Split Ends

by Kristin Billerbeck

  I swallow. “I’ll get some more.”

  “Naked lips, though. Don’t come in here looking like an old Technicolor movie with the real Max Factor doing your makeup. Your coloring is good; just shine a little more. Do you have a bronzer? Tan is very in here.”

  “I’ll get some.”

  He holds up a finger. “On second thought—” He pulls a business card from his desk. “You need a blue peel. This is Isabella. She offers the best blue peels in the city. Call her and arrange to have one done for yourself.”

  A blue peel? Another single name? It sounds expensive and quite possibly painful. I’m not fond of pain.

  “Did you see Jenna’s skin? Or even your cousin’s?”

  “The plastic look!”

  “What?”

  “The peel. That’s what gives everyone the mannequin skin?”

  “I haven’t noticed that, but—”

  “Sure. Sure, it looks like they’re wearing Vaseline.”

  Yoshi sighs loudly. “It’s a medium skin peel. Your skin will glow afterwards, and I think that’s going to help with your appearance overall.”

  “Actually, I’m more concerned about the money aspect. Right now, I mean—”

  He slams his hand on his desk. “You’re out here with nothing, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yeah. That’s sort of why I came out.” Does he think I left the diamonds at home?

  He stares at me for a long time, saying nothing, only scanning my expression for some telltale sign—perhaps that I can forgo the peel. Ugh, when I hear that word, all I can think of is What on earth will they peel off? How much epidermis must be victim to my job choice? Will I look like an orange?

  Yoshi looks back over my shoulder. “I’m taking a chance on you, Sarah,” he says to his mirror. “I have no idea why, but I’m taking a chance. Your cousin will probably hijack my clients, and I’ll regret this—”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Scott wouldn’t do that.”

  “Jenna!” After some rushed footsteps Jenna appears in the doorway. “Get Isabella’s number, call her, and get an appointment for Sarah.”

  “It’s Monday, Yoshi. No one works but you.”

  His eyes thin. “Your cousin working today?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you stop saying that? Call her at home, Jenna. I can’t have Sarah out too long.”

  “Out?”

  “It hurts like a mother!” Jenna says. Then she perks up. “But you look great afterwards. Totally worth it.”

  I whimper. I’m not fond of pain. Have I mentioned that? And I really have no money. “Mr. Yoshi, sir. I really can’t afford this right now. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I can’t.”

  “There is no beauty without a price,” Yoshi says. “But that’s fine; we’ll schedule you for next month. Who’s on duty now? Sarah needs her hair cut.”

  I grab my head. “I do?”

  “I have spoken.”

  And with those incredibly arrogant words, I am led off for a makeover of frightening proportions.

  chapter 6

  I have spent the greater part of my life

  fluctuating between Archie Leach and Cary

  Grant, unsure of each, suspecting each.

  ~ Cary Grant

  I am shorn. The door slams behind me, and I stand abandoned on the pristine sidewalks of Beverly Hills in skinny jeans with a very bad shag cut deemed “edgy” by Johnny, my very gay and perfect-looking hairstylist-in-training. I will say he fit the Yoshi image to a T, but if indeed Yoshi can teach a monkey, that doesn’t speak well for Johnny. My hair is . . . awful, to put it mildly. It’s a boxy, shaggy bob that looks like what it is—a very bad razor cut by a trainee. He didn’t even waste organic product on me, and if I’m not a poster child for styling paste, I don’t know who is.

  I was also shorn of my name. Scott didn’t go far enough with the Winston, apparently, because instead of Sarah Claire, I am now Sarah Winston. So sophisticated. And if I didn’t look like a labradoodle, I’d say it worked for me.

  I pull out a compact, and even in that tiny little circular reflection, it’s bad. I came across three states to get a bad haircut and an appointment with a scary, foreign woman who will take my skin and turn it into the plastic look of everyone else. Which, lucky for me, I can’t afford yet. And rather than money in my pocket, I’m in more debt for the job requirements—along with a necessary four days off next month for pain and suffering! I have entered Stepford, and my transformation is nearly complete.

