Sharon wanted to meet her at a dance club near the university in Chapel Hill. It wasn’t Carla’s favorite sort of scene. She hated crowds. She hated being fondled and groped by strangers even more, but before she could form her refusal, a niggling feeling settled in to remind her she hadn’t done anything social beyond seeing her mother for at least two months. She was generally content with her reclusiveness and valued her quiet time, but every so often she wanted to pop her head out of her shell. She didn’t live far from the venue, so she went home and put on a clean pair of jeans and teased her straight brown hair a bit at the roots for volume. Her stylist had tried to convince her if she cut off about a foot of hair it might wave and bounce. Carla always refused with the excuse she had to think about it. She’d gotten too used to having what Sharon called “hippie hair.” Cutting her hair would qualify as a Very Big Change. She didn’t handle VBCs with much grace. She batted on a bit of mascara, smoothed on a slick layer of pale lip gloss and assessed herself in the mirror.
