Gretchen looks at me with a pout as I approach her bowl. “You did that on purpose,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Did what?” I hate conflict, but this girl is getting on my nerves. As if washing plastic heads with battery acid all day isn’t enough to do that.
Suddenly Gretchen bats the bottle out of my hand, and thick bubbles of Yoshi gold pour out onto the floor. My mouth just drops open. Cindy Simmons has followed me. My new demon is named Gretchen.
Terrified, I bend over and try to channel the shampoo back into the bottle, but it’s not working, and there’s a giant puddle of lavender-scented liquid oozing along the floor. I try to cup the spill with my hands, and it pushes the wetness onto my knees and soaks through my jeans. Well, someone’s jeans anyway; they’re Scott’s.
Something makes me look up to see Yoshi standing in the doorframe. Magnus is horrified at the scene, and the entire group stares at me, then back at Yoshi. He looks relatively calm. For a looming tsunami, that is.
“Sarah.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know how much product that is lying there on the floor?”
“Four hundred and eighteen dollars’ worth?” I ask, giving my best shot at a Rain Man answer.
“Yes, well.” Yoshi claps his hands together. “Someone get the mop!” Everyone scurries into motion. Except me; for the moment, I am the human mop. “Sarah, stand up please.”
I do and feel the shampoo ooze from my knees to my feet. I pray this is as organic as he claims, because if it doesn’t come out, these jeans are most likely my first paycheck. If not more.
“Sarah and Gretchen, you’ll be washing each other’s hair today. You’ve had more than enough practice on the heads.” He goes on to pair the rest of the class, but I don’t hear any of it.
“Yoshi, I’m so sorry. It was—”
“Come with me, please.”
I follow him into his office, thankful that my shoes are not trekking shampoo with me. Thank goodness I’d filled the other bottles up before getting to Gretchen. What was with that psycho?
I’m trying to keep my breathing quiet, but it’s strained and desperate. I can’t go home yet. Not without one paycheck at least. For one thing, I can’t actually get there financially, and I haven’t even paid off the debt to get out here to my cousin. No, this is definitely not going to work.
“Yoshi, I—”
“Sarah, you need to learn when to speak.” He slams the door behind him and settles himself at his desk chair with a good view of himself to the mirror.
“I’m sorry—”
“You’re speaking again.” He motions toward the extra chair and I sit down, bracing myself for my own failure. This has nothing to do with my mother. This is mine alone.
“I can pay for the shampoo—”
“Sarah—talking again. And no, you can’t. I know what I pay you.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Gretchen wants your position, no?”
“No. I mean yes.”
“This is a cutthroat business. I can’t protect you from every scheming stylist, do you understand?”
“I do.”
“But you’ve got to learn to play a bit dirty. You never had a catfight in Wyoming?”
My jaw drops, not because I’m surprised, but because I don’t know if I have it in me to play dirty. It’s hard enough putting energy into a shampoo that’s more choreographed than an automatic car wash.
“Maybe one.”
“Gretchen will never make it, do you understand? I can teach anyone to cut hair, but I cannot teach them humility—that styling is not about them but the client. She will never understand that; therefore she will never work in my salon.”
“So why’s she here?”
“Because there are a thousand like her right behind her, and they pay good money to be here and learn. But you need to deal with them. Let yourself out.” He says this into the mirror, but I assume he’s talking to me, so I shut the door behind me.
What I wouldn’t give for a good pin curl and hair tease about now.
I spend the rest of this never-ending day making advanced espresso. If you want a half-caf soy latte with extra foam, baby, I’m now your girl. Not a bad accomplishment after being virtually espresso illiterate less than a month ago.
I’m a little buzzed after all the taste tests, though. I should be thoroughly on fire for Ann’s mentoring group, since sleeping is probably not in my immediate future. And since I think a mentoring group is the secular world’s answer to Bible study, I’m anxious to hear what intellectual stimuli I might get from Hollywood employees in the know.
chapter 17
You can only sleep your way to the middle.