  I look at my watch, wondering where on earth Scott went and if he has any plans to retrieve me. I’d call his cell, but wait—I don’t have one.

  Thankfully, he pulls up just then. He spends a moment cooing into yet another woman’s ear before clicking shut his phone, which is far too small for the size of his head, and looking at me. “You’re done?”

  “You’re disgusting, do you know that?” I climb into the car.

  “I’m only paying the bills. How’d the interview go? You’re starting tomorrow, I take it. Your hair is ghastly, by the way.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Love you too. I got the job, but only because he wants your clients.” I cross my arms. It seems I’m destined to be defined by family members no matter where I go. “That’s the only reason he’s hiring me. When he cuts hair, someone shadows him at all times, and I may get that privilege in six months or so. Until then, that’s as close as I’m coming to a head of hair unless I take a trip home to Sable. Or buy a Barbie head at Toys“R”Us. My duties will include making sure the toilet seat is down after a male client goes to the bathroom, sweeping up hair, and making coffee concoctions with a steamer engine posing as an espresso machine.”

  My cousin starts to laugh.

  “Not funny!” I tell him. “Not funny at all.”

  “It’s a little funny. Who doesn’t have to pay their dues in life, Sarah Claire? What makes you so special?”

  “I have a skill,” I say with my palm on my chest.

  “To Yoshi, you have an eight-by-ten glossy and a skill yet to be learned. Right now, you have only potential.”

  “Chauvinist—”

  “Never mind. Certainly you didn’t think you were going to have your hands on Ashton Kutcher in the first week.”

  “I’m scheduled for a blue peel next month before I'm let loose on the hallowed grounds of Yoshi’s styling floor to sweep hair.”

  “Ouch.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. “It hurts?”

  “Hair is such a personal thing. My clients go where they want, so don’t let that stop you with Yoshi. Just appease him and you’ll have your job. If you get good enough, he’ll lose all power. Did he give you the Yoshi spiel?” His eyes roll. “You know, the ‘You are Yoshi. You will eat Yoshi, sleep Yoshi—’”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “I guess he’s trying not to scare you. He is that bad. He’s a genius, but a crazy genius. Tom-Cruise-jumping-Oprah’s-couch genius.”

  We squeal up the road until we’re once again in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, the place to be while you sit in your overpriced car wasting gas on idling. His phone rings again, and he holds up a finger. “Scotty here.”

  Scotty?

  Another distraught female voice comes over the speaker. “They’re saying I’m not on the list, Scott!”

  “Who’s saying that, baby?”

  “These thugs at the door! Big-necked losers. They have no idea what they’re doing! Didn’t you get me on the list? How could I not be on the list?”

  “I’ll be right there, Cassie. Just hang on.”

  “You’re going to help me, baby, right?”

  “I’m just the blackness in your universe, helping you shine.”

  Can I puke now?

  He flips the car around and pulls to the side of the road, then reaches over me to open the passenger door, pushing it toward the dirty sidewalk. “I’ve got to get to work; this girl’s on the verge of stardom. Get yourself home, al
l right?”

  “Scott, you have got to be kidding.” I cling to the seat. “I don’t even know where you live yet. Just take me along. I'll help you be the blackness in her universe. Come on, I can suck up. Remember?”

  “Can’t do that.” He scribbles on a pad that’s mounted on his dash. “The address.” He rips off the paper and pulls a twenty from his ashtray. “Go get yourself some dinner, and go home and prepare for tomorrow. Read that manual from cover to cover. And lose the furrowed brow; you’re going to need Botox before you’re thirty. You want to look like your mother?”

  “Please, Scott.” I try to keep the desperate pleading from my voice, but to no avail. “Can’t you just take me home first? Or I can go with you. You’ll never know I'm there.”

  “I’ll never make it with traffic, and I’m not showing up to work with a woman on my arm. I have enough needy women in my life where that isn’t smart business.”

  “Fine. Maybe if you had fewer women on your arm, your problems might be fewer. Did you ever think of that?”

