Vanity Insanity

by Mary Kay Leatherman

  The bell above the door interrupted my pity party as Jenae used her hip to push it open. She was carrying an oversized stuffed snowman and a bag with Christmas silver tinsel spilling out. Exactly two minutes after the Thanksgiving turkey bones were thrown in the trash, Jenae became obsessed with the next big holiday on the calendar. She set down her snowman and took off her coat. “Don’t you just love him? I think his name should be Jimmy. I don’t know. He just looks like a Jimmy.” She had on green tights with red boots and a little pixie dress that looked as though it had been painted on her. Not that that was a bad thing. Toby mumbled something about a Keebler elf. Jenae told Toby exactly where he could shove his little cracker comment.

  Jenae refused to allow Toby’s annoying remark to dampen her holiday spirit as she adjusted her headband, which supported two pieces of mistletoe shooting out from her head like alien antennae moving back and forth. Jenae “fixed” the decorations of Vanity Insanity all day between shampoos and highlights.

  A few weeks earlier, Jenae had started working on setting up Christmas and stayed well past closing without any intimation of slowing down or quitting.

  “I need to get to the store before I head home,” I told Jenae as I began unplugging all of the equipment. “We need to wrap this up, Toots.”

  “I’m just starting. I’m picking up the tree tomorrow morning.”

  “Tree?”

  “You can’t have Christmas without a tree. Oh, and the glow-in-the-dark nativity scene is going to have to sit on the UP desk next to the wall. That’s the only place that makes sense…”

  “If all of your decorations are here, what are you doing in your apartment?”

  “Painting.”

  “Painting?”

  “I stayed up all last night painting. I got through most of the place. I have one more room to do tonight.”

  “Your apartment complex allows you to paint?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I should have looked into that…Anyway, it looks awesome.”

  Of course, the thought of drugs did cross my mind as I wondered about the source of energy that Jenae had tapped into during her hyper holiday, but she was a walking antidrug announcement. She had mentioned to me that she had suffered through trying to help her brother break a serious cocaine addiction, unsuccessfully.

  I was the picture of patience as Jenae’s plan took over the salon for a month, but I drew the line when she started taking over the music selection and insisted that we play her Bing Crosby Christmas tape over and over again, which threw Toby into such a funk that he cleaned out all of the cabinets and closet and reorganized the display case in the front window. Even quiet and kind Kelly had enough as she pulled me aside and, in her best broken English, voiced her frustration.

  “I know all de words to this tape. I don’t want to know all de words to this tape. ‘Mele Kalikimaka’ no more.”

  As leader of the crew, I had a responsibility to maintain the sanity of the season. I informed Jenae that from now on, I was the only person in charge of the music; that way the staff would not squabble. This was not the first staff argument over music. The summer before Jenae had tried to convince everyone that customers would receive a growth opportunity if they were exposed to Guns and Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” Cultural growth and a hairstyle for the patrons. Caroline politely told Jenae that one of her manicure customers had been offended by Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and that we should consider playing music without sexual implications. Toby thought we should just skip the music thing all together and focus on our work.

  So we tried the stipulation route when it came to the music selection of the day. No naughty words allowed. We even tried a schedule of the Music Monitor of the day. That Christmas of 1989 was the tipping point for trying to please the whole staff. If Jenae thought I was a control freak about opening and closing the salon, then she probably felt that I was a power freak when I took over the music completely that Christmas season.

  I played some Christmas music during the days until December 25, but I gave old Bing a break. I introduced the staff to Mannheim Steamroller, a local group that took Christmas music to an entirely different level, and we pulled out some Nat King Cole. I wove in a few non-Christmas tapes I’d brought from home. Sting’s Nothing Like the Sun became a staff favorite.

