Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  But Bradford has apparently had enough. “I’m going upstairs to change,” he says, putting an end to the proceedings. “See you later, Sara. Have a good shoot.”

  I go into the kitchen to collect the props I need for today’s show. I’m finally allowed to use the Food Network’s mixing bowls, and if I do well today, next week I get a time-share on the Cuisinart. Everything gathered, I head outside to go to the train station. But James is waiting for me by his car—an energy-conserving, environmentally-friendly Toyota hybrid Prius. The same model Jennifer Aniston drives when she’s not tooling around the Hollywood Hills in her gas-guzzling SUV.

  “Can I give you a lift into the city?” James asks.

  “No thanks,” I say, hesitant to get in the car with him. “I’m short on time. I’ll take the train.”

  “I can get you there faster,” James says. And then he gives me a wry, knowing smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t go off track. I finally know how to stay on course and end up where I want.”

  Okay, I hear him. And I decide to join him. The show starts taping in less than an hour and my prop bag is heavy. “If where you want to get is Ninth Avenue,” I say, “I’m with you. Let’s go.”

  For today’s show, Kirk and I make a key lime pie. Or at least our version of it. After the success of our Chocolate Surprise, we’ve learned that America loves anything with packaged marshmallows, gooey chocolate, or gumdrops. Preferably all three. So our pie includes a creative crust of Kit Kat bars and a filling healthy with fruit Skittles. Lime ones, of course. As usual, network president Ken Chablis is beside himself with joy. Or maybe he’s just on a sugar high.

  “You two are brilliant,” says Ken, gobbling down a hefty slice of pie after the shoot. “This crust! Pure genius!”

  I’ve heard there are eight new ways to measure intelligence, but who knew that choosing Kit Kat bars over Snickers was one of them.

  “Sara’s the genius,” says Kirk. Which isn’t exactly true. He’s the one who suggested we do an international recipe next week. We’re using Swedish fish.

  “This show’s doing so well, I have a big surprise for you,” Ken says, now scooping more of the pie directly from the serving dish. “I’m putting you both on a bus.”

  Berni’s really slipping. A limo might be a lot to ask, but couldn’t she at least get us a Town Car?

  “A whole ad campaign,” Ken goes on, explaining. “Pictures of you two on every bus going down Lexington Avenue. Keep up your numbers and we’ll move over to Madison Avenue, too.”

  Ken licks some Kit Kat crust off his fingers, and Kirk gives me a secretive thumbs up. He doesn’t want Ken to see that even a big soap star is excited about having his face plastered on the M101 that regularly passes by Bloomingdale’s. With the possibility, if all goes well, of being upgraded to the Barney’s line.

  “An ad campaign. Terrific!” I say, wondering how my crow’s feet will look blown up to poster size. Or if getting rid of them will deplete the world’s supply of airbrushing.

  “Photo shoot’s the Tuesday after next,” Ken says. “You two are so fabulous. You’re going to look amazing.” He starts to walk out, then turns around. “Sara, we should do something about your hair color before the shoot. My treat. You can expense it. Shouldn’t be more than nine dollars. Why don’t you stop by Duane Reade and pick up the L’Oréal Preference.”

  My preference would be to keep my own color. But when Ken leaves, my hands fly instinctively to my hair, which I long ago convinced myself was shiny brown, not mousy. Now I’m not so sure. Kirk comes over and tousles a few curls. “It wouldn’t hurt to put some highlights in,” he says, kindly. “I’ll take you to my guy, Phillip.”

  I study Kirk’s spiky blond hair, which looks like it comes from long afternoons surfing. Though now it occurs to me that there’s not a beach around, and Kirk spends most of his days under hot lights, not hot sun, anyway.

  “You’re an actor,” I tell him. “I’m an art teacher. The only color I do is on poster board.”

  “Hey, you’re a big-time TV star now,” Kirk teases. “You even have a beauty budget.”

  “And how many strands of hair will your guy dye for nine bucks?”

  “Don’t worry, he owes me a favor,” Kirk says with a laugh. “I fixed him up with Roger, the makeup artist on our soap, and they’ve been together ever since.”

  Hair and makeup in one family? I hope they adopt because their kids will have everything.

  Half an hour later, I’m sitting in a chair in Phillip’s salon as he’s telling me how lucky I am that I got here in time. And I don’t think he means before his next appointment.

  “I can’t imagine how they let you on TV this way,” he says, as he paints a smelly white