Calm, Cool, and Adjusted

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “Okay, great.”

  I sit in a chair, and she flops me back with a lever. I feel every bone in my foot when she does it and muffle the cry. I look around while she warms the water up, and I note the salon is average at best. Everyone has their own mismatched station, all of them covered with personal items describing the particular stylist that goes with the station. Alma’s is black lacquer, faux painted with gray stripes and spackling to look as though it’s marble. But it doesn’t even register as good plastic.

  Alma pushes the lever again and moves my neck into the shampoo bowl. “Ouch,” I say aloud this time.

  “Sorry, you all right?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “So what do you want to do today?”

  “I want to look stylish, like I live in this decade. My best friend’s getting married and tonight’s the couples’ shower so I want to surprise them.”

  “My brother says you like to dress like that. What’s changed?”

  “Well, nothing’s changed. I do like to dress like this. I just think it will be nice for the wedding pictures if I look a little more mainstream.”

  “You don’t look like my brother’s type. That’s what surprised me. I wouldn’t have recognized you if it weren’t for the cast. He told me when you were running late that you had a—what was it?”

  “A stress fracture.”

  “Right.”

  “Wh-what is your brother’s type?” I ask while she sprays my forehead with a jet of hot water. “If you don’t mind my asking. I only see him at work. He’s my patient, you know?”

  “He likes them dark and ethnic looking. Hispanics, Indians, Italians—those kind of women with the piercing brown eyes, you know? I think his perfect woman is J. Lo.”

  “Uh huh.” It’s all I can think to say. Ethnic? Somehow, red hair, pale skin, and blue eyes hardly seem ethnic. Unless Irish is ethnic. And J. Lo? With 14-percent body fat, I’ll tell you one thing I don’t have that J. Lo has. I have the flattest derriere in the world.

  The whole conversation fills me with dread, and suddenly I understand why he rejected me at the car door. His offer, his protesting his emotions on the beach, it’s all to get what he wants in Hawaii. Golf and good chiropractic care. Simon has not learned that his money can’t buy him everything. Clearly.

  “But he seems to like you. Maybe his tastes are changing.” She rubs my hair just a little too hard, and I clamp my eyes shut against the pain. I thought this was supposed to be relaxing? This is like the pedicure I must endure every time we go to the spa. I hate having my feet touched, and I’m afraid my head is no different.

  “I think he just likes good chiropractic care. He has a special back.”

  “It’s inherited. We all have it. When my son came out with shoulders, you could have heard me scream throughout the hospital! I did not have Quasimodo for a son.” She laughs at this.

  “Quasimodo? You and your brother hardly look—”

  “Listen, we survived grade school. I just didn’t want that for my kid.”

  “How old is your son? Simon’s never talked about a nephew.”

  “He’s twelve. I had him out of wedlock, and Simon’s been like a dad to him, but I think he still gets embarrassed to tell my story.”

  She rinses out my head and flops me up with that lever again like I’m a piece of toast. I swore I’d be ready for it, but nope. She wraps my head in a towel, and suddenly I’m anxious about this woman with scissors. “You know, maybe I don’t need to have my hair cut after all. Maybe we can just do the eyebrows and makeup.”

  “You have split ends like wishbones. Do you do a lot of swimming?”

  “I do,” I admit.

  “It’s drying out your hair something fierce. You should really wear a cap.”

  I suck in a deep breath. “All right. Let’s get it done.” We move to her station. There are several pictures of her son on beaches, and a few with Simon in the picture. He’s smiling and has her son, in younger years, hoisted on his shoulders, posed in a strongman pose. The image makes me giggle because I can just hear him boasting about how fabulous he is and teaching his nephew to do the same. When it comes to “trash talking,” Simon is probably the best in the business.

  “Don’t take too much off, okay? Go easy on me,” I say.

  “Poppy, every woman in here is wishing for your hair right now. I’m not going to do anything but clean it up and make your style look slightly more today. All right?”

