Two hours. Two long, chaotic hours. That's how long it had been since Layla dragged me out of her childhood home and announced, with far too much excitement, that we were going to dye her hair.
I wasn't opposed to the idea in fact, I thought her old purple streaks were stunning but the way she stubbornly refused to let a professional handle it? That's where I drew the line.
Or at least, I tried to.
"We could just go to a salon," I'd suggested on the drive.
Layla shot me a look, her arms crossed as she grinned mischievously. "Where's the fun in that?"
Now, here we were in a general store, navigating narrow aisles with a cart I was sure had a squeaky wheel. Layla had insisted on browsing every single hair dye on the shelves, agonizing over the exact shade of purple she wanted.
"Is this one too dark?" she asked, holding up a box with a model sporting a deep violet mane.
I squinted at it, already exhausted. "It's fine."