More Than One Way to Be a Girl

by Dyan Sheldon

  I can’t say that I was as enthusiastic about my own transformation as I was about the miracle I’d performed on Loretta. On Saturday, she was going with me to have my hair cut. She said it was for moral support, but I figured it was more to make sure I went. The night before, I lay awake with anticipation. Not anticipation like when you’re little and it’s Christmas Eve and you can’t wait to get a Little Princess Beauty Salon or the night before a big family vacation and you’re dying to have your picture taken with Cinderella. This was the bad kind of anticipation. I hadn’t had short hair since the nit epidemic in Year One. Your hair’s supposed to be your crowning glory, not the dot over an i. I finally managed to get to sleep by counting all the famous movie stars and models I could think of who had had short hair. Ever. Even if it was only for a specific part or ad campaign. You could call it a test. In eighth grade, Porsha Chevron had a Halloween party and I went as a mermaid with a tail covered in green sequins (I won best costume and got asked out by Link Smitts, the biggest catch in our year, whose conversation starter was “I don’t usually like fish”). Desperate for sleep, I wound up digging through my memory like someone sifting through a bag of sequins for just the green ones. Wasn’t there that movie about time travellers? Wasn’t there that ad for Hugo Boss? What about what’s her name who played the robot that fell in love with a computer?

  When I finally fell asleep, I had my favourite dream. I was gliding down a catwalk (maybe in Milan, maybe in Paris) with my head up and my expression blank but sultry. Lights flashed. Videos hummed. I didn’t need a mirror to see how fantastic I looked, I could see it in the faces all around me. Even the air felt admiring. I knew that after the show I’d be whisked away in a silver limo to a party where men who would have been princes if we were in a fairy tale lined up to meet me. But then the dream stopped being the one I always had (at that point it would fade out, and I’d wake up smiling). Instead, just as I reached the end of the catwalk, up popped Loretta. She was wearing a black lab coat and goggles, and was holding a pair of scissors you could have used to give a woolly mammoth a trim. What are you doing? shrieked Loretta. You’re not supposed to be here, acting like a living doll. You’re supposed to be at Harvard, studying Environmental Law and reaching your potential! It was my scream that woke me. When I opened my eyes I was already sitting up, and breathing hard.

  We went to Roma’s Salon, the best Howards Walk has to offer. I’d been going there since I realized there was a difference between haircuts, just like there’s a difference between shoes from Shoe City and Jimmy Choos. (Before that, I’d had my hair cut like my mother did, by her friend Silvia in Silvia’s sun porch.) I felt like I grew up in Roma’s. It was there that I started bringing my hair to the colour it should always have been. There that I’d had my first perm, my first manicure and my first wax. The staff all knew me really well.

  Loretta had never been in a beauty parlour before and looked around with all the wonder of someone who’s never before been inside a torture chamber. What’s this? What’s that? She read the list of services posted by the register like it was in a language she’d only been learning for a month. Which at least took attention from me. Everyone was watching her.

  “Your friend’s not from around here, is she?” asked Roma.

  No, she’s from Mars.

  I poked Loretta in the side. “Get yourself a coffee and a cookie,” I whispered, “and stop gawping like your spaceship just landed.”

  I sat down in front of a mirror, staring at my reflection like a girl waving goodbye to the lover who is going off to war and may never come back. I studied every detail. The long, softly curling hair, the dangling earrings, the carefully outlined eyes, the silky halter-top. This was not just my last day with hair, it was my last day looking like me. The day joy died. My miracle was that I didn’t burst into tears and wind up spending my last hours in make-up looking like a raccoon.

  “You want what?” Roma stared at me in the mirror, her expression the definition of disbelief. “You want it cut short?” Those were words she never thought she’d hear from my lips.

  Roma has been in charge of my hair since my first appointment, and (except for when I had a perm) it was always the same. Trim, lighten and shape.

  I felt like a doctor ordering an amputation on herself.

  “That’s right. Cut it. Short.”

