And,I thought, my anger gathering steam,who cares that he wanted me all those years ago?Did I really want to be just another item checked off his bucket list?
I pushed him away. “You know what, Andrew? You’re right. Ididwant this.In high school.But that was a long time ago. I’ve grown up since then. How about you?”
Andrew eyes opened wide and he looked hurt. “Wow, I guess I misread you. No harm, no foul, OK?” He raised his hands like a cowboy surrendering a gunfight.
Now, of course, I felt badly for him. “OK,” I said. “Listen, you know you’re crazy hot, right? It’s not that I’m not into you. It’s just a little sudden for me. But we’re cool. No offense taken.”
“Cool.” Andrew agreed. A few awkward seconds later, he added, “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m a jerk.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m a jerk and I came on too strong and I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“So, you don’t hate me?”
“Of course I don’t hate you. I don’t . . .anything you, that’s the whole point.”
“So,” Andrew said, dragging out the word and looking down at his feet, “would you maybe be interested?”
“Andrew . . .” I began.
“In getting to know me,” he added. “I mean, would you be interested in getting to know me?”
“Sure,” I said, although I had no idea where he would fit in my life. “That would be great.”
“Great.” Andrew smiled. “Can I apologize again?”
“No.”
“All right then,” Andrew said, opening the door of his office and flicking a switch that brought all the monitors on his wall to life, “let’s watch the show.”
It was weird seeing my mother from three different angles on the LCDs. She was standing by her styling station, busying herself with rollers, dyes, and hair sprays.
“They’re shooting B roll now,” Andrew said. “We’ll use some of this footage behind narration, setting the scene.”
My mother plugged something that looked like a torture device into an outlet and turned to one of the cameras.
“This is a curling iron,” she explained. “I employ it in my efforts to impart wave and body to my customers’ hair. Will I use it on Yvonne? We’ll just have to wait and . . .”
The segment director’s voice came from offscreen. “Mrs. Connor? For the third time, we really don’t need you to say anything. Just act naturally and don’t talk to the camera anymore, OK?”
“I thought maybe I could build some dramatic tension,” my mother explained. “Keep everyone watching.”
“How about,” the disembodied voice responded a bit testily, “I worry about keeping the audience’s interest and you worry about doing as you’re told.”
“Well, how will the viewers know what I’m doing if I don’t explain the tools of my trade?” my mother answered. “You’d be surprised just how interesting the job of a beautician can be. Every day, people ask me, ‘How do you do it, Sophie?’ And I tell them . . .”
I heard what sounded like a snarl coming from the director, but then a hush as everyone turned and looked toward the door.
“Yvonne,” the director called. “We’re all ready for you. You look wonderful.”
Yvonne drifted into the scene and gave my mother a hug. “I’m so glad to see you again. We haven’t scared you off yet, have we? Are you ready to make me over, my dear?” Her voice was pure honey.
“I’m honored,” my mother said.
Yvonne turned to the director and, in a tone that was all gravel and demand, barked, “All right, Henry, where do you want me?”
“Let’s get you walking in again, but this time, why don’t you and Mrs. Connor act like you’re meeting for the first time, OK?”
Yvonne put her hands on her hips. “Henry, if you have direction for me, could you please do me the favor of giving it to mebeforeI come onto the set?”
“I couldn’t give it to you until you got here,” the director said, his manner long-suffering. “So, if you don’t mind . . .”
Yvonne turned in a huff and walked away. “Fine. Let’s try it again.”
My mother turned to the director and shrugged. “That’s show biz,” she called out.
Everyone in the shop laughed. Andrew turned to me. “It looks like your mom’s a bit of a ham.” “Oh, she’s loving this,” I assured him.
“Yvonne may have some competition on her hands.”
Andrew and I continued to watch the monitors through Yvonne’s reintroduction to my mother, her shampoo, and the beginning of her haircut. After the first few snips, the director called out, “that’s a wrap for now. Mrs. Connor, why don’t you just finish up the . . . whatever you’re doing, then we’ll shoot some footage when you’re ready to apply Yvonne’s color. We’ll close with the big reveal, where Yvonne will finally get to see the results of your makeover. Mrs. Connor, how much longer do you need Yvonne in the chair before you’re ready for the next step?”
“Oh, another twenty minutes at least,” my mother answered. She leaned over to Yvonne. “I give all my customers this kind of treatment, not just the big stars like you.”
Yvonne laughed at this, as did a few others in the shop. I had to say, Yvonne may have been nastier than herpes, but she and my mother did seem to be hitting it off.
“Great,” the director said. “Let’s all take twenty then and give these ladies their privacy.”
Two of the three video screens above Andrew’s desk went black, but one, which showed both my mother and Yvonne in a wide shot, remained on.
The walkie-talkie Andrew wore on his belt crackled to life. “Hey, Andy, Gabe didn’t shut down camera three for the break. Do you want us to get it?”
“Naw, leave it running,” Andrew said. “Thanks.” He put the device back on his belt. “If I sent the cameraman back in to shut it down, Yvonne would notice and make me fire the poor guy.”
“Why?”