  As I set the bills aside on the UP desk, I looked up to see Octavia enter Vanity Insanity. “Well, you do look ready for Christmas,” she said as she took in the room that looked like a page in a Dr. Seuss book. Jenae, who had taken it upon herself to be the holiday decorator, had brought all of her outdated decorations and encouraged the staff to join her in the trashy Christmas tradition. Caroline brought in an ugly wreath, and Toby brought a bright-green garland that he had been planning on throwing out anyway. Kelly brought in a string of blue lights, and I brought in a giant, plastic Santa impersonating Elvis that I had found at a thrift store. If we were going tacky, we would take it to the extreme.

  “Actually, Jenae is responsible. I just own the place.”

  Octavia’s son had dropped her off for her regular Friday-morning appointment that snowy morning in 1989 as he had for the last several weeks. I never asked but figured that Truman felt the time had come for Octavia to stop driving. There are just some things you don’t talk about. When I did my calculations, Octavia was in her mid to upper eighties. I never asked that question either.

  “This is the life, I tell you.” Octavia walked into Vanity Insanity like a queen. “It doesn’t get any better than this. I have my own chauffeur. Truman knows how much I hate looking for parking downtown.”

  “You’re living the life, woman.” I helped Octavia take her coat off of her shivering, small frame. She hooked her hand into the crook of my arm as I escorted her to my chair. Octavia’s booming personality, so big and strong, and blazing opinions, so sharp and current, caused me to overlook just how delicate she was physically.

  Octavia had moved into Omaha in 1987, and while she held tightly to her hometown Fremont ties, she embraced the city life with fire and enthusiasm. She bought a big house two blocks from Saint Cecilia’s Cathedral, one of the ten biggest churches in the country at the time of its completion in 1959. She made it a point to get involved with her new parish and the altar society as soon as her little pumps hit the doorway of Saint Cecilia’s floor. The Cathedral community probably didn’t know what hit them when Octavia Hruska filled out forms to join the forces.

  Once Octavia had found her bearings in the local restaurants, boutiques, and museums, she began investing more time and money in the missions of the city. Following her first visit to my new place, she spent the entire afternoon drinking in the Old Market area. M’s Pub, with its mirrored back wall and a large green marbled bar that anchors the center of the room with stools surrounding it, became a favorite of Octavia. In time, the owners of M’s found a favorite in Octavia as they reserved a special table for her on the days that she visited.

  My mom told me that a friend of hers knew the lawyer who had handled an investment Octavia had made in one block of the Old Market. That little rumor was also making its way through the Market grapevine, and vendors wanted to know who this Hruska lady was.

  The Old Market had seen big changes just to the east of the area in 1988. The city planners who had once talked about Omaha as a dying city in 1981 had decided to give one last effort to revive the fading metropolis. ConAgra was the company that gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the downtown area and succeeded in “saving the city.” The jobs and continued growth of the headquarters on the 113-acre ConAgra campus jump-started the economy and encouraged other big businesses to take a look at Omaha as a place to set up.

  Not everyone was happy with expansion in what was the once-bustling historic area called Jobbers Canyon, however. The historic site was nationally recognized, and conservatives were appalled that anyone would consider demolishing the area that ConAgra took over. Omaha did not want to let go of the area and had be
en about to break up with the company when Octavia jumped on the bandwagon. She and her money joined the force that planned to keep downtown Omaha economically alive. In the newspaper picture of the task force to bring in ConAgra, she was the little lady standing in a group of men. Octavia had told me, “What Omaha needs to realize is that change is always uncomfortable. In order to grow, we are going to have to suffer a little.” And in the next breath, she threw up her hands and sighed, “Get over it!”

  The city planners, who had for years listened to the voices that resisted change, decided to go ahead with what they knew would benefit Omaha. Much like the parent who knows that the nasty-tasting medicine will only help the child, the city planners had demolished the area earlier that year. In the end, ConAgra built a billion-dollar campus that included the city’s Heartland of America Park, transforming the Omaha skyline.

  In the years that followed, Octavia’s Friday mornings were a picture of predictability. A neighbor took her to 6:30 a.m. Mass at Saint Cecilia’s Cathedral, as she did every morning, and then Truman worked his schedule at TC Property Investments so that he could pick her up and get her downtown to Vanity Insanity for her hair appointment with me. Truman would then conduct business downtown until Octavia’s hair appointment and lunch appointment with a friend were over. She was probably right. Octavia was living the good life.