  “How short?”

  “Short as mine,” chimed in Loretta.

  Roma didn’t turn around; she moved her eyes across the mirror to Loretta and then back to me. I could tell from the way she winced that, even with the highlights, she knew Loretta cut her own hair. Possibly with pinking shears. “You sure?”

  I nodded. “But, you know, styled, not just chopped off.” I lowered my voice. “Something that makes a statement that isn’t I don’t care.”

  “Ummm,” said Roma. “What about the colour?”

  “I thought I’d let it grow out.”

  “You did? Clipped like a hedge and back to dirty blonde?” She smooshed her lips together the way she does when she’s trying to decide if one side is a sixteenth of an inch longer than the other. “So what happened, ZiZi? You lose the bet?”

  From behind us, Loretta said, “Not yet.”

  Loretta said I was exaggerating how different I looked. (Well, she would, wouldn’t she?)

  “No, I’m not.” Now I knew exactly how Truly Silverado felt in eighth grade when she got a haircut that made her look like a squirrel (and missed the school trip to DC because she wouldn’t be seen in public for over a week). “I’m in shock.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Zi. All you did was have your hair cut. You do know it’ll grow back, don’t you?”

  I held my phone in front of me. The dark screen didn’t make me look any better.

  “Tell me the truth,” I ordered. “Do my ears look big in this?”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Loretta. “Laugh, and the world laughs with you.”

  Cry, and you cry alone.

  Loretta offered to come home with me but I wanted to be by myself. I needed time to adjust.

  I was counting on the fact that, since it was a Saturday, there wouldn’t be anyone there (unless Nate or Obi were still asleep, and, if they were, I could have herded elephants past their doors without waking them). I stepped inside, and into the peace and quiet that only exist in our house when it’s either three a.m. or there’s no one in it. Bliss.

  I went straight into the bathroom and took off my make-up and earrings so I could judge the full effect. The full effect was horrific. Except for the dress I was wearing, I looked like an extra in one of those World War II movies where the resistance fighters live in the forest and forage for food. Get used to it, I told myself. It isn’t that bad, I told myself. You’re still you. If you take the cover off a book, it doesn’t change what’s inside. And anyway, I wasn’t going to look like this for that long. Loretta wouldn’t last a week. I’d already had to forbid her to wear a hat or any kind of jacket unless it was raining (and it had to be raining really hard). It wouldn’t be long before her principles mutinied and made her quit. That cheered me up enough to go into the kitchen for a drink. I should’ve stayed in the bathroom. Nate was there with Marsh. They were fixing themselves a snack (that’s the other time that peace and quiet can exist in our house, when the guys have their mouths full of food). I checked the urge to turn around and make a mad dash for my room before they saw me. I was in my own home. Among friends (at least, in theory!). This was as easy as it would get.

  “Hi, guys,” I said.

  Nate and Marsh looked around.

  Marsh is a big fan of mine. He knows I’d never go out with him (even if he wasn’t my brother’s best friend, we’d have to be the last two people on the planet before I’d consider it, and then I’d say no), but he admires me from afar. I always get a dopey grin and a flirty, “Hey, there, Giselle. How’s it going?” Today he just nodded. Without much enthusiasm.

  Nate showed more emotion. “What happen
ed to you?” asked my brother. “Did someone die?”

  You’d think an alarm had gone off alerting the neighbourhood because right then the back door opened and Dad and Obi walked in from the yard. Even if they weren’t carrying a bat and a catcher’s mitt, you’d know what they’d been doing. They were both sweaty, bruised and grass-stained (baseball’s not something either of them is good at).

  “What phase is this now?” asked my dad. “Don’t tell me you’ve joined some cult.”

  “Cool!” screamed Obi. “You’re like the living dead!”

  Marsh looked from me to Nate. “Oh, man,” said Marsh. “Is that ZiZi?”

  I never had the chance to answer any of them. Right on cue, my mother came in behind me. “What’s going on?”