  Alma is the tough-talking, practical sort. But it’s clear by the memorabilia on her shelf that she knows how to cut loose and have fun. There’s a picture of her in a bikini with her son, and let’s just say she’s not exactly a small woman. But there she is, enjoying the beach and her son and it’s like none of that matters. She’s not homely by any sense of the word, but she hasn’t given up on life. Though one could obviously say it’s dealt her a rough blow. I don’t know what happened with her father, but her mother is being hidden away, her father is out of the picture, and her son’s father long gone. Yet here she is, all smiles and into her career.

  She starts to cut, and I can’t bear to watch. My hair hangs down to the middle of my back, and she’s been quite clear that this is not stylish for a woman my age, and I can feel her snipping off sections of hair. Watching the three-inch long strands fall to the floor, I cringe with each cut.

  “Poppy, you’re going to look great. Relax.” She drops her scissors for a moment onto the table and starts to massage my shoulders. “You’re going to have a heart attack in the chair if you don’t chill.”

  “Why would your brother help me with my house in Santa Cruz? Do you know?”

  Alma laughs and picks up her scissors again. “I don’t know why my brother does anything. What’s your house in Santa Cruz got to do with it?”

  “He had it fixed up. It was severely damaged, and I guess I want to know what I could do to pay him back.”

  She stops cutting again, which brings my breathing back to a normal, steady rhythm. “My brother has too much money and too much heart. It’s as simple as that.” Then Alma’s eyes thin. “Don’t read too much into it. Do you plan to pay him back?”

  “I do, of course.”

  She’s got those scissors perched precariously over my head, and the threat is a little frightening to me. “I see why he likes you.”

  “Likes me?” I know this is way too high school, but I can’t stop myself. “Has he said that about me?”

  Alma shrugs. “You’re not his type. I think it will pass once he gets to Hawaii. He’ll find a cute little Hawaiian girl who will cook for him and give him babies. Simon learned one thing from my dad. He learned how to care for a family because our father didn’t.” She drops the scissors. “You’re done. Now, I’m going to shape your eyebrows before I dry the hair.”

  Before I can react, she slops hot goop all over my eyelids and then presses a strip of muslin on my face. With one fell swoop, she rips off the strip of cotton and I scream. “Dang! What was that?”

  The other women in the salon look over and start laughing. “You don’t want to give her a bikini wax!” one of them shouts.

  A bikini wax? I don’t even want to know. There is something worse than having just had your first eyebrow waxed unwittingly. It’s realizing the second one needs to match and seeing that little wand o’ wax coming towards you. My right eyebrow is still stinging and yet I feel my searing flesh on the other side as the wax reaches it. Riiippp! Oh my gosh, au naturel is the way to go, ladies. Why on earth would anyone do this to themselves willingly? Have they employed this in the war on terror?

  So now, instead of two red caterpillars on my face, I have two Charlie Chaplin scarlet eyebrow marks. And because I run, the space where the eyebrows used to be is paler than my normal pallor, which is white at best. Alabaster. That was a word created by a pale woman who couldn’t tan, to make herself think she was pretty.

  In a world where Eva Longoria, J. Lo, and Beyoncé are the ideal, I am like a
ghost straight out of the last century haunting an Irish castle.

  Alma dabs cream on my eyebrows and convinces me to calm down. “I’m going to give you a little facial just to clean out those pores.”

  I am already bored stiff. I look around and all the women are chatting, reading fashion magazines, and seeming to enjoy this entire process. I want to hurt someone. I cannot sit still like this. I could be vacuuming the cat hair off my floor, power walking with my cane, or even updating patient charts. But I’m sitting here with charred eyebrows and short hair, waiting for more pain, more beauty treatments that would make Queen Esther cringe.

  I breathe in deeply as Alma uses a paintbrush to paint on yet another potion and leaves it while she dries my hair. After what seems an eternity, she pulls the now-rubbery mask off my face, applies a spray and then a cream and deems me ready for makeup.

  She takes a sponge and pounds (I repeat, pounds) foundation onto my skin (the makeup artist is busy, lucky me) until I can’t see one remaining flaw in my face. I am like a tan mime. She even paints the eyelids so you can’t see the bright white stripes she’s left from waxing. She applies blush, three lipsticks to make me shimmer, and finally, mascara.