“Oh, who knows? If she thinks someone’s made a mistake, if she perceives any weakness at all, she goes for the kill. Blood in the water. She’s like a shark, except sharks only kill what they eat, not for sport.”
I smiled and looked at the monitor. My mother stood behind Yvonne, snipping away at her hair, but with a decidedly uncomfortable expression on her face. “Hey,” I asked Andrew, “can we hear what they’re saying?”
“Let’s see if the mike is live,” Andrew said. He leaned across the desk and turned a dial.
“ . . . but they’re all that way, right?” We picked up Yvonne midsentence. “I mean, this new kid, I’m never even seen him on set before, and my producer, Andrew, already has him in his office, ready to pounce.”
I felt the heat coming off Andrew’s face before I noticed how red he was getting.
“Hmmm,” my mother said.
“Faggots can’t control themselves,” Yvonne continued. “Like animals. The only good thing about them is they don’t have children or wives, so they make wonderful employees.” Yvonne chuckled. “Totally devoted to their jobs, just the way I like them. I can’t imagine what makes someone choose to be gay, though. Don’t they want to be normal?”
My mother cleared her throat. “I hear,” she said, her voice strained and thin, “that most people think they’re born that way. I think I heard it on your show, in fact.”
Yvonne smiled. “So, youdowatch! Yes, I know, I have on all the experts and the scientists, and I talk the good PC game with the best of them, but really, Sophie, I can’t believe God would make anyone like that, do you?”
“As a matter of fact . . .” my mother began.
Yvonne cut her off. “What is it about a hairdresser that makes us open up like this, Sophie? You should have been a therapist!”
My mother’s smile was as thin as a razor and only slightly less dangerous-looking. “Thank you, but . . .”
“Just between us girls”—
Yvonne winked—“you know what it is I think makes these boys go the wrong way?”
My mother croaked out a “What?”
“Their mothers, of course. Imagine having a mother so awful that she turns you off all women forever. I’ve never met a mother of one of these socalled ‘gays’ who wasn’t a shrew.”
A sound like glass grinding came from my mother’s throat. She reached over to a table out of the camera’s sight and came back with the biggest pair of scissors I’d ever seen.
“Uh,” I began, “maybe we better get in there.”
“Why, do you have a gun she could use instead?” Andrew asked.
“You’re laughing now,” I told him, “but if she kills Yvonne, you’re out of a job.”
“Soworth it,” Andrew said.
“Well,” my mother said, “just a few more snips and we’ll be ready for your color.” I heard the strain in her voice as she sought to retain her composure.
Truth to tell, I was a little disappointed that she didn’t slit Yvonne like a stoolie in an episode ofThe Sopranos.It would have been nice to see her stand up for me, and herself, a little. But I guess it wasn’t worth blowing her chance to be onYvonne.
“Of course,” Yvonne said, “if you want to be in show business, you better learn to work with the fags. They’re everywhere. The only thing worse than them are . . . what did you say your last name was again, darling?”
“Connor,” my mother answered.
“Good. As I was saying, the only people worse than the fags are the Jews. They run everything in Hollywood. Between the kikes and the queers, I don’t know how I take it.”
Even in the wide shot, you could see my mother’s fingers whiten as she squeezed the scissors ever more tightly in her hands. Too bad Yvonne didn’t know my mother’s maiden name was Gerstein.
“Do it,” I heard Andrew whisper to my mother’s image on the monitor. “Do it, do it, do it.”
“You know,” my mother began, her face clenched even tighter than her fingers. “I think . . .”
“Oh!” Yvonne interrupted. “I just realized—that new kid on the set I told you my producer was putting the moves on? You met him. He was that little blond piece of ass you were talking to when I walked in. Cute, but what a little queen! Imagine whathis mother must be like!”
“Would you excuse me for a minute,” my mother said. “I just need to get something.”
My mother walked out the camera’s range and Andrew and I watched with a kind of morbid fascination as Yvonne leaned closer into the mirror and examined her face with the rapt attention of an astrophysicist studying the surface of Jupiter for microscopic evidence of life. She pulled her skin tight behind her ears, released it, pulled it back again.
“If she has one more facelift,” Andrew said, “her eyes are going to be behind her head.”
My mother came back into view with a glass bowl halfway filled with a viscous-looking brown gloop. “I have your color mixed,” she said cheerily.
“Isn’t that kind of dark?” Yvonne asked. “You know I want to stay blond, right?”
My mother smiled. “It gets lighter when I put it in your hair. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve never met a woman who’s more blond than you.”
Yvonne smiled back. “Darling Sophie,” she said. “It’s always such a pleasure to meet someone like you, someone I can really open up to. Most people are so stupid. Take my audience—a bigger bunch of morons you’ve never seen. I want to throw up every time I have to stand in front of those idiots and losers. But you! You’ve been so helpful. I guess it’s part of your being a service person. I feel you’re genuinely interested in taking care of me.”
“Oh,” my mother said, her smile growing even wider. “I’m going to take care of you, all right.”
16
The Best Thing You’ve Ever Done My mother told the director that she was ready to dye Yvonne’s hair. He started the cameras rolling again. All three monitors above Andrew’s desk came back to life.