  I turned around. Say what you will about Gina (and I say plenty), she didn’t twitch a single eyelash.

  “Let me take a wild guess,” said my mother. “You and Loretta made a bet.”

  Loretta

  Over the Einstein-Rosen Bridge

  The Sunday before the official start of the bet, ZiZi and I walked into town to have lunch. This was our test run. You don’t simply climb into a space shuttle and head for the stars, you have to practise beforehand: simulate the experience; learn the drill; prepare for the pitfalls.

  As a testament to how seriously she was taking the bet and what it entailed, ZiZi wrote and printed out two pages of notes so I could make myself up the way she’d shown me. “I know you like to be thorough,” said ZiZi.

  It takes her a long time to get herself ready for public appearances, but it took me longer. I put on too much eye shadow and not enough blush, and in the process of fixing those mistakes, discovered how much easier it is to put make-up on than to take it off. My liner was crooked and I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand three separate times, making my eyes water and everything run. Having only one bathroom for the three of us had never been a problem before, but now it was. I don’t know how long I’d been in there the first time my mother rapped on the door, but it must have been a while because she sounded concerned. “Are you all right, Loretta? Is something wrong?” I said I was fine. I said I wouldn’t be much longer. Which proves that the saying “Hope dies last” is true, because the next knock on the door was my father’s. “What are you doing in there?” he demanded. “Retiling around the tub?” I said yes, but that I was almost finished. The next time my mother came to the door she jiggled the knob so much I thought it was going to fall off. “You know, your dad can always go in the bushes,” she shouted. “But that isn’t an option all of us have.” After that, every few minutes, one or the other of them would let me know the aggregate time that I’d “been in there” so far. I kept shouting back that I wouldn’t be much longer, I was being as fast as I could, but of course the pressure of having them baying and pawing the ground in the hall made it all that much worse. I became confused. I dropped things. I got lipstick on my teeth, and then put so much on my mouth that I looked like I was running away to join the circus. Which was beginning to seem like it might not be such a bad idea. When I was finally as done as I was going to get, I yelled, “Bathroom free!” and raced to my room before either of them saw me. I put on one of ZiZi’s sundresses. She’d loaned me three pairs of shoes – sandals that kept your feet a good four inches out of the sand, pumps and flats. The pumps fit best; I stuck them in my bag to change into when I got to her house and wore my trainers on the walk there.

  By the time I was ready to leave, my parents had returned to the kitchen and were finishing brunch and reading the papers. Alice and Gertie were curled up in the sunshine on the windowsill behind them. Everyone looked over when I came into the room. Only Alice and Gertie didn’t seem a little surprised; but they rely more on smell and sound than sight and I’d drawn the line at fragrance.

  “Do we know you?” My mother peered over the top of her glasses. “You do look familiar. Maybe you were at that fundraiser for the hospital last year?” My mother may be a yoga teacher but she mistakenly thinks she’s a comedian as well. “Didn’t you sing a song? What was it?” She pursed her lips around an invisible straw, a gesture that apparently helps her think. “Was it something from Rodgers and Hammerstein?”

  I’m not actually familiar with the Rodgers and Hammerstein songbook but, knowing my mother, she was thinking of a song that was a paradigm of sexism. I said, “You should stick to your asanas and leave the jokes to the professionals.”

  “So, this is serious,” said my father. “You and ZiZi are really going to change places? Is it because you always wanted siblings? Is that what this is about?”

  “We’re not changing places, Dad. We’re merely swapping images. In a general sort of way.”

  “Swapping images,” he repeated. “We used to swap baseball cards when I was a boy. Of course, those were simpler times.” He laid his paper on the table. “And you’re doing this why?”

  Do everyone’s parents make them sigh the way mine make me sigh? “Because it’s Summer and we’ll be bored with no classes to go to. We could do drugs or steal cars, but we figured this would be amusing and keep us out of jail.”

  My father pretended to laugh. “What’s the real reason?”