You have to claw your way to the top.
~ Sharon Stone
I last ate at seven a.m. when I had an energy bar. No wonder everyone’s skinny here; there’s no time to eat. What I wouldn’t give for a hot dog or a chicken sausage from Jody Maroni’s. If you’re only going to eat once a day, why not make it something in the sausage family?
“I’m starving,” I say aloud, thinking too hard about Jody’s. I place my hand on my stomach, hoping to soothe its empty cry.
“We’ll eat at mentoring group.” Ann is spritzing her long, luxurious blonde hair, though I never did see one strand out of place. She has the kind of beauty where it's like her hair wouldn’t dare misbehave. “Someone’s in charge of bringing dinner; it’s usually Rock because she pinches it from the leftover catering trays for whatever movie she's on.”
I think about questioning this, but I decide it’s just better not to know. I’ll eat whatever’s put in front of me, provided by Rock, Tree, or whomever.
“Are you ready?” Ann is perched at the door, waiting for Yoshi to extricate himself from the premises. She still looks as fresh as a daisy, as though these hours have effect on her beauty. She spent most of her day doing color. There has to be a serious lack of hydrogen peroxide in this town because everyone’s blonde! You think that’s a myth about LA, but nope, everyone’s a blonde, unless they’re Asian or African-American. Weirdest thing ever because, quite frankly, not everyone has the coloring for blonde.
Oh, wait, there are a few bad redheads too. Ann said there were more now that the Desperate Housewives redhead and McDreamy’s ex-wife on Grey’s Anatomy came to the forefront. This phenomenon has brought out the control freak in me. I just want to pick them up off the street and bring them into Yoshi’s for a real dye job. Even worse than an olive-skinned blonde is an olive-toned redhead.
Of course, I wanted to kidnap people in Sable, too, the world of blue and pink hair dye, which is actually difficult to purchase in this day and age. Sable seems to have a lifetime supply in someone’s warehouse. There are only so many things in life you have control over.
“I heard you spilled shampoo all over the floor today.” Jamie walks up with a giggle. “Did Yoshi totally spaz or what?”
“He was really nice about it, actually.”
Jaime’s smile straightens. “He was? I hope you don’t get fired tomorrow. I think I’d rather have him spaz.” She looks at Ann and they nod, convinced of my imminent departure.
I spend all day with these women, and they’re like two cardboard cutouts. In our salon back in Wyoming, the whole day was social, a virtual gabfest, but there’s a serious nature to this environment—as if we’re performing surgery and solving global warming, all at the same time. The fate of the universe rests in our organic hands.
I miss relationship. I miss Kate and Mrs. Gentry and Mrs. Rampas telling me what to do. I miss someone caring about me.
“So what’s our topic at mentoring group?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Securities,” Jaime answers. “But we don’t need a topic; our topic is mentoring. Whatever we have to share with others.” She rolls her eyes with a, “Duh.”
Not having biblical thoughts at the moment.
Jaime has a mass of natural curls that blossom from he
r head and dangle in spectacular ringlets like clinging vines. Jenna says Jaime’s father is black and her mother is Puerto Rican, so she has this exotic look with creamy dark skin and blue-green eyes. Needless to say, she makes the blondes envious, but it makes me wonder if those curls aren’t pulling on some vital brain cells.
“The girls will be at the house at nine,” Ann says. “So we have to run.”
A group that starts at nine. I just can’t get over how weird that sounds. I’ve got my Bible tucked into my bag; I’ve decided to act like this is a Bible study. Maybe I can mentor someone in the Word while I’m there. Or maybe meet another believer. Being here, I’ve found my life compass is way off. I don’t know which way to turn. Admittedly, I haven’t had any trouble meeting men for the first time in my existence, but discerning exactly what they’re up to is proving difficult.