  “You’re ready,” she says as she spins me towards the mirror.

  “Oh my goodness!” It feels as though I have that rubbery mask still bound to my skin. I am covered in color. I think this might be a little too extreme. What if Lilly and Morgan think I’m going to a street-walking festival rather than coming into this decade? I should have stuck with the clothes makeover and listened to Lilly.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m just really shocked, that’s all.” I vow right then and there to scrape it all off as soon as I get home. My hair is enough of a change for one day. That is, until Simon walks in and all the women zoom in on him with laser-like intensity. Simon looks at me. I see his expression warm at the sight, and I’ll admit inside, just for a moment, I wonder if I’m enough to keep him in California. Can’t his mother come here?

  Simon looks at me thoroughly. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him take the extreme notice he takes right now. Truthfully, I don’t know if it’s his sister’s handiwork he appreciates or my changed appearance. Whatever it is, if he’s expecting J. Lo, he’s still sadly disappointed. There are some miracles a beautician just can’t perform.

  “I told you she was a miracle worker.” Simon grins at me and leads me from her station. I hear the buzz of the women discussing our exit, and I almost wish I could give them something scandalous to discuss. But yeah, this is me we’re talking about.

  “Keep some ice on those brows if they continue to hurt. You’re a wax vir—”

  “Never mind.” Simon kisses his sister. “Thanks for fitting her in.”

  Our ride home is silent and strained. Whatever emotions Simon expressed on the beach that night under the stars, the spell has more than worn off and I feel he’s more chaste than he was with his own sister. He doesn’t look at me like he once did, like he was lucky to be in my presence. Now, I feel like little more than an annoyance.

  In the car, I keep thinking of a casual way to discuss my virtual pass at him in the street, and his subsequent avoidance. But what point would it serve? I had my chance, and I suppose he figures I shanked his shot.

  chapter 21

  Desperation scale: 9

  Tonight is Morgan and George’s couples’ shower. I’m not a couple, but I play one tonight. I decided after an extended period in the beauty chair, seeing the house makeover was the last thing I needed in my life. Simon dropped me off after an uncomfortable drive home. I didn’t know what to say to him, and will he even call me before he leaves for his new Aloha life? That remains to be seen.

  I dress in the new peasant skirt and flowing shirt that Lilly created for what she terms “Poppy’s unfortunate style” and wear a red sandal to downplay my cast. I’m not home for more than an hour when the doorbell rings. It’s no wonder Safflower the cat thinks she’s the mistress of our home; she spends far more time here.

  “Hi,” I say, opening the door to Jeff. He’s carrying flowers and dressed in a casual pair of khakis with a short-sleeved Tommy Bahama shirt (which I only know because it says so, right there on his collar; I guess that way there’s no mistaking he spent money on his clothes). “You look great. You didn’t have to dress up.”

  “Ah, but I did. You were willing to give up your office space. I’m going to play the knight in shining armor with gusto. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Well, I hope you get the space after all this. I don’t know where you’re going to find the time to fight a lawsuit.”

  “I just have to find the money. My lawyer will fight the lawsuit. What are your plans? Have you found anything nearby? Because really, that offer stands. I have a great commercial real estate agent who could find you something in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m thinking about my options. I might go back home.”

  “Home to Santa Cruz? And start your practice over again?”

  “Most likely not. I’d just drive over the hill. I’m just thinking out loud. Are you ready?”

  “No wait. First—” He puts the flowers on an entry table. “First—” He takes both my hands in his. “I want to look at you. What did you do, Poppy?”

  I bring my hand to my hair. “I had a makeover. Too much? Do I look like a streetwalker?”

  He laughs. “Poppy, the makeup is very natural. You look more gorgeous than ever. But Alicia will be mad. She wanted to get her hands on you with the makeup. Not that you need it, but now you’re like a lethal weapon.”