  He pushes the door wider. “Go shopping before you get home, Sarah. I’m not going to baby-sit you, and I hardly think you need me to dress you. You’ve had a subscription toVogue, I’m assuming, and this is your business too. Show me you know what you’re doing.”

  “Yes, but the magazine is the only part of it I can afford. Unless you count rubbing the perfume-sample pages on my wrists.”

  “Go vintage, Sarah. There’s a shop up the street. Do your best and accentuate your tiny waist and your booty. Hollywood loves a good booty.”

  “Somehow, that doesn’t provide me with any motivation.”

  “Booty sells in Hollywood.”

  Why do I suddenly feel like something ordered at Kentucky Fried Chicken? “What is wrong with you?”

  “Go. Before I lose this client.”

  I slink out of the car, and he quickly pulls the door shut and peels away from the curb amid a few annoyed honks.

  I can’t even be the blackness in someone’s universe.

  I asked for this. I have to remind myself this is not Scott’s fault. Enjoy the moment, right? I’m in Hollywood, California. Swimming pools. Movie stars. And currently, I’m as Clampett as they come—without the bank account but certainly rivaling Ellie May with my new ’do. I wish I had enough hair for pigtails.

  It’s a mind-clarifying thing, being dumped on a bustling city street. I almost feel invisible, and it’s actually sort of freeing. No one’s expecting me. No one will get drunker if I don’t show up when I’m supposed to. I could break out into dance, and not one person would care. Sure, they might stare a bit, but not one person would call the church and tattle on me. I don’t even have a church yet!

  “Cary Grant’s star is at Hollywood and Vine!” I say out loud. Two guys in jeans and tight t-shirts stare me down, but they just keep moving. See? Being crazy here is no big deal. I am invincible!

  “Hollywood and Vine!” I yell after them. “I’m going to see greatness!”

  They just shake their heads at me. I feel powerful and mighty. I can be anything I want to be here! I feel like seeing Cary Grant’s star, Clark Gable’s, William Holden’s!

  “Excuse me,” I ask a passerby, a woman of about fifty. “Do you know where Hollywood Boulevard is?”

  “To the left up there. Toward the hills. Take North Highlands until you reach the Boulevard.” She clicks her tongue. “Tourists.”

  My heart starts to pound in my ears as I get closer to the infamous Walk of Fame. Sure, I know it’s just a bunch of stars’ names on a sidewalk, but to me it represents hundreds of dreams coming true. To me, it’s proof that Archibald Leach truly became Cary Grant. At least in the eyes of the world.

  Even at the height of ski season, Wyoming didn’t have this many people. Everything is gray here, except the hills in the background, with their dilapidated fifties-era homes. I’m sure they’re worth a fortune, but wow, are they a blight on the land or what? For this place to be concerned with the environment really is the epitome of irony.

  Although it seems we only just left Beverly Hills, I’m rapidly discovering Hollywood is a different cup of tea. It’s . . . um . . . scary, actually. The pristine streets and well-dressed patrons are long gone. The shops are selling fast food—or things I’ve never seen before that, let’s just say, don’t seem necessary in my life. There’s a lot of cheap lingerie and tools for heaven knows what. Certainly nothing in my future. I’m sure they must be illegal in the state of Wyoming.

  There are more people lying on the sidewalk than actually walking on it. Each one of them holds a sign: “Veteran. Need help.” “Homeless. Need work.” Some of them wave them at me. Some of them just prop them in front of their sleeping selves. All of them unnerve me.

  I kick off my heels and start to walk a little faster along the filthy concrete, knowing I’m probably subjecting myself to multiple bacterial infections but needing to feel like I’m moving. As evening is closing in (granted, not for a few hours, but it’s a concern since I’m alone here, with only my address on a scrap of paper), I’m suddenly seeing my life story on Lifetime. I can see the trailer now: “She came to give Hollywood body. Instead, it took hers.”

  I shiver. A web of my own imagination traps me until I’m holding my breath and praying there’s a church to run into. But then I remember how in The Sixth Sense the kid went into a church and the dead guy came in there anyway! I shake the thought. It serves me right for getting theology from a ghost movie.

