Split Ends

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “How is that convenient, exactly?”

  “Right, you’ve been on your feet all day. My mistake. Usually women sit at desks all day and the walk does them good.”

  “Are you going to critique what I eat? Because the coffee-fat-content thing doesn’t really do anything for me.” It pains me how much I sound like my mother.

  He purses his lips and is silent for a moment. “I will try really hard not to, but do me a favor—don’t order the prime rib, all right? Or lobster. Heavens, don’t order the shellfish.”

  “I’ll make it easy on you.” Are you going to wear more than a tank top?

  “So how’s Friday sound? Is that okay for you?”

  Frighteningly scary, that’s how it sounds. Dane is due home on Saturday.

  “Can we do it a little later just in case I don’t get off early?”

  “I understand. All those starlets want to look perfect for the weekend.”

  “And they’ll want coffee while they do it,” I mumble.

  “Are you going to give me your phone number? Or do I have to beg.”

  “Oh, right.” I’m mortified and finally make the admission. “I don’t actually know my phone number yet. I’m working for Yoshi, but I’m not exactly in a position to get phone calls there.” Or exist, quite frankly. “Why don’t you give me yours?”

  “There’s something eerily suspicious about a woman without a phone number.” He pulls a card out from his black Adidas’ pants and smiles. The light gleams on his face. What are they doing to the men here to give them that sheen? Are they slathering Brylcreem on their face? Or am I the only one without a blue peel? Is there a significant beauty secret that has been left out of Wyoming editions of InStyle.

  “If I give this to you—” He draws the business card toward his chest. “—how do I know it will not be lost, eaten by the dog, given to Ashlee Simspon, or sent to Wyoming to incite wild rages of jealously?” He downs the coffee in a giant gulp and crushes the cup in his free hand.

  I grab the card and plop it in my purse. “I guess you’re going to have to trust me.”

  “I’m always up for a challenge.” He winks at me and heads out the door. As he starts to jog up the street, he turns around and gives me one last smile while he jogs backwards. He is the complete opposite of me: cool, comfortable in his own skin—he can run backward, for crying out loud—and I’d lay odds that he went to his high school prom.

  I have a date. Go figure.

  chapter 10

  I am not a has-been. I am a will be.

  ~ Lauren Bacall

  I toss my nasty-tasting, sugarless drink down one of the rinse sinks at the salon and spray the milk residue down the drain. Just the sound of spraying water makes me wish I got to cut hair. It’s Pavlovian.

  I now contain enough nervous energy to keep a hummingbird airborne for a month—without the aid of caffeine. I have two business cards in my pocket—Dane’s, in case I need a ride home, and now Nick’s. I don’t even know if two men had business cards in Sable. Oh, wait, I know Bob the septic guy did, because it was stuck to our refrigerator.

  Of course, one of the cards means more to me than the other. Dane’s been in France, so it’s not like I could call him for a ride, but I haven’t left that business card home once. I’ve written him several e-mails. I sent him none of them.

  While the salon is busy with action for the day, I sneak to the back room and call Kate at the Hideaway. I miss her, and I haven’t had a date in years, so it’s not like I don’t have something to say.

  I close the door to the mixing closet and dial the number.

  “The Hideaway Hair Salon.”

  “Kate?”

  “Sarah Claire!” I hear her squeal and then the regulars calling my name in the background.

  “Is that my girls?”

  “I told them you saw Cary Grant’s star. They want a picture. Hang on, I have to put Mrs. Rampas under the dryer.” She drops the phone, and I hear the familiar whirl of the dryer and Kate’s footsteps. “I’m back.”

  “I have a date.”

  “With Dane?”

  “No, the trainer I met at Cary Grant’s star.”

  “The one with bigger boobs than you?”

  “Pecs. And yes.”

  “Whatever. Is he smart? Seems to me he’s not that smart. You have to find a smart one, Sarah Claire. Are there any smart ones out there?”

  “Of course there are. Dane said he’d introduce me around when he got back from France. At his church, I mean.”

