She Was My Friend

"I have a really nice purple haze."

Those were the words that kept ringing in my head. Speeding home in my car, I was stunned. I kept replaying the events over in my head to make sense of it all. It was supposed to be a meeting with my hair stylist friend, who I hadn't seen in a year. A lot can change in a year.

I got a text from Denise stating that I should visit her at her new salon location. It's common for hair stylists to reach out to update clients, and I thought nothing of it. It was convenient since I had recently relocated closer to her city. I couldn't wait to catch up with her. She was my friend first before she was my hair stylist.

If I would describe Denise, I would compare her to Dolly Parton. Never leaving her house without full makeup, hair, and jewelry, she was loud and full of laughter. She commanded the presence in the room, and she was an utter delight. Her home was always warm and cozy, filled with lovely-smelling candles.

I have a really nice purple haze.

She texted me that day, requesting I bring cash. I told her I had an allergic reaction to a previous dye job. I needed color repair, or a short pixie cut if it was deemed beyond repair. She asked for no photos and instantly quoted me a super low price. It was my first flag, but this was my friend.

Driving to the location, I became aware that the neighborhood was slowly getting worse. More and more properties were boarded up, along with an increase in homelessness and vandalism. People were set and ready to approach my car to see if I was in need of any street drugs. She texted me while I was driving that she was taking a food break and would be ready for me in 15 minutes. I continued; she wouldn't put me in harm's way. This was my friend.

I kept checking my door locks as I drove. When I arrived, I parked my car in front of the salon to keep an eye on it. The salon looked more like a barbershop. It was a Saturday, and no one else was in the lot but Denise and me. She was waiting for me in the parking lot. I ran and hugged my friend.

Stepping back, she examined my hair. She kept suggesting coloring it with a dye called purple haze. I repeatedly told her I wanted a black color, not purple. It was then that I realized she wasn't understanding me. I stepped back and looked at my friend.

It was the first time I had ever seen the roots of her hair. She would fake horror when I showed up with any gray. Her nails were chipped and mangled. Her clothes had holes, and she wore sandals. The girl who would cut hair all day in heels was now in sandals with no jewelry. But she was my friend.

As we age, we may become more comfortable. Maybe she had been sick, or maybe she had been working too hard. But I noticed she would not meet my eyes. Her mouth looked aged, and she had a distinct smell that I couldn't place. I started to scan her body. Scanning her, I was wondering what the drug was. I didn't see any track marks. Maybe it was alcohol? She said she went to lunch. She didn't seem drunk. She was high. Her words were slurring. She wasn't following me conversationally. This was my friend.

I followed her into the salon. She showed me to a salon chair. We were the only two in the building. She kept wandering to the back room and then took a phone call. I heard her say in a hushed tone, "Yeah, I got your money. I will send you the address." She hung up and explained that she had another client en route and needed to give him the address. Someone was coming.

She kept drifting to the back as if waiting to let someone in. We originally came in the side door. The front of the salon was dark and locked. When she wandered, I looked around for any signs of her. Was this even an operating salon? Did she break in here? I found none of her business cards, client book, or stylist tools. She always proudly displayed her license. Always calling it her most expensive piece of paper, the document was nowhere to be discovered. I was looking for signs of my friend.

She came back in and watched me set my purse down. She then gave me a button-up salon shirt. She said I needed to take my shirt off and put that on. Don't worry, because it's just me and her in the salon, she explained. I have never been asked to remove any clothes at any hair appointment. I explained to her that my shirt was black and safe from any hair products. She insisted.

At this point, I believed she wanted me in the bathroom to go for my purse. I walked away from her, pulling off my shirt clearly so she would see. I wanted the illusion of compliance. Instead of turning into the bathroom, I turned around to watch her. I wanted to wait for her to go for my purse so I could open up the talk about her needing help for drug addiction. I watched her walk outside instead. She came back in with a baseball bat. This was not my friend. This was a junkie.

My plan of helping her changed to a plan of escaping. At that moment, a million scenarios flashed through my brain. I was like a comic book hero, Dr. Strange, calculating all the endings of this. Then something clicked. Who was coming? Why did she want me out of my shirt? She could have dashed out with my purse if it was about money. If it was my car, someone could have been lined up to take it, and she would have escorted me to shampoo bowls immediately. I was the commodity. She had sold me for drugs. I was now in a possibly abandoned building with a bat-wielding junkie. No one knew where I was.

I approached her and laughed about her having a bat. She walked in with it discreetly down by her side. I wanted her to know that I knew she had it. I told her there was no need for violence; I had her money and made it a joke. She turned, stunned that I was not in the bathroom; I was there watching her walk in. She laughed as she wandered off to stash the bat. She did not address it.

She was getting worse, stumbling around the shop, trying not to nod off. Her previously mentioned food break was code for her fixing up. Most addicts fix up before committing heinous acts. It makes it more palpable for them to swallow. I was set up to become a future crime scene.

Slowly sinking into a salon chair, sounding like a record on repeat, "I got some really nice purple haze. Don't worry. You are going to look so sexy."

I squared up. I firmly stated, "Denise, I'm leaving this salon now." I waited to see how she would respond. I was ready to fight for my life. Saying I was leaving was more for me than for her. I firmly told myself that I would be leaving this salon alive. She muttered about the purple haze before saying ok. I told her to take care of herself, and then I left.

I drove home in silence and shock. I got home, fed my dog, went upstairs to shower, and then screamed. The reality of what I had escaped was something I couldn't wash away. I felt so stupid to ignore all those flags and all the mental gymnastics I did to justify the situation.

As an autistic person, I know people say we are easily trusting and easier still to manipulate. But in that moment, autism saved my life. The situation happened much faster than one could expect. My brain's ability to calculate and process millions of extra details helped me recognize what danger was about to occur.

One might think I would be grateful to have survived, and I am. But I have more gratitude for being autistic. Maybe I give people the benefit of the doubt more than I should. Perhaps I want to help those that are too far gone. But those are all traits of my autism. It makes me empathetic, and it gives me the heart that will eternally show up for my friends, willing to have drug addiction talks with them, willing to offer them help. Yes, some may be too far gone for that talk, or maybe they aren't ready. But at least I can process all the avenues to make the cleanest escape from a bad situation.

The narrative about autistic people being gullible and easily manipulated fails to recognize our superpower of pattern recognition. I can process millions of small details and connect them at record speed. Initially, I faulted myself for ignoring all the flags. Other friends made me feel better by saying they would have missed everything. They claimed they would have ended up dead on that salon floor. I realized that my behavior came from a place of not wanting to see the worst in my friend. I'm grateful for my autism always helping me focus on the good in humanity and giving me the wisdom to recognize when a friend has been replaced with an addict. She was my friend, lost in that purple haze.