  “Once I get my shopping done, I’ll feel better,” Octavia told me.

  “Now don’t be telling me what you got me, Octavia. I don’t want to know.”

  Octavia chuckled and went on. “The big thing on the list this year is a Cry-Like-a-Baby Doll. Have you even heard of such a thing? My granddaughter Sara has a star next to the doll on her list. I can’t find one anywhere. Seems like companies have to make a damn game of it for the consumer to find the toy. And then the doll costs an arm and a leg.”

  “Why don’t you just get her any doll? Do you think she’ll know the difference?”

  “Are you kidding me? She pulled out a picture from the Sears catalog and pasted it on a piece of paper for me. The doll cries and then says what she’s not happy about…”

  Truman’s eight-year-old Sara sounded as precocious and demanding as her grandmother.

  “Sara reminds me of Truman when he was about that age,” Octavia continued. “The only thing he wanted for Christmas was a Tudor Electric Football Game. Made of metal or something. That was all he wanted. Nothing else. We searched everywhere for that thing and finally had to order it. Shipped to our house Christmas Eve morning. I almost kissed the deliveryman.

  “Anyway, Truman loved the game and played it all of the time. Then, halfway through the YMCA flag football season the following year, he came home crying and crying. He was mad that I hadn’t signed him up to play. Of course, I didn’t sign him up. He never asked. He told me that he thought I would know that he wanted to play. I told him I needed to hear him ask. Sometimes we need to ask for what we want…We signed him up the next season…” Octavia drifted off in thought.

  Kelly hesitated to interrupt. “Ben, you have a phone call.”

  “I’ll be right back, Octavia. We’ll let your hair dry a little more.”

  When I got to the phone, Kelly said, “Ben, it’s Lucy. She doesn’t sound too good.”

  I dried my hands and grabbed the phone. “Hey, Lu, gonna be late?”

  “Ben, I’ve never been so sick…throwing up all morning. I’m not even going to our Christmas party.”

  “You OK?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Lucy had wanted to be a mother for as long as I could remember. The years of baby-sitting and watching over neighbor kids had prepared her for this day.

  “Go lie down, Lu. We can reschedule when you feel better.”

  When I turned to Octavia, the chair was empty. She was heading to the coat rack and getting ready to leave.

  “Hey wait a second, Octavia. I refuse to let you out in the cold until your hair is dry and done. Go sit back down.”

  “Are you bossing me around?” Octavia forced a confused smile.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “All right then. You’re the only one I let boss me around. I do have to watch my time here. I’m meeting a friend for lunch at M’s Pub. They treat me like a queen over there. My friend Sylvia was an orphan on the orphan trains that went through Nebraska from New York. It’s really a fascinating story.”

  “Hello, Octavia. I introduced you to Sylvia. Remember, I told her story, and you were so interested you wanted to meet her. I do her hair every Thursday. Remember?”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  Nat King Cole sang of Jack Frost nipping at the door as I finished Octavia’s hair. When she was patting the back of it, I grabbed a bag from the side of my hair station and handed it to her.

  “I know it’s not wrapped or anything, but this is my gift for you.”

  Octavia opened the bag and pulled out a big gray T-shirt that I was sure she would never wear. She held it up and looked in the mirror and grinned. The shirt read I MAY BE WRONG, BUT I DOUBT IT.

  Jenae interrupted us both with furrowed eyebrows and her purse in hand. “Ben, can you start my next client? I have a pounding headache. I’m running over to get some aspirin at Cubby’s.”

  “Sure. Are you going to be able to finish your shift?” Maybe Jenae’s crazy Christmas was getting to her.

  “I’ll be fine. This headband is pinching my head and…” Jenae was out of the door before she finished her sentence.

  I looked at Octavia in the mirror, shook my head, and raised one eyebrow.

