“Stellar. Mrs. Ball said good-bye. She was in today for a perm. She said she’d miss you quoting the stars’ hair colors, and she still wants to know Betty Grable’s.”
“I told her, I can’t find anything but a black-and-white photo. I can tell her it wasn’t blue, and most likely it was a ten. Perfectly platinum.”
“Ah, to have your color talent. It’s a pity you didn’t get much practice here. Hollywood is going to be perfect for you. People are really willing to try new things there. I read the Enquirer that everyone in Hollywood colors their hair, even the guys! With highlights and everything. Even the men own hair products like flat irons. Can you imagine if one of our cowboys came in for highlights?”
“I tried to get Ryan to let me practice. He told me only one woman touches his hair. I think he thought I was trying to pick him up.” I don’t mention he always thinks that.
“He said that?” Kate plops onto the couch, letting her eyes rest on the mirrored wall. She’s heavenly beautiful with sweeping curls of blonde hair and an inherent in innocence her bright blue eyes. Her sweet looks belie her sarcastic, Siamese personality, but I’m not sure that anyone but me sees the “quipping Kate.” That side of her is reserved for me alone. Everyone else gets the sweet-country-girl-next-door. I get Roseanne Barr.
“He did. He said only you touch his hair, that it’s an intimate act for him.”
Her expression is dubious. “You’re scaring me. He did not say that.”
“He did. It was right before graduation from beauty college. I asked if he’d let me try a Ryan Seacrest on him. Kate, what’s the matter? Are you mad at me?”
“Do you think Ryan and I are right for each other?”
“Um, yeah. The whole town does.”
“I know what the town thinks. I’m asking you.” Kate gets up and paces the room, fiddling with various knickknacks.
“If a guy like Ryan would ask me to marry him, I'd have no reason to move, Kate.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s what you think, huh? You live in a dream world. So have you been studying the stars’ hair colors for Yoshi?”
I nod. “I’ve been watching Yoshi’s color videos. I want to be an artist in my own right.”
“That is definitely you. Too bad I’m the only one who’s ever let you practice. You’re too cutting-edge for Sable.”
“I am not cutting edge.”
“For Sable you are.”
“For Hollywood, I’m probably a step above a Clampett. Can’t you hear the banjo now?”
“Stop it. Don’t bother going if you’re going to take that woe-is-me attitude. Stay here and be a loser.”
“I am not a loser!”
“Of course you aren’t. I’m not friends with losers. I'm not saying this should go to your head or anything, but you do have to cop a little attitude or you won’t make it. Repeat after me: José Eber can eat my dust!”
“José Eber can eat my dust!”
“Men in cowboy hats with mullets should not be designing hair.”
I laugh. “Men in cowboy hats with mullets should be designing hair.”
“I am not a Clampett. I am a Faith Hill, ready to find my star.”
“I am not a Clampett. I am Faith Hill, ready to find my star.”
“And snag a Tim McGraw in the process!”
“Now there is a cowboy worthy of Hollywood status.”
“A moment of silence for Tim McGraw’s worthiness.”
We both break into giggles, and I feel a renewed surge of adrenaline. “Girl, I am going to Hollywood!”
“I don’t mean to be a downer, but you think your mom’s going to be all right?” Kate nods toward her door. As if reading our thoughts, my mother comes out of her room, grabs a bottle of scotch out of the bar, and heads back into her lair, slamming the door behind her.
I shrug. “Will it make any difference if I’m here or not?”
“Probably not.” Kate kicks her feet up on the coffee table. “One day I hope this whole town realizes what they’ve lost. Especially that sniveling Cindy Simmons, who for some reason I can’t bring myself to color right. My hand just slips every time I’m mixing.”
“You better watch that; she might have Daddy sue you.”
“Let her sue me. Then she can go over to the Snippy Curl and get it done.”
I laugh. “If I get famous, I wonder if my father will ever claim he’s my father.”
“I wonder why your mom doesn’t make it public. I would have brought the scoundrel down a long time ago.”