  “You haven’t been to church since you got out there?”

  “I’ve been reading the Bible. Quit making me sound like some kind of heathen.”

  “You don’t have to wait for Dane to go to his church, do you?”

  “Do you want to hear about my date?”

  “Yes, what’s Muscle Boy’s name.”

  “Nick Harper.”

  “Does he have that skin you keep talking about? The skin-peel kind.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ew.”

  “It’s still a date,” I remind her.

  A date is something I haven’t been able to accomplish in the last three years of living in Wyoming, not because there aren’t men, but because my singles’ group consisted of guys I grew up with. Guys I remembered eating paste in kindergarten and who ran the nude relays in the snow to celebrate a football win. It’s hard to be led in prayer by someone who ran the highway with little more than athletic shoes. To go so far as to think of creating children with a paste-eater is mentally impossible.

  They’ve all turned into fine men, incidentally, but it’s too late for me. Once you’ve known a guy to snack on Elmer’s or taste someone’s lip gloss in class, all romantic notions die forever.

  “Well, let me know how it goes,” Kate says flatly. “She’s got a date,” I hear her say to the posse. “Pretty boy.”

  I hear their groans.

  “Dane isn’t due back until Saturday,” she tells them.

  “Let me talk to her.” I hear Mrs. Gentry’s voice. “Sarah Claire, this is Eleanor Gentry.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Gentry,” I say with the stinging of tears at the sound of her voice. “How are you?”

  “It’s lonely here without your spark. We all miss you greatly. Movie night isn’t the same.”

  “I stood over his star. And I saw Clark Gable’s for Mrs. Rampas.”

  “We’re overjoyed, dear. Your mother is doing well. She said you haven’t called, but I told her you must be busy.”

  Guilt. I hate guilt, but I guess I’m entitled to some here.

  “I’ll call her, Mrs. Gentry.”

  “Do you know the trainer’s IQ?”

  “What? Well, no, I’m not giving SAT tests or anything, but he seems knowledgeable enough. He wears a UCLA shirt, so he must have gone to college.”

  “Don’t let any of those college boys let you feel less than you are, Sarah Claire. You’re a very bright girl. I just wanted to remind you of that. Good-bye, dear.”

  “Hey.” Kate comes back on the phone. “I was serious about Yoshi’s having a chair,” she whispers into the phone. “I think I need to leave here, Sarah Claire.”

  “What on earth? Kate!” There’s a pounding on the door. “Kate, I have to run. I’ll call you back tonight.” I put the phone back in its cradle and open the door.

  Jenna greets me nervously. “Where have you been? Yoshi was out here looking for you twice! If he knew you were in the coloring closet, he’d be arresting you for espionage for certain. He wants to see you before you go to Isabella’s for your consultation.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenna. I ran into a friend at the coffee shop and then—never mind, I won’t bore you with the details. Was I gone that long?”

  “You just have to learn how to sneak in and out like a ghost. Be seen when you want to be seen—like when you’re working overtime—but don’t ever disappear. Get someone to cover for you. It’s an art.”

  “Meaning you didn’t cover fo
r me?”

  “No, I did. I told him you had gone outside to water the plants. You noticed they were looking parched.”

  “Sarah!” Yoshi bellows, and I realize how little my life has changed. Instead of an ungrateful, drunk mother, I now answer to a tall, angry Asian man, but it’s still the same life.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My garbage can is full in my office. See that it’s emptied before class starts.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  I’m hoping it’s a test, because I paid for a lot of advanced training in Wyoming to be packing up this guy’s garbage and serving people coffee. Even if I do recognize their faces from Us magazine.

  I rush to his office, where he is still yelling at someone in another language, and take out the trashcan lining and its contents. He stops abruptly and stares at me.

  “Bring a new liner in; you don’t just take the old one. Where am I going to throw my garbage while you’re emptying the old one?”