  I speed up, walking as fast as I can without being obvious or breaking into a full run. No one’s chasing me, but I feel those prickles on the back of my neck as though I’m being followed.

  Then, almost before I’m aware of it, a familiar pink-and-brass glow on the sidewalk. I’m here.

  Donna Reed. She’s the first star I see. I stoop and run my hands over the brass letters. “You were one of my very favorite screen kisses, Miss Reed. You and Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life—now that was romance.”

  I run to the next star. Preston Sturges. Okay, sorry, Preston, but I have absolutely no idea who you are. I’m sure you were a great addition to Hollywood.

  Next. Rita Hayworth. Ooh, redhead for the ages. Alan Ladd. Eh. Not so moved. Henry Fonda. Oh, I loved him in The Grapes of Wrath.

  Then I see it: John Wayne! Oh, my gosh, would my town go crazy. The ladies would be squealing with delight.

  Shirley Temple. She was my favorite on a Saturday morning. Michael Landon. Loved Little House on the Prairie! Alistair Cooke. Loved Masterpiece Theatre.

  When I spy the next one, I know I’m close to the Holy Grail of my Hollywood fetish: Clark Gable. “Frankly, my dear, I loved you!”

  I know what’s coming next. I’ve planned my exodus for too many years not to. The tears well up in my eyes as I look at his name.

  Cary Grant.

  I kneel next to the star and run my fingers over the letters. Does he have any idea what he’s done in my life? Does he know how he kept this woman, younger than his own daughter, company? How he brought hope for a dream? My tears fall onto the star as I look up to the heavens. “Thank you, God. Thank you for seeing me this far I never thought I’d see the day.”

  I don’t know how long I sit here on this filthy sidewalk filled with hope, but I feel someone come up beside me, and that presence makes me look up.

  “Are you all right, miss? Did you need something?”

  “Who, me?” I ask. Yeah, you—the one crying on Cary Grant’s star. See, this kind of behavior isn’t even normal for LA.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  I stare up, blinking wearily. I have never seen this many muscles on one human being in my lifetime. I’m not the gawking sort, but this is like car-accident gawking. He’s a living anatomy book, showing the muscles under the skin—except his actually bulge out from the skin. They’re that defined and that obvious, and I’m trying desperately not to look. Really, I am.

  “Where’s your
shirt?”

  “Where are your shoes?” he asks me.

  I hold up my boots in my hands.

  “Back in the gym. I was jogging with a client and I saw you—”

  “You jog here? My cousin says people don’t jog here.”

  “People jog here. They pay me to jog with them.” He holds out a hand. “Do you want to get up?”

  “I was just looking at Cary Grant’s star. He was here.”

  Gym Boy nods. “New to Hollywood?”

  I smile up at him. “Was it the fawning over the star that gave me away?”

  “It was the lack of shoes on a Hollywood sidewalk, actually.”

  “I could just be another homeless person.”

  “You’re too cute to be homeless, so you must be a struggling actress. I suppose you could be both.”

  “The people here make Cindy Simmons look like dog meat.”

  “And Cindy Simmons is?”

  “The most popular girl in Sable, Wyoming.”

  “They must make them pretty in Wyoming, too, if you’re the second-most popular.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t popular. I was a hairstylist.”

  He laughs heartily. “So, you look like you could use a beverage. Can I make you a power drink back at the gym? A whey shake, perhaps? Lots of protein to keep you going, give you the energy you need.” He winks, and it’s the first wave of warmth I’ve felt in hours. Granted, I’m sure there’s a gym subscription behind his tenderness, but I can’t afford to be picky now, can I?

  The ripples of Gym Boy’s six-pack make me lose my train of thought. I am not the salivating type, but I have absolutely not seen this before, and quite frankly, I always thought it was the airbrush that did that. Nothing like having all the men prettier than you to destroy your selfesteem.

  “You want me to follow you back to the gym?” I ask him.

  “People generally pay me for the privilege of running behind them.”

  “What self-respecting girl would want you running behind them?” I mean, is it just me, or would that make any woman feel like she was carrying the caboose of a freight train?