“I think she secretly hopes one day he’ll come back to her.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why else would she stay in this house and keep it like June Cleaver lives here, until the next drunken binge. It doesn’t make any sense. She doesn’t make any sense.”
“That would be so romantic if he came for her—except for the whole leaving-his-family thing. That’s not very Christian.”
“Romantic? You think? The thought grosses me out. You need to sit and watch An Affair to Remember with me again. A true hero crosses barriers for love. Bud Simmons wouldn’t cross the street for someone else. My mother can do better than him.”
“And she has done better than him. Many times,” Kate quips.
“Just never mind.”
“I hope you keep your head on straight when you get to California. As I keep reminding you, An Affair is a movie. And Cary Grant was married how many times in real life?”
“I’ll keep my head on straight, but An Affair to Remember is not just a movie. It’s a beautiful dream. He doesn’t love her because she’s beautiful or because they met on a luxurious ocean liner. No. He loves her for who she is, for what they are together.” I sigh wistfully, mostly for Kate’s benefit. The elderly set gets it; why doesn’t she?
“Kate & Leopold is more for me. If Hugh Jackman in Victorian garb so much as crosses a T for me, I’m there.”
“Ah, yes. I spent many a night watching that one too Mostly because I wanted to figure out what happened to Meg Ryan’s lips.”
“You spent many a night watching everything, reading everything, hanging out at the library with the widowed set—have I mentioned you have no life? I hope you find your life in California.”
“Many times, and really, did you have to? If I had a boyfriend like yours, I’d have a life too, Kate. Did you ever think of that?”
“Now’s your chance to actually live a little, not just as a couch potato to fake men in Victorian suits and fedoras. The only time I ever saw a real man in a suit was at a funeral.”
“I’m just thrilled you finally get what a fedora is.”
“It’s a hat. For Johnny Depp wannabes and men who saw Indiana Jones one too many times. The Maltese Falcon has been located, so in actuality there is no reason to don a fedora in this day and age.” Kate stares at me like I might be getting an idea. She has that way of telling my fantasy life to cool it just by staring at me. “That goes for men in suits too.”
“I doubt Beverly Hills is like that. Dr. Rey wears suits all the time on Dr. 90210.”
“You don’t want a man in a suit, Sarah Claire. He’s most likely an undertaker.”
“No one dies in Beverly Hills. Duh. It’s all the hair dye. It preserves them. They just get more skin pulled back and keep going.”
“Whatever. You ready to hit the airport? I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning.”
I look at my half-empty suitcase. “I’m not packed yet. My mother was on ironing patrol.”
“Well, she’s going to be ironed to the sheets in a few minutes. Just wait until she’s passed out.”
I exhale, feeling my exhaustion to the core. “I should say good-bye before she’s too numb to remember that I did.”
“Better you than me. This is her chance, too, so lose the guilt. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With a wave, she’s gone.
I think about what she said. There’s no sympathy for the town drunk, except maybe
at the bar. One thing I have to say for the drinking establishments of America is they take in most anybody. They accept you come-as-you-are with no effort whatsoever. My mother walks in with her roots showing three months of growth and wearing a halter top, and she’ll still find a sympathetic ear. Someone willing to commiserate with her, have a drink with her, meet her where she is.
When I first became a Christian, I was naïve enough to believe the church would do this for her and she wouldn’t have to drink anymore. I was fresh off the conversion high, and practicality didn’t enter into my equation. Well, let me just say I learned the hard way there’s a difference between God’s grace and the church’s.
Before entering my mother’s room, I pause, wondering what exactly I might get behind door number one. Will it be Mom number 1, the sorrowful woman who’s crushed I’m leaving and needs to sniffle on my shoulder? Will it be Mom number 2, who hands me bleach and wants me to scour something before I leave. Or Mom number 3, who is no longer with us. I knock on the door, and when there’s no answer, I open it.
“Don’t go, baby.”
Mom number 1 it is.