  “I’ll be back in a jiff,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head. “No, we do things the Yoshi way. Go get a new liner first, take the old bag out, tie it, and then put the new liner in before you leave the office.” While he’s talking, he never takes his eyes off himself in the mirror. He even bobs around me when I get in the way. “Check the guest toilet. I may have left the seat up.”

  I exit and stand against the wall outside the office, which has the same energy levels as the lion cage before the meat gets thrown inside. I breathe in deeply. Ann, a stunning blonde who has been the one stylist to offer me the slightest hint of a smile here and again, is outside with a liner. “Don’t worry, he does it to all of us. Just be calm. Once you learn the way he wants everything done, it’s a no-brainer. I had to do about six weeks of garbage/espresso time before he let me wash. Here.” She hands me a pair of rubber dye gloves.

  “What are these for?”

  In Sharpie pen is written, “Toilet gloves.”

  “I saved them to remind myself every day where I came from. They’re yours if you want them.”

  I grab the edges of them. “Thanks for this.”

  “You’ll get through it.”

  I take the garbage bag before entering the small jade office again. The walls are covered with Hollywood stars’ autographed pictures and prestigious hair awards I’ve only seen in trade magazines. I never tire of focusing in on one when I get the opportunity to enter the sacred office. The simple truth is this man is a genius in his craft, and he’s earned the right to be a jerk, but if I ever get famous, I’m going to remember this and act accordingly.

  Do you hear that, God? I’m ready for my close-up.

  Yoshi slams the phone down, and I’m in his office with nowhere to turn, feeling like a complete idiot with the garbage sack only half-fastened to the receptacle, the bag of trash underneath me in my awkward pose. I’m not quite sure how to do this job with flair, but I can certainly tell you I’m not accomplishing it.

  “Aren’t you through with that yet? This job should take you thirty seconds and no more. I’ve timed it.” He pats his forefinger to his watch.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I got sidetracked by all these awards and photographs. It’s like coming backstage to the Oscars for an actor.” I’m backing out of the office when he holds his palm up.

  “Stop.” He looks directly at me. “Why come out here and live in the most competitive market in the country?” This is the most attention he’s paid me in the two weeks and 120 hours I’ve been here.

  Of course, the paying-for-mom’s-bail story, or even the electric bill, is probably not going to charm him. To show up Cindy Simmons is stupid; even I know that. And the fact that I had no life in Wyoming after twenty-six years is just pathetic, so I think of my other excuses. I have no shortage of them.

  “I want to be the best at something, sir. This is the only thing I do well enough to try and accomplish that. I want see how far I can take it; it’s just something I have to try. Who knows, maybe you’ll tell me I haven’t an ounce of talent, and I’ll be going home soon. I want to drink everything in while I can.”

  “You won’t be going home,” he says. “At least not yet.”

  “No?” Color me skeptical.

  “Being the best is ninety percent attitude, but you have to want it, Sarah. You have to want it enough to devote your life to it, and it will cost you.”

  Is anyone else hearing “The Star-Spangled Banner”?

  “There is no free meal, and paying your dues is mandatory. Every single one of those stylists out there has earned the right to be here. They swept hair, they emptied my garbage can. They wiped gum off the sidewalk if it was necessary. Being the best means being humble above all else and willing to learn. Have Ryan fix your hair before you go see Isabella. John’s going through something.”

  I nod. “I studied your book on techniques, planning on trimming it myself, but I knew I couldn’t go any farther without watching you. The slicing, the surface cutting— I want to do it the right way. I didn’t dare try it without seeing the master first.” I pause. “I know I sound like a complete suck-up, but I want you to know I’m grateful for this opportunity. Even if nepotism did play a small part in my destiny.”

  He sits back in his chair. “I came to this country with nothing. I didn’t even know the language except what I had picked up through shaving businessmen at the airport.I had a family to support back in Japan, one pair of shears, and a comb. In my village I wasn’t ever going to be more than a Main Street barber.”

  In my “village” I wasn’t ever going to be anything more than my mother’s daughter. India’s caste system has nothing on Sable, Wyoming.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Make me a cappuccino,” he says and lifts the phone.

