I came up with twenty witty comebacks. Too bad they all happened twenty minutes after she'd left.
* * * *
An hour later, still reeling from my conversation with Corrine, I opened the etched glass doors of the fancy hair salon. I'd thought about cancelling my appointment with Christoff, but if there was any day that I needed a feel-good moment, it was this one.
I understood what Corinne was telling me, even if she'd steeped the message in a healthy dose of malice. Truthfully, I'd never really fit in at my job. I didn't consider myself a vain person, but I, as much as the next girl, was interested at playing up my best features and losing a few pounds. Yet I could never understand why we wrote the pieces in such a way that they made women feel inferior about themselves.
I took a deep breath, trying to focus on where I was. I'd lost my job. That happens every day. Sure, no one in my family had ever been fired, but it wasn't the end of the world. Right?
The hair salon looked like a gallery with pristine marble floors, pale blue walls and glass chandeliers. Each frame that hung on its walls featured a stunning black and white photograph of a woman with an elegant cut. I'd interviewed Christoff for the magazine last year, and he'd suggested I make an appointment. On a whim I had, shocked that he couldn't fit me in for six months. I'd forgotten about it until his receptionist had called last week with a reminder. Dillon was right. He was nutty, but in the most gorgeous, flamboyant kind of way. He wore a leather vest with no shirt beneath it and hot pink pants with embroidered flowers. A mane of brilliant auburn hair spilled out from beneath a sparkly white cowboy hat.
"So, my little darling, what are we going to do with these fine golden locks? You have the kind of hair that makes men's fingers twitch," Christoff said as his shampoo artist-yes, that was his name for her-lathered up my hair. "You look like a young Grace Kelly."
"Thank you." I had to admit I was blessed with good hair. "I was thinking a trim?"
"Just a trim? I'm an artist. Asking me to do a trim is like asking Picasso to paint the molding in your bedroom."
"What did you have in mind?"
"My mind is a dangerous place, mia cara. If I take you there, you'll need to give me artistic control." He wrapped the towel around my head and led me to the softest, most comfortable leather chair my ass had ever had the pleasure of occupying. "Do you dare to be my muse?"
Wow, what the hell did that mean?
"Are you going to make me look like one of them?" I gestured to photos of the stylish sophisticated women hanging on his wall.
"Is that what you want? To be another frame on my wall?"
"No, but they are stunning."
"And you will be too when I finish. It's settled then." He took my hand in his. His nails, shiny and long, each one with a perfect half-moon pink tip, wiggled as he spoke. "Let me take you on a journey and show you how you were meant to look. You are a classic girl and you deserve a style that embodies that."
Yeah, that sounded good. Maybe it was the strong herbal tea they served or my crazy meeting with Corinne, but either way I was ready for something different in my life. I nodded slowly. He clapped his hands and squealed.
"Excellent," he said, flipping my chair away from the mirror.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't want you to question me. You are safe in my hands." His confidence, more flashy than his outfit, drew me in.
I sat in the chair, trying to reconcile the morning's events and put them out of mind at the same time. Christoff took his time, cutting a strand here and standing back to assess his work. Sometimes he held up his hands in a picture-frame shape. The rhythmic pattern of snipping scissors and soft music sounded like a lullaby.
Finally, he stood back one last time, fanning himself with the cowboy hat, his low whistle echoing through the room. "Welcome to the new you."
He dramatically flipped the chair around with such speed that I had to tighten my grip on the armrests and use my feet to stop. I stared at the large mirror, blinking rapidly at the image staring back at me. My icy blonde locks were cropped on top, feathered on the sides, and straight at the back.
What the fuck?
A mullet … the man had given me a mullet.
"Don't you just love it?"
"Thanks, Picasso," I mumbled to myself. And now that I thought about it, Picasso was an amazing painter, but his images of women were less than flattering. "Um, it's not what I expected."
"It's original and classic like you, mia bella."
He'd said I looked like a young Grace Kelly, so why had he made me look like an old Rod Stewart?
Shit.
I had a boy's name, and now I had a haircut to match.
* * * *
I traveled back to the house in Edison Park, lamenting the great number of bad hair days that would follow me. I could already hear Dillon's resounding ‘I told you so' as I approached the house.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Garcia, was strolling the sidewalk. I waved at her and would have left it at that, except she kept heading toward the busy street.
"Mrs. Garcia, we should get you home," I said, taking her hand.
"I have to get to the restaurant. Max is waiting for me."
I didn't have the heart to tell her that her husband had died five years ago. She knew that somewhere, but at ninety years old, you were allowed to be in that space where your anguish guided your imagination. She always tried to sneak away from her family, to get to a restaurant that no longer existed and a husband who wasn't there. I wondered what it meant to have a love like that-one where you'd constantly be looking for your lost half, and feeling their absence in everything you did. There was a romantic beauty in that grief-one I couldn't even imagine.
"Why don't we go home for now, Mrs. Garcia? I can walk you."
It was only a few feet, but her steps came slow and jagged. I put my arm around her for support.
"Did you cut your hair, Marley?" she asked.
"I'm Billie. Marley is my sister."
"Oh, yes, I remember now. That husband of yours is a looker. He reminds me of my Max, handsome as the devil but the manners of a saint."
"I've heard many good things about Mr. Garcia," I said, deciding it was best not to correct her. She would forget soon enough and being reminded of all the things she forgot had to be a burden at some level.
She pointed to my head. "You know, my son had a haircut like that a long time ago. It's a very interesting choice."
Yeah, that she remembers.
"Mom, there you are," her daughter, Doris, said swinging the door open. "I've been looking for you."
Doris turned to me, a grateful smile on her face. "Thank you, Billie." Then her mouth fell open as she took me in. Was this the reaction I was going to get from now on? I should have asked to borrower Christoff's cowboy hat. He owed me that much.
"Anytime. I should get going."
Then I turned and walked away before she closed her gaping mouth.
"How did it go, Little Bird?" Marley asked, walking out of the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks and let out a small shriek. "Who did this to you?"
"Christoff," I answered. "It's horrible, isn't it?" I knew the answer, but I'd figured maybe I'd been overreacting at the salon. Maybe it would look better with some distance. Now I knew the truth. There wasn't enough distance in the cosmos for this haircut to look good.
"It's different," she said.
"I lost my job."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, honey."
She hugged me, and I tried to control the sobs I'd held in so bravely, but they escaped.
It didn't take long for Stevie, Mom and Dillon to show up. Marley had sent them some kind of SOS text. I had showered, hoping that blow-drying my hair in a different way would fix it. It didn't. I sat on the couch with my locks secured under Marley's old Chicago Bears baseball cap.
"Sweetheart, you'll get another job," Mom said. "You know, I could talk to Damien."
"No. I'll find another job on my own."
My stepfather, Damien, was an incredibly wealthy man. When my mom married him, my siblings and I had made a pact never to ask him for money or favors. Those things ruined relationships. I wanted to make it on my own … to be the architect of my success.
"Let's see your hair, kid," Dillon said.
I shook my head. "It's bad."
"I'm sure it can be fixed," he insisted.
I sighed, taking off the cap. Their slack jaws and wide-eyed reactions didn't match their comforting words.