“We’re a team. We’ve always been a team.” She uses the back of her hand to wipe her moist cheeks.
I go in and sit down. “Mom, do you know how hard it is to get into this program? It’s like we’ve won the lottery.I want life to change for us, don’t you?”
“Not if it means you’re leaving.”
I take the bottle from her hands. “This will change things, Mom. You’ve got your entire life before you.”
She nods as if she really wants to believe me while I stare at the bottle and her tears and wonder if anything will ever really change. What if my destiny is to be alone like her? To clean up after her?
“I love you, baby. You have to try this. I understand.” But it’s clear she doesn’t. “You don’t let them give you any crap, you hear me?”
“I won’t, Mom. I love you.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you for working so hard for me. Now it’s my turn.”
I take the bottle to put back on the shelf on my way out. “You always were a selfish girl,” she slurs and falls back onto the bed.
Lifting the bottle, I can see it’s nearly gone. “A record,” I say to my already snoring mother. “I have to be selfish, Mom, because the plastic people need me.” I cup my ear “I hear them calling, ‘Sarah Claire, where are you? Rescue me with perfect highlights and a shaped cut!’”
Some people go to college. Others of us have a higher calling in foils and highlights. There’s only one road to success in Sable, Wyoming, and it leads directly out of town.
chapter 2
I pretended to be somebody I wanted
to be until finally I became that person.
Or he became me.
~ Cary Grant
As the plane touches down, my stomach swirls with both anticipation and abject fear. I keep hearing my mother’s nagging voice taunt me on my future failure: “You’ll never make it in the land of those fruits and nuts!”
As opposed to the fruits and nuts at home, I’m guessing she meant. Maybe some of them here won’t be dried and cured, at the very least.
The plane taxis the runway and pulls into its slot. When I look out the window and see the smog-filled air and graying buildings, I see only opportunity awaiting me. No one knows me here. There will be no looks or snickers. No one waiting to call me “white trash.” No whispers of my father. In fact, I think with satisfaction, I can say he’s dead.
Exploding with anticipation for the life awaiting me, I practically burst from the airplane, pushing past slow cowboys and sluggish vacation travelers. “Excuse me, excuse me.” New life starting here. Outta my way.
Okay, so I didn’t expect my new life to be quite so smoggy. The choking scent of diesel—and probably two parts carbon monoxide—fill my lungs, and I put my hand over my nose to breathe. There’s a sea of slow-moving cars outside the airport, men with whistles in orange moving them along, and the occasional screech of brakes. I look at my watch again. Scott's late.
What else is new? He never allows for enough time to finish anything properly, but he makes life so fun, no one cares. People love to be near him, and he can pretty much do whatever he likes and get away with it. Just for one day I'd like to have that power and know the people attracted to me are not all over seventy years of age with the distinct need to mother me. (Even if I do need it.)
I park myself at the curb, listening to the security warnings replay again and again. Taxis and foreign makes vie for curb frontage, and I drink in the sights of sheiks in headwraps, Indians, businessmen in suits, and elegant women coordinated from head to toe, including their luggage Some even carrying matching dogs. A new wave of passengers fills the curb, and I search for Scott’s car. My first day in California and already my luck is starting. I'm abandoned in the bowels of LAX and I get to see that even dogs here have a place in this world.
Finally, a horn honks. Scott squeals up to the curb in a fancy, electric-blue coupe, flashing a magnetic smile from behind the windshield. It’s that noticeably white. If the boys back home knew he wasn’t driving a truck, he’d never hear the end of it. But as far as painting his teeth? I’m not sure I’d want to be there when they discovered that. As Britney Spears would say, “We’re country.”
Scott is a lean, graceful man, and I feel my stomach swirl in anticipation at the sight of him. I feel like I'm about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, and—like when we were kids—Scott will lead the way. Oh, we'll probably get in trouble for it, but it will be worth it!