A gym trainer with a serious ego problem and an antiquarian who could eat me intellectually for lunch. In the real world, these men wouldn’t look twice at me, and I’m hoping the mentoring group will provide some answers as to the why before I let myself get carried away into a sad Hollywood ending I’ve seen too many times on the pages of People.
The mysterious Mercedes is out front when we come out of the salon, and Ann ushers me in. “Good evening, ladies.” The driver turns around and he’s a dead ringer for a younger George Clooney. This entire town seems to be magazine-worthy. My self-esteem is taking a huge hit. Does anyone really want to be Mary Ann in a town full of Gingers?
There’s a cab behind him, and I wonder if that isn’t my ride, but the taxi simply follows.
“Sarah, this is my boyfriend, Kyle,” Ann says with no mention of the car behind us.
He reaches over the seats and shakes my hand. “Pleasure to meet you. How’s being the fresh meat at Yoshi’s?”
I smile. “It’s not as bad as all that. I’ve learned there’s an art to everything, even making coffee and washing hair.”
“Kyle’s the chauffeur for the Wilshire. When he’s not busy, he picks us up and drops us off at the complex. It’s right across the street from his hotel.” She turns back to Kyle. “We think Sarah should move in with us.”
Kyle stares at me and back at the road. “Yeah, that’d be good.”
The girls, who have barely said hello to me each morning, are looking for a new roommate. Apparently, my predecessor Yoshi apprentice was fired without warning, leaving them with an extra $1,000 a month. I can’t likely pay that when I’m going to go into debt if the church ladies pay for my mother’s rehab, now can I?
Upon arriving—an easy walk, I might add—I see Ann and Jaime don’t really live in an apartment complex at all. I believe it should be more appropriately stated as a suite-cluster. Yes, that’s my own word.
“The apartments are available furnished or unfurnished. We have a furnished model.” Ann lowers her voice. “A lot of people come here to recuperate after plastic surgery. They go to a place that takes care of them, then move on to here when the deep healing is done. The recovery centers are only for the early days. This just gives them a chance to regroup while their bruises and scars heal. There’re a few stars that stay while filming a movie, though the really big ones rent a secluded house or stay at the Chateau Marmont.”
“Hmm.” This is an obvious sales pitch for the third place in the apartment, and I’m broke, ladies!
“We have a maid service every week. It’s forty-five dollars a person, but it would only be about thirty if you wanted in,” Ann offers. “We clean all day at Yoshi’s. I don’t want to smell any cleaning products when I get here.” She opens up the fridge while I pick up various photos about the room. “That’s Abby. She’ll be coming tonight.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She’s a model.”
I’m intrigued by a photo of someone who is pretty by all standards but much less so by Yoshi standards. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Rock. She’s a stuntwoman. She’s broken her nose five times, and I think she’s about to get it fixed finally. Want something to drink?”
“I’d love a water.”
She tosses me an Evian. I have to say, this stuff smells like dirt. Imagine my surprise when it tastes like dirt too. Maybe I’m spoiled in Wyoming, but I will never get the fascination with Evian. I chug it down anyway. When in Rome . . . My stomach grumbles mercilessly as I do so.
The doorbell rings again and I sit down on the sofa, anxious to see what new gorgeous starlet will enter the room next. But there’s a commotion at the door, and somehow I just know it relates to me. I close my eyes instinctively.
“I know she’s here. I followed her here in a cab. Let me in.”
No way . . .
The door swings open and behind it is my mother. My jaw drops, and my first thought is that I hope they’re not paying too much for their security guard. My second thought is that my mom looks worn and I want to help her. But selfishly, I’m thinking of my job too.
I look around the room, shamed by the fact that I don’t want to acknowledge her, but all eyes bore through me with the intensity of an automatic drill.
Yes, she belongs to me!
“Excuse me, won’t you?” I walk toward my mother, who smells like the back alley behind the Hideway, and pull her out the front door into the hallway, shutting the door behind me.