As you might imagine, Yvonne steered the conversation to much safer shores, and my mother chatted along as if she didn’t have a care in the world. My mother combed the dye through Yvonne’s hair and massaged it into her roots. She wrapped the wet strands in a towel and placed a shower cap over Yvonne’s head.
“We just need to let it sit for ten minutes,” my mother cooed, “and then it’s time for your big unveiling!”
The director’s voice came from offscreen again. “While you’re sitting, Yvonne, why don’t we shoot some interview drop-ins with Mrs. Connor?”
“Marvelous,” Yvonne cooed. “Are we set?” The director answered yes. “So tell me, Sophie, how did you get into the beauty shop business?”
“It’s an interesting story,” my mother began, which was always a sure sign that it would be just the opposite. I took this as an opportunity to chat some more with Andrew.
“I’m kind of disappointed,” I told him. “I thought my mother would defend me a little more. Hell, I thought she’d defend herself.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. Celebrities have that effect on normal folk. I’ve seen Yvonne be a lot ruder than that to some of our guests during the commercial breaks, but when the cameras start to roll again, everyone’s still there smiling and chatting away. Nobody stands up to people like Yvonne. Even people who’ve had to eat her shit for years keep coming back for more. Exhibit A: Yours truly.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Everyone’s got to make a living. And I can always hope that one day her key light falls on her head. At least I have that to look forward to. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll get the chance to start a show of
my own.”
“She’s ready,” my mother chirped, and Yvonne
settled back at my mother’s station. The shower cap
around her head ensured that not a single lock of her
new hair color revealed itself. The director moved
the cameras around a bit to make sure they
captured the look on Yvonne’s face as she saw the
results of her dye job.
Yvonne wiggled her shoulders excitedly. “I can’t
wait to see what you’ve done, Sophie. Will I be
terribly, terribly glamorous?”
“You’ll feel like you’re inThe King and I,” my
mother promised. She eased off the shower cap,
revealing the tightly wrapped towel beneath. “I’ve always loved Deborah Kerr in that movie,”
Yvonne whispered. “So elegant!”
“Dear, dear, Yvonne,” my mother answered,
pulling away the towel, “I meant theotherstar . . .” My mother enjoyed the shocked silence for a
moment before finishing her sentence. “. . . Yul
Brynner, darling.”
Gasps and one short yelp came from the
production staff in the salon.
Yvonne couldn’t seem to catch her breath. “I’m . . .
I’m . . . I’m . . .”
“A bitch?” my mother offered. “An insufferable,
homophobic, anti-Semitic poser with bad implants
and a worse attitude?”
Yvonne’s eyes narrowed into slits. Her faced
flushed a radio-active shade of red. “I . . . You . . .” “What is it, dear?” my mother asked sweetly. “I’m
just trying to help. You know how we ‘service people’
are.”
“I’mbald!” Yvonne screamed.
Andrew and I ran from the bus into my mother’s
shop. Every face in the room was white—even the
African-American ones. Nobody knew what to do or
say.
“Don’t you hear me?” Yvonne’s screamed again.
“I’m bald! Somebody do something.”
“We offer a full selection of wigs,” my mother said
pleasantly. “Perhaps something in the style of Eva
Braun? You can wear it with your swast
ika.” Out of the crew’s shocked silence, one woman, I
think it was Margie the light hanger, let slip a low
chuckle that grew into a palms-over-the-mouth giggle
and finally erupted in a loud and hearty guffaw. That
set off the woman next her, then the queeny
beautician, and soon half the room was cracking up. “You, you, you.” Yvonne couldn’t find the words.
She ran her hands over her smooth head. “You all . . .
suck!I hate you all!”
That got everyone laughing, finally free to put in her place the tyrant who had oppressed and terrorized
them for years.
“They’re all laughing at me!” Yvonne wailed, like
Sissy Spacek inCarrie.Only, Sissy was the hero of
that piece.
I made my way through the crowd to my mother’s
side. “You OK?” I asked her.
“Never better,” my mother said. “You ask me, she
deserved a lot worse. She’s lucky she didn’t come in
for a bikini wax.”
I kissed her cheek. “My hero.”
Yvonne looked at us. “You two . . . you two know
each other?”
“Oh!” my mother said. “Let me introduce my son,
Kevin. You had such kind things to say about him.
And me.”
Yvonne stared at the two of us, open-mouthed. I
suspected it was the first time in years she’d been
speechless.
“I know the trim I gave you may be a tad extreme,”
my mother continued. “But once I saw your true
nature, Yvonne, I couldn’t resist making the outside
you match the beauty within.”
“You, youcunt!” Yvonne cried.
My mother put her hands to her cheeks in mock
outrage. “Such language! In front of my child, no
less.”
“You vicious, kikecunt!”
“Yeah, yeah,” my mother said. “Fuck you, Kojak.”
She triumphantly turned her back to Yvonne and took
my arm. “Let’s go, my darling, faggot son.”
Walking her to the door, I ran into Andrew. “Are you going to be all right?” I asked him. “Peachy,” he answered. “She’ll probably fire me
Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott Page 12