Blonde Ambition, Latina Edition [Flashback]

Blonde Ambition, Latina Edition [Flashback]
As the stylist brushed through my hair and started sectioning off strands of dark brown, I felt like the main character in one of those movies where the girl is about to make a life-altering decision. The only problem was I didn’t have a dramatic soundtrack.
What I had instead was Naomi laughing too loud across the aisle because her manicure tickled, and Joy stressing over which highlight tone to pick like she was choosing her wedding colors.
“I already promised I won’t cry if this turns out bad,” I muttered to the stylist, who looked younger than me and way too cheerful for someone handling chemicals strong enough to strip the soul out of hair.
She smiled, the kind of professional salon smile that said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse.’
I sat still. My hair was sectioned, foils gleaming all over my head, something ominous soaking into my scalp.
And because my life always spins in a very Gretta way, I pulled out my iPad and hit play on the only thing that ever made me feel sane in chaos: Twilight.
Yes. Again.
And before you judge, don’t tell me you can see Edward Cullen step out of the fog and not feel even a little like a breathless sixteen-year-old.
The second Robert Pattinson’s pale face filled the screen, with that look of “I want to kill you but also love you forever,” my heart and my hormones started sprinting faster than any functional human’s should.
“G,” Joy’s voice cut across the room. “Twilight again?”
“Shhh.” I waved a hand like I was warding off evil spirits. “My favorite scene’s coming. Don’t ruin it.”
“Which one? Did it when he says, ‘hold on tight, spider monkey’?” Naomi grinned.
I turned to her slowly. “Naomi. If you can’t respect this cinematic masterpiece, we can’t be friends.”
My stylist chuckled. “I like Edward too. But Jacob’s body...”
I shot her a look through the mirror. “You just insulted the vampire race inside their temple. Careful.”
While bleach worked its way through my hair, and possibly my sanity, I kept my eyes locked on the screen. The scene where Edward stops the van with one hand… God, why did it still give me chills when I knew damn well it was twenty-dollar CGI?
Maybe because no real guy had ever stopped danger for me.
Even Reagan, the only living creature who came close to Edward Cullen levels of danger, was more likely to trip me down the stairs than catch me.
And don’t ask why his face had the nerve to flash through my brain the second Bella stumbled and Edward caught her effortlessly. My subconscious needed to be arrested.
One hour, one Twilight movie, and one-and-a-half death threats at Joy for commenting on the yellow tint at my roots later, the stylist finally said, “Let’s rinse. It’s going to be cold.”
She wasn’t lying. The water felt like it came straight from some cursed vampire valley in Forks. But I survived. I’m Gretta. I had principles.
And now I’m… blonde.
When my hair was dried and fell across my shoulders like overly confident rays of sunlight, I stared at the mirror.
Wow.
Shit.
Who was that woman?
“You look like you’re about to ruin someone’s life,” Joy said from behind me.
“Perfect,” I answered without blinking.
Naomi leaned closer. “You look like the Latina version of my favorite TV villain. The one who steals people’s husbands.”
“Fantastic,” I grinned. “Now help me buy blood-red lipstick and a black leather trench coat.”
:::
The second I got back to my flat, I threw myself onto the couch and stared at the ceiling like someone who had just made an impulsive decision under the influence of hormones and peer pressure.
Oh wait. 
That’s exactly what happened.
I touched the ends of my newly blonde hair, a shade brighter than my future this semester. It felt... weird. Like wearing someone else’s identity. But in a fun, slightly reckless way.
After gathering enough courage, I stood up, planted myself in front of the bedroom mirror, and grabbed my phone. One click. Then another angle. Then one from below, lips slightly pursed, eyes narrowed ... my version of “I woke up like this, but we both know I’m lying.”
One out of five pictures looked… acceptable. I slapped on the “Oslo” filter, the one I hated but always used anyway.
Caption: Mood: could steal your boyfriend, but too busy building a model.
Posted. Done. Let the world judge.
I exhaled, tied my hair into a messy knot, and turned back to my desk. My architecture model for next week sat there like a tiny demon made of foam board and rulers.
I hummed softly “A Thousand Years” on piano, because of course my soul still hadn’t moved on from Bella walking down the wedding aisle.
Glue stuck to my fingertips as I sliced through the model’s left side with a box cutter. That’s when my phone started buzzing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Seven.
I hissed under my breath and tried to ignore it. But the notifications kept flooding in like a zombie attack.
With a mix of dread and, fine, curiosity, I picked up my phone. And—holy hell.
Two hundred eighteen notifications.
Likes. Mentions. DMs. Comments.
My photo.
In less than an hour, it had almost one hundred twenty thousand likes. My eyes narrowed. 
“What the hell…” I muttered, opening the comments.
People from campus who I was pretty sure didn’t even know my name before were now spamming fire emojis and try-hard captions like blonde era unlocked 🔥 or I give up.
One account.. from law school, if I wasn’t mistaken, even wrote, ‘God, I hope my girlfriend doesn’t follow you.’
I snorted. “Too late, babe.”
And then, right in the middle of the chaos...
Incoming call.
MAMÁ lit up on my screen, all caps, like she was literally born to yell.
I sighed and answered. “Hola, Mamá…”
“GRETTA DOMINGO! WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR HAIR?! ARE YOU TRYING TO DIE?!”
I instinctively pulled the phone a few inches from my ear. Muscle memory, years in the making.
“Mamá, it’s just—”
“BLONDE? YOU WENT BLONDE? WHO HYPNOTIZED YOU? WAS IT THOSE FRIENDS OF YOURS WHO HAVE NO LIFE GOALS?”
I leaned my head back against the chair. “It’s just hair, Mamá. Hair. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s not like I used a knife to split someone’s skull.”
“Hair is a woman’s crown, Gretta! And you decided to dye it the color of… of a mistress?!”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “That’s a stereotype, Mamá.”
“I don’t care! If a man sees you now and falls for you, he better have a stable job and a retirement plan. If not, tell him your mother can still throw a sandal from twenty meters and never miss!”
“Noted.” I mimed writing it in the air.