“Little Sarah Claire, look at you!” Scotty slams his door shut, opening his trunk before wrapping me in a hug. “I can’t believe you came! I thought for sure you’d chicken out or your mother would tell you what a ridiculous idea it was and you’d slink home to your old movies and even older ladies.”
“So rude. You’re still rude.”
“I’m in California. I’m supposed to be rude.”
“I’m here, and I have no intention of being rude.”
“Give it time. You’ll be rude too.”
“I’m going to be the best in my field, just like you, Scott. Only nice.”
“I have no doubt you’ll do your best, but just be warned: there are a thousand others just like you, and rudeness will help.”
“There are none like me.”
“That’s my girl. Cop the attitude; you’re going to need it.”
“Speaking of cops, did you see that guy in handcuffs against the wall?”
He laughs at me. “You’ll be seeing that often, except when you’re at the salon. Beverly Hills doesn’t have crime, at least not of the blue-collar sort. I think they arrest homeless there.”
“They do not.”
“They don’t roll out the red carpet like San Francisco does, that’s for certain.”
“Think, Scott, you have homeless! It’s too dang cold to have them in Wyoming.”
“Which is why they have bar flies instead.” He smoothes his hair.
“You look . . . you look shiny.” What’s he using on his skin? Vaseline? That is definitely worth a butt-whooping back home.
“This all you brought?” He picks up my suitcase, which now looks paltry beside his long torso. “Where’d you get this piece?” His disdain is evident.
“Again with the rude, Scott. I’m in the land of shopping. I figured I could get what I needed here.” Granted, I don’t have any actual money, but like Scarlett, I’ll think about that tomorrow.
“What did your mother say about you coming here?”
“She wasn’t exactly thrilled I was staying with you. She says you’re a bad influence.”
He laughs out loud. “She left you home alone with a book every night until three a.m. when you were a kid, but I’m a bad influence. Gotta love Janey Winowski. She’s not responsible for a dang thing, is she?”
“She gave me stuff to clean while she was gone at night.”
�
�Well, that makes her mother of the year, doesn’t it, Sarah Claire? She may have withheld her love and nurturing, but she gave you bleach. Love in a Clorox bottle.” He wipes his eyes. “It brings tears to a man’s soul, it really does.”
Obviously, there’s no love lost between my cousin and my mother. “Mrs. Gentry told me before I left that my mother did the best she could.”
“I’m sure she did for someone looking at the world though a bottle of scotch.”
“I told her I’d had a dream where Cary Grant said I should move to California.”
“Really? Cary Grant? Nice touch.”
“You’d be proud. I’m not enabling anymore. I’m taking my life into my own hands.”
“Do what you have to Sara Claire. I’m sure after a few more swigs, it made perfect sense to her.”
“What she said is, ‘Life is about living, not wishing all the time. In case you ain’t noticed, Prince Charming ain’t coming to rescue us.’”
“That sounds like your mom.”
“I didn’t back down though, Scott. I was so proud of myself. I asked her what was life without a dream.”
“And?”
“‘Reality, darlin’.’” I say in her twang. “‘The longer you live in that dream world, the more disappointed with life you’ll be. There ain’t nothing in California you haven’t got here.’”
“And you said?”
“‘There’s the ocean,’ I said. ‘You got lakes here,’” she answered.”
“So what did it really take to break out from her spell, Sarah Claire?”
“I told her I’d get a job and send real money.”
“Ah.” Scott slams the trunk. “That’s the auntie I know and love. ‘Who’s going to supply me with my next drink and post bail? I know, I’ll get my daughter to do it.’”
“Scott, come on. I want to respect her. I need to respect her, but not her actions.”
“That’s just bull—”
“Never mind. I’m here.”
“You may be here physically, but until you can lose the guilt, I’m afraid you’ll run right back at her first frantic phone call.”
“I won’t. I made you a promise.”
It wasn’t like Mom could talk me out of the move; I am an adult, after all. But I also know she’s a master manipulator, and I had to brace for it. She struggled like an upside-down beetle to undermine me with all her passive-aggressive reasons I shouldn’t go.
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