carrying on, and I felt, for the first time, like I was truly part of a circle of friends.
    The thought brought tears to my eyes, but I hastily blinked them away before I was — thankfully — distracted by Amber coming towards me with a shiny set of scissors.
    ****
    Apparently, Amber’s mother and aunt were both hairstylists back in New Jersey. They even owned their own salon, called Curl Up and Dye.
    Amber had practically grown up in the salon and was actually a good hair dresser — at least that’s what Becca whispered to me as she helped me rinse my hair before the big cut.
    It seemed she was right.
    I wasn’t one to fuss with my hair. Opting to wear it pulled back in some fashion for the most part, my one requirement to Amber was that, when all was said and done, I could still pull it up.
    "That’s fine, Ash," she whined playfully and rolled her eyes before adding, under her breath, "but you won’t want to."
    I chuckled; I couldn’t help myself.
    I should have been more nervous, but honestly, all I really felt was