“Hmmm,” D’John said. “Yes. Your producer is absolutely right. You do need me.”
Tate’s face flushed. “Now, uh, listen. I don’t really want—”
“What have you been doing to this skin of yours?” D’John asked.
“My skin?” Tate leaned in toward the mirror. “Nothing. I mean, I wash it. And I shaved this morning—”
“With what?” D’John asked. “A dull butter knife?”
“A razor, of course,” Tate said. “Shaving cream. Barbasol. Like that.”
D’John turned to Regina. “Will you listen to that? Barbasol? Who knew they still made that mess?”
“What’s wrong with Barbasol?” Tate demanded.
“What’s wrong with Barbasol?” D’John’s voice was mocking. “Why not just wipe a piece of sandpaper across your jaw? Why not throw rubbing alcohol on your face while you’re at it?”
“Huh?” Tate rubbed his hand across his chin.
Regina stifled a laugh. “I think maybe what D’John is trying to say is that he doesn’t think Barbasol is an appropriate product for you to use.”
“Appropriate?” D’John cried. He grabbed Tate’s hand and dragged it across his own smooth brown cheek.
“Do you feel that?” D’John asked. “That’s what a well-groomed man’s face should feel like. Moist. Firm. Healthy.”
“Healthy?” Tate seemed unconvinced.
“Now. Feel that skin of yours,” D’John ordered.
Tate shrugged and did as he was told.
“And?” D’John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Feels fine to me.”
“Fine?” D’John shrieked. “You think it’s fine that your face has the same texture as some nasty old work boot that’s been left out in the sun for about ninety years? You think it’s fine that a man with your looks has never properly cared for his own skin?”
“Hey, man,” Tate said, his face darkening. He started up from the chair. “I thought I was just coming in here to get my sideburns evened out a little. Val never said anything about—”
“Stop!” D’John said dramatically. He pushed Tate back into the chair. “Tell me,” he said, pausing for effect. “About your skin-care regimen.”
“Regimen?” He glanced over at Regina, who’d given up on the magazine, and was now openly laughing.
“Your routine,” she prompted. “How do you take care of your face?”
“Ah, hell,” Tate said. “I shower. I shave. I use soap, if that’s what you’re asking. Life Buoy. What else is there to a ‘regimen’?”
“Life Buoy,” D’John wailed. “Kill me now.”
Tate stood again and headed for the door. “Okay. Fun time’s over. See you folks later.”
“Go then!” D’John replied.
“I’m going,” Tate said. He got to the door, stopped, and turned around, then walked back to Gina.
“Excuse me,” he said, extending his hand to her. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
“I’m Regina,” she said, dimpling sweetly. “Regina Foxton.”
“And what exactly do you do, Regina Foxton?” His southern drawl was suddenly pronounced.
“Oh, I have a little show. It’s nothing much. Just regional television,” she said, being deliberately evasive.
“But she’s probably going to be moving over to the networks,” D’John blurted out.
“D’John, hush!” Gina said sharply. She turned back to Tate Moody with a shrug. “Wishful thinking. D’John thinks I’m cut out for Hollywood.”
“Ya never know,” Tate said, unfastening the plastic makeup cape and dropping it on the counter. “Anything can happen in television.”
“Exactly,” she said, giving him a little finger wave. “Bye now.”