  Octavia put the shirt in the bag, tucked it under her arm, looked me in the mirror, and said, “Ah, vanity, too, must suffer.”

  21

  Lucy: Trim and Style

  Ash Wednesday, February 13

  1991

  The bell lay on the ground between the two pews on a cold and windy February morning in 1991.

  I had known it was loose for several weeks, but I’d kept hoping that I could buy some more time before I needed to get up on a ladder and fix it. I usually parked in the alley lot and opened the salon an hour earlier than the staff showed up. I liked to have a cup of coffee and see one or two clients before the chaos exploded. Lucy was that client that Wednesday. Once I opened the shades to the front of the salon, I stepped on the silver bell lying in the doorway. It must have fallen during the night. I picked it up and put it in my pocket.

  I jumped up on the pew and looked up at the upper rim of the door, hoping to devise a plan to fix the bell. The logical part of me knew that I should just throw it away, but I was surprised at the urgency in me to get the bell back up where it had been for the past seven years. I was thinking that I would have Subby Mangiamelli take a look at it when he came in for a haircut when my eyes diverted to a clunky green Honda Civic parked in front of the shop. I recognized Jenae’s car and wondered why she was at work so early and why she hadn’t parked in the alley. I saw a body slumped over the steering wheel. I jumped down from the pew and unlocked the front door as quickly as I could.

  The extreme cold slapped me as I ran out to the driver’s side of her car. The DJ on my drive to work had announced that the temperature was not quite ten degrees. I tapped on the window.

  “Jenae! Hey, Jenae!”

  I pounded the window with my fist, looking for movement. Jenae slowly lifted her head from the steering wheel and looked up at me, confused. Her hair was wild and nappy, covering a good part of her eyes. The dark uneven smudges around her eyes jumped out against her gray complexion. Her big, blue eyes now appeared dark gray and distant. I kept pounding and calling her name.

  “Open the door, Jenae. Unlock the door.”

  Slowly, as if moving underwater, Jenae unlocked the door. I opened the door and moved my hand to her shoulder to maneuver her out from the front seat.

  “Hey, Toots, what are you doing up so early?”

  Jenae said nothing as she gazed in my direction. No coat or jacket. Jenae was wearing so
me summer flip-flops, loose gray sweatpants, and an oversized T-shirt with a picture of Michael Bolton on the front. We moved toward the door of Vanity Insanity. I kept one arm around her, struggling to open the door as my foot pushed it open. I laid Jenae down on one of the pews, grabbed my coat, and covered her.

  “Hey, girl. You’ve got to be kidding me with this Michael Bolton thing you’ve got going on. What were you thinking?” My voice echoed against the empty room with high ceilings. “I’m gonna go grab you a hot coffee. Be right back.”

  Jenae did not move.

  I came back hoping that she would be Jenae again and start flitting around with endless chatter, but I found her curled body facing the back of the pew.

  “I’ve got coffee! Hey, Toots, why don’t you sit up for second…?”

  Jenae didn’t move. I placed my coat behind her and pulled up her body.

  “Jenae. What’s going on here? Are you OK? Jenae.”

  “He’s in the storm,” she whispered.

  “Somebody’s in a storm. Who’s in the storm, Jenae?” I held the back of her head and moved the cup of coffee toward her. She took a sip.

  “My brother.”

  I knew very little about Jenae’s family. What little I knew was not good. I did know she had a brother. The bubbly and loquacious woman who inhabited this body on most days would offer all kind of information about her life, her opinions, and her ideas—more often than not much more information that we needed to know. What she never talked about was her family or her childhood except for her younger brother, Scott, whom she would occasionally ask us to pray for. I knew that he struggled with drugs, and that bothered her. I knew that much.

  “Scott? Is Scott in a storm, Jenae?”

  Tears welled from her eyes as she rocked back and forth. “No. Not Scottie. Poor Scottie.”

  “Jenae, help me out here. What’s going on? Did somebody hurt you? Tell me…”