“Mom, are you all right? How’d you get here?”
She nods, and I notice a tear falling down her cheek.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, praying no one else arrives for mentoring. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I can’t help but feel what her presence does to me. It changes me into the caretaker, and right now I need to take care of keeping my job.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I came to see my daughter. My only family.”
“Right.”
“Did you think I’d stay there in Wyoming, waiting for Al to put me away once and for all? To just wait for you when you felt like coming back?”
“I didn’t leave you there, Mom. I just decided to do what I wanted for a change. I’m an adult. It was time to start making my own decisions.”
“It’s all about you, isn’t it, Sarah Claire? You want to hang out with these shallow, beautiful people? That’s what I raised you for? To ignore your mother in a room full of strangers?”
“I want to make something of myself, and I’m a great hairdresser, Mom. If you’d ever let me cut your hair, you’d see I have a gift. And I didn’t ignore you.”
She scoffs at this. “In the end, family is all that matters, don’t you know that? Men, they come and go, but we’re here for each other.”
Here for me? I bite my lip rather than say what I’m thinking. “I’m following my dream, so maybe it’s your turn to be here for me. It was one of two coasts, and I picked the closest one. I did that for you, Mom.”
“I lost my job,” she says plainly. “Al says your thousand dollars is his since I skipped the state. Sorry about that. I’ll pay you back when I find a new job.”
No, she won’t. If I had a dollar for every time she said that, I wouldn’t need to be in California. “Sorry about the job, don’t worry about the money. I’m just glad you’re safe and not with this Clyde character.”
“He didn’t want me. We only got an hour or so up the road and he said his wife had just left him and he’d made a mistake.”
“Mom, there’s this great rehab center not far from here that Scott told me about and—”
“Sarah Claire, I do not have a drinking problem just because I have a relaxing drink at the end of the day. Why must you make everything of crisis proportion with me? Have I ever let you go hungry? Who hasn’t passed out after working all day?”
Okay, I know this argument would be obvious to normal people. I hate that we’re not normal people.
“I’ve been looking into it. They have programs, and I think I could find a place that’s affordable for us. Now that I have a job, I could get credit. This is our chance to make th
ings different. Mrs. Gentry says—”
“Don’t you dare bring up that woman’s name to me.” She looks around the hallway. “I would think if you’re bandying about with these types of folks, a thousand dollars feels like a lot of nothing to lose.”
“I’ve been here for less than a month, Mom. Do you think I found my fortune at the end of the rainbow?”
“Don’t take up an attitude with me, little girl. I think you’ve been stockpiling it all along is what I think.”
“Mom, just go back to Wyoming and face the music. Al has always been on your side. Get this legal garbage over with so you can move on.”
My mom pats her chest. “Al has a soft heart, honey. He couldn’t stand to see me go to jail. He wants me to start fresh, not waste time on a poser like Clyde.” She holds up a wad of hundred-dollar bills.
A poser. Now there’s a word I haven’t heard since high school. I’m feeling the sudden desire to call the IRS and turn them loose on Al’s Bail Bonds. He lets my mom out of jail and gives her my money; how very generous of him. But then I remember he took her keys away, and I am truly grateful for that.
“Mom, I have no place for you to stay, and after tonight, I might not have a place to work. Do you know what Yoshi would do to me if he found out I was harboring a criminal? Image is everything in his salon.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen. Your mother’s visiting. I’m sure those girls’ mothers come to visit all the time.”
Chances are they’re sober when they do it. Maybe bring them some homemade cookies, that kind of thing.
“Mom, I can’t support you here. It’s too expensive.”
“Did I ask you to support me?”
“Where are you planning to stay? Scott has a full house, and you’re not exactly his favorite auntie.”
“The weather’s nice here, or I can probably find a friend at a local drinking establishment.”
“Sarah Claire Winowski?” Two police officers enter the hallway.
My mother points at me. “That’s her.”
Split Ends Page 18