The Dolls(37)
I feel a surge of excitement, despite my trepidation. “Of course it does.”
“So you’ll join us?” Chloe asks.
“Well . . . yeah.” I suspect I don’t have much of a choice, but I have to admit, the possibilities of what this means are tempting.
Peregrine pulls into a space on Main Street, parallel parking in one impressive attempt. I unfold from the backseat and launch myself onto the sidewalk.
“Welcome aboard,” Chloe says, linking arms with me and pulling me toward a pair of pink double doors on the corner. “Now let’s get you looking like the queen you are.”
Cristof’s Salon is opulent and gold-trimmed on the inside, with mirrors lining all the walls, like the parlor of an eighteenth-century French palace. A small, slender man with a goatee and several tiny stud earrings emerges from behind a velvety purple curtain in the back and exclaims, “Dah-lings!” as he rushes over and kisses Peregrine and Chloe on the cheeks. He turns to me. “And you must be Eveny.” He leans in to kiss me on both cheeks too. “I am Cristof!” he says grandly. “I see you’re not a moment too soon. But don’t worry, doll, that’s what we’re here for. We’ll fix you up real nice and pretty.
“Sharona!” he yells at the top of his lungs, startling me. A moment later, a round middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and spiky purple hair emerges from the back wearing a smock. “Sharona,” Cristof says, “this here is Eveny, Sandrine Cheval’s daughter.” The color drains from Sharona’s face as Cristof goes on. “Obviously we have great raw material here, but we have a lot of work to do.”
My cheeks continue to flame as Sharona’s eyes rake over me. “Dat’s a fact,” she says in a thick accent.
She leads me over to a chair, leans me back, and begins to wash my hair while Peregrine and Chloe talk in hushed tones with Cristof. By the time Sharona has blotted my hair and led me over to a chair facing a huge oval mirror, the girls have settled into seats behind me.
“So, my dear, what can I do for you today?” Cristof asks as he approaches.
Peregrine answers for me. “She’d like a gloss treatment, of course, and those shaggy split ends will have to go. Also, if her bangs could sweep to the side rather than cut across her forehead like she’s a second grader, that would be ideal.”
I turn. “I like my bangs,” I say. “They’re ironic.”
Peregrine just looks at me. “They’re hideous.”
Cristof chuckles. “The gloss, I can do. The bangs, well, that’s your department. I cut. I don’t make hair grow.”
“Right,” Peregrine says. She exchanges looks with Chloe, and together, they get up and walk toward me. Peregrine grabs my right hand and Chloe grabs my left. With her free hand, Peregrine reaches up and plucks a single strand from my bangs.
“Ow!” I exclaim.
“Oh give me a break,” Peregrine says, rolling her eyes. She grabs my hand again and gestures for Chloe to do the same. In her right hand, she holds up the strand of hair. “Cristof? A flame, please?” she asks.
But he’s already approaching with a lit red candle. He hands it to Chloe, who thanks him and thrusts it toward Peregrine. They squeeze my hands tighter as Peregrine holds my strand of hair over the flame.
Chloe fishes in her pocket for something. Finally, she withdraws a handful of squished herbs, which she hands to Peregrine as she looks toward the ceiling and begins to speak in a low voice. “Come to us now, Eloi Oke, and open the gate. Come to us now, Eloi Oke, and open the gate. Come to us now, Eloi Oke, and open the gate.”
There’s a subtle shift in the air after she speaks the last word. The room is silent and heavy. Chloe takes a deep breath and continues in a singsongy voice:
Rosemary roux, marigold dust,
Violet leaf, we draw your power.
Spirits, let there be bangs where there weren’t before,
Beauty for Eveny, let it be done.
They release my hands, and as soon as they do, I feel a gust of wind blow through. The herbs in her hand turn to black dust, and the flame on the candle goes out. “Mesi, zanset,” she murmurs.
“Not bad,” Peregrine says.
“See for yourself.” Chloe turns my chair so that I’m facing the mirror.
My jaw drops. My hair is still damp from the shampoo, but I can plainly see that my choppy Bettie Page bangs are no longer there. In their place, there’s an elegant swoop that skims across my forehead, grazing my right eyebrow and falling ever so slightly over my left eye. “How did you do that?” I whisper.
Peregrine rolls her eyes. “Seriously?” she asks. “You’re impressed with that?”