  “I told you, Dad. Because I think ZiZi limits herself by being too girly, and she thinks I limit myself by not being girly enough. It’s an experiment.”

  “Interesting…” My father nodded. “Very interesting. I was reading an article on gender studies recently that you might want to take a look at.”

  “Maybe later,” I said. “When our results are in.”

  “Of course. That makes sense.” My father has a work smile and a family smile; he gave me the work one. “I have to admit that I never expected to see you look like…”

  My father’s paid to talk; it’s not often that he can’t find a word.

  “Like what?” I prompted.

  “Like you look. It’s a big change.” He picked up his paper and shook it out. “I’d say you’re lucky you have ZiZi to advise you.”

  Which seemed to me the same as saying you’re lucky it was a doctor who ran you over.

  “I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t have ZiZi.”

  “Well, she’s done a good job,” judged my mother.

  My father said, “She certainly has.” He said it with enthusiasm.

  “Maybe she should be a stylist to the stars,” said my mother. “Or a make-up artist. She obviously has a real talent.”

  “Indeed she does,” said my father. “What you have here is a very expert makeover.”

  Stylist to the stars… Expert makeover… This was all completely bizarre and out of character for my parents. They’re professional people whose tastes tend more towards serious drama than celebrity reality shows. When did they stop reading specialist journals and start reading gossip magazines?

  I gazed at their smiling faces. My parents liked ZiZi and had always encouraged our friendship. I’d thought that was because they saw in her what I saw; a girl with a lot of potential who just needed someone to shove her in the right direction. Or drag her, kicking and screaming, if necessary. This was the first time it occurred to me that I might have been wrong. That they’d hoped ZiZi would influence me; that even though they’d be proud when I became a theoretical physicist, they’d be happier if I was a theoretical physicist who looked like a girl.

  When I got to the Abruzzios’ it was Obi who answered the door. He was eating a bagel with cream cheese and jam. Grape jam, at a wild guess. Chewing slowly, he stared at me for a few thoughtful seconds, as if he’d never seen me before. “Yeah?” I asked for ZiZi. He looked into the house and hollered, “ZiZi! There’s some girl here for you!”

  From the kitchen, ZiZi shouted back, “Oh, for God’s sake, Obi. That’s not some girl, that’s Loretta. I told you she was coming. Shut up and let her in.”

  Obi turned to me, and stared as if he was an astronomer and I was a new planet. “Wow,” said Obi. “You look really different.”<
br />
  I stepped inside. “You look different, too. I’m not used to seeing you with cream cheese and jam all over your face.”

  The Abruzzios were sitting around the kitchen table. ZiZi’s family has few things in common with mine, but Sunday brunch is one of them. They obviously had been briefed about today’s venture because Gina and Frank smiled and said hello in a casual, normal way. Nate said, “Hi,” but didn’t look up from the crossword he was doing.

  “I won’t be long, Lo.” ZiZi held up her mug. “I’m just fortifying myself with caffeine before we go.”

  “Maybe Loretta would like a coffee,” said Gina.

  All his attention on filling in Seven Down, Nate said, “Maybe Loretta’d rather have a tea.” He finally looked up. “You know she—” He couldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d been dressed in an army uniform with a rifle slung over my shoulder. His pencil clattered to the floor.

  Clearly, this was a day for people acting very bizarrely; first my parents and now Nate. Nate and I always got on well. If anything, I thought of him as the big brother I’d never had. We both loved motorcycles, Kurt Vonnegut and sourdough pretzels.

  Nate resurfaced with his pencil.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He nodded. “It’s just, you know…” He laughed. “I guess I didn’t know you had legs.”

  ZiZi’s mug banged onto the table. “You’ll have to excuse my brothers, Loretta. I’m afraid they’re both idiots.” She stood up. She was wearing an old pair of jeans and one of my T-shirts. It was kind of like looking in a mirror, except that her eyes aren’t brown, her nose is smaller and her eyebrows are unusually straight – and she has more chest. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they say something else to embarrass their parents.”