Meanicures Read Online Free PDF

said.
    I looked around the salon while she was gone. There was the stylist working at a chair a little farther along who’d just finished giving a haircut. She was older, with short black hair streaked with purple. At least her streaks were cute—and intentional, I thought as theglare from the light broadcast my spinach-colored hair to the other customers.
    When Poinsettia came back, the first thing she did was chop off the very ends of my hair. “No sense coloring split ends,” she commented. Then she started painting the rest of my hair with a small brush.
    “So I just don’t know what I’m going to do,” said the other stylist, who had the purple-streaked hair, edging closer to us. “He keeps calling and sending e-mails to apologize. It’s like—he won’t accept the fact that we’re not dating anymore. But it’s too late!”
    “There’s always a lot of drama around here,” Poinsettia said to me. “You’d better get used to it because you’re going to be here for a while.”
    “It’s not drama! It’s my life!” the other stylist said.
    “See?” Poinsettia arched an eyebrow.
    “That’s okay,” I said. “I’m used to drama.”
You should have seen my day
.
    “Okay, so what would
you
do?” the other stylist asked Poinsettia. “I want him to leave me alone. He broke my heart, now it’s time for him to move on. I’m in a better place, or I’m trying to be, and I don’t want him around me!”
    “Well, here’s what I would do,” said Poinsettia as she applied the last touches of color to my hair with the brush. “I would write him a letter. And then I would burn it, and his name, in a glass jar. After that, you’ll be free of him. You can move on with your life.”
    “And, um, why’s that, exactly?” I asked, peeking outfrom underneath my multiple hair clips. “I mean, why would that work?”
    “Simple,” she said. “You have to externally formalize everything you’re informally internalizing. Know what I’m saying?”
    I blinked a few times. Was it the fumes from the probably-not-organic hair color going to my head, or could something like this actually help us solve
our
problem? What if we could get rid of the mean girls that way? “That’s kind of … out there. You really think that would work?” I asked.
    “I’ll try it,” the other stylist said. “Can’t hurt, right?”
    I sat back, thinking furiously. I mean, my mom could go New Agey and hippie on me sometimes, but she’d never suggest anything like this. She’d just tell me to be nicer. I couldn’t
be
any nicer, and the mean girls were still horrible to me. So maybe Poinsettia was onto something after all.
    “Sometimes you have to take chances. You know?” Poinsettia asked.
    I nodded as she set the timer for my hair color. “Oh, I know.”

Chapter 5
    My mother nearly fainted when I walked through the door at dinnertime. “Madison?” She grabbed the kitchen island to steady herself. “What did you do?”
    I was the one who should have been shocked. She was cooking dinner on a Monday night. My mom, the queen of ordering in, who never met a takeout menu she didn’t like.
    That’s not totally fair, I guess. She used to cook a lot, but ever since her company got successful and took off, she hardly ever has the time on weekdays. Mom started out as a crunchy granola hippie, then went corporate. She’s still vegetarian—technically a pescetarian, which means she eats fish, too—but most of the time we either go out for dinner or order takeout.
    Some people think Mom and I look alike, because we both have strawberry-blond hair and green eyes. We’re about the same height, and apparently have the same eyebrows, which is a weird attribute to share, if you ask me. You’d think DNA would have more important things to do than go around determining eyebrow shapes.
    At the moment, we didn’t look that much alike anymore. She still had her long, straight hair, and I now had a short bob that stopped just below my