  Apparently, our moment of warmth is over.

  Outside, Ann hands me a mop. “Yoshi wants you to mop and clean the bathrooms before the other students come. He hates the scent of bleach, so be sure and spray the lavender mist when you’re done.” She grins as though she’s been there before.

  “Aye-aye, matey,” I say, thinking if I’m going to swab the poop deck, I might as well adopt the language.

  “He’ll want his cappuccino first, though.”

  I pull the mop behind me as we approach the great stainless-steel machine, where Californians seemingly worship. It’s extremely complicated, with several buttons, levers, and directions. I’m not the technical type, and our Mr. Coffee had one button, so it was a full three days until I didn’t feel at risk that it might blow up in my face and give me the cheap version of a blue peel. What I knew of coffee before this consisted of knowing, when Mom came in a little late, to throw four spoonfuls of Folger’s in and press the button.

  Jenna comes up to the machine. “There’s a call for you, Sarah. Says it’s urgent. We’ll cover for you. Line two.”

  Confused, I head for the phone.

  “Sarah Claire, what did you tell Kate?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Ryan. Who do you think is looking for Kate? Unless you know something I don’t.”

  “Ryan, how did you find me?” And what have you done with Baby Huey?

  “I read Kate’s prayer journal. She’s praying for your salon.”

  Nice detective work. “What do you mean, what did I tell her? Five minutes ago when I talked to her? I told her I had a date.”

  “No, on your e-mails. I know you two have been e-mailing each other.”

  “She’s my best friend, Ryan. Is there a crime against that?”

  “She says she’s rethinking the wedding.”

  “When? When did she say that?” Okay, I know I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I immediately feel guilty. Maybe my leaving inspired Kate, and no one can be inspired and stay in Sable. It’s like a law of physics.

  “She wants to follow her dream.”

  Uh-oh. “Kate has a dream?”

  “Everyone has a dream.”

  “Yeah, but her dream is to m
arry you, Ryan.”

  “Apparently, it’s not just that.”

  I swallow hard and see the girls are circling. I can only assume Yoshi is nearby. “I have to go, Ryan. Call me at Scott’s later if you need to talk.”

  “Look, you know me, Sarah Claire. I don’t get mad easily, but I don’t want you filling her head with ideas. She’s not like you.”

  If Kate has a dream, she’s never shared it with me. I do know that in high school she once wore a St. Christopher’s Medal around her neck and told Ryan it belonged to a guy in Montana. Just to make him jealous! Clearly, it worked. “Bye, Ryan.” I hang up the phone and try to look busy at the espresso machine, but my mind is racing.

  Kate inherited over ten thousand dollars from her grandmother. That was ten years ago, and she put it into Schwab. She could actually make a dream come true. I wonder if that’s what scares Ryan. Maybe she said something to him. She is so going down for not telling me.

  The phone rings again. Jenna holds it out to me. “It’s him again.“

  Yoshi has come out of his office and is glaring at me, but I just turn my back toward him. “Ryan, I’m sure it’s nothing. When did Kate ever do anything crazy?”

  “Exactly. Maybe she’s seen there’s more to life than being the wife of a cattle farmer. She’s seeing just how boring her life with me is going to be.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ll talk to her tonight. You’ll talk to her tonight. Everything will be fine. I really have to go.” I place the phone back in the cradle and meet Yoshi’s gaze. “Sorry about that. A little emergency.”

  I can’t help but wonder if Kate’s left Wyoming. If, somehow, my leaving opened the floodgates and Sable’s population is now going to dwindle.

  chapter 11

  I know I am right for Scarlett.

  I can convince Mr. Selznick.

  ~ Vivien Leigh

  Isabella’s salon is little more than a closet—a very white, sterile-looking closet. I fill out paperwork stating my health issues—none, unless you count my genetic predisposition to drinking—and reasons for the visit.

  “I’d like to keep my job at Yoshi’s,” I write. You can’t fault me for honesty.