  “Spoken like a true plastic surgeon. I’m telling you, you really should sell cars on the side. I think you might even get me to buy a Hummer.” I smile at Jeff, and for once in our tempestuous relationship, I am truly glad for his friendship. I suppose he does deserve most of the credit.

  “You can’t take a compliment to save your life.”

  “I’m sorry. Thank you for the compliment.”

  Jeff walks around me, taking in all the sights. “The eyebrows were a nice touch. They really opened up your eyes. Now they’re unmistakable. Nicole Kidman, look out. You’ve got competition.”

  “I don’t think she does, but I appreciate your playing the knight-in-shining-armor role. I need it at the moment.”

  “Why is it so tough for women to watch their friends get married?” He sits on the sofa and puts his feet on my coffee table. A little forward, perhaps, but it’s not like I have date options, so I keep quiet.

  “It’s not nearly as tough as it is to watch the last friend get married because that leaves you on a playing field all by yourself. You have to get more, new single friends, or you have to hang out being the third wheel all the time with them setting you up with a series of losers they call perfect for you. It’s hard to make new friends at thirty, you know?”

  “Poppy, I want to show you something.” Jeff walks with me to the mirror and stands behind me, with his head propped on my shoulder, his gaze steady with those amazing blue eyes. “Do you see what I see?” He says this exactly like my father would tell me when the boy I wanted to ask to the Sadie Hawkins Dance went with someone else.

  “Hmm,” I say. “I see a girl with too much makeup.”

  “What else?”

  “I see a girl with too many options and not enough certainties.”

  “You sound beaten, Poppy, if you want to know the truth of the matter. I thought you sounded that way when you left me in the parking lot before church the other night. Why don’t you go ahead and call me a jerk? That always makes you feel better.”

  I turn around and face him, and his striking eyes meet mine. For all Jeff may be, strikingly handsome is always the first thing that comes to my mind. And I don’t even care about such things. I look down at my red sandal. “I don’t want to call you a jerk, Jeff. You’re just a man who knows what he wants. Something in me, I suppose, respects that.”

  I watc
h Jeff’s chest rise and fall with his deep breathing and I try to remember all the reasons I fight with him on a daily basis. I clasp my eyes shut, repeating the mantra Jeff is a jerk. Jeff is a jerk. Jeff the jerk. Jeff . . . jerk. Jerk. Jeff.

  But when I open my eyes, he’s closer than ever, and the distance between him and me diminishes. I bite on my lip, looking for the excuse to move. I can put the flowers away. I can tell him we’re going to be late. I can offer him a glass of water. I can call him a jerk.

  But I don’t need an excuse. Jeff backs away on his own, and I run to the kitchen to get a vase. I can’t tell if he’s really making a pass at me, but the thought leaves me cold, and with thoughts only of Simon. “How’s the sushi chef?” I ask.

  “He’s back to work. He only got the very tip. It wasn’t that big of an injury. Fingers just bleed.”

  I nod. “Right. Lot of blood supply in the hands. It’s no wonder. Just like the head wounds, you get one of those and you’re going to have a lot of blood. Lot of blood,” I repeat.

  I slide the flowers into the vase. “They’re beautiful, Jeff. But really, you didn’t have to do that. I know what this night is about, and I appreciate you doing it.” (What I’m really saying is, Do you know what this night is about?) “It’s just going to make things a lot easier on me. Remember we’re not allowed to talk about things like bloody fingers or slicing people open or anything that has to do with health, especially the digestive tract. All right?”

  “I know I’m going to regret this.” Jeff moves the flowers aside on the table and grasps my cheeks in his hands. “Why do you pretend this doesn’t exist?” he asks about our attraction. Attraction is a funny thing. Linebackers and quarterbacks are brought together by the football, but the collision is never pretty and this won’t be either.

  “Because this—” I step away and motion between us. “This is nothing more than an illusion. People who are completely wrong for each other are attracted to each other all the time. It’s just the way God made life. You have this certain amount of energy, and when you’re around certain people that energy feels really good. And remember God’s first building block was energy, or light, as the Bible translates. And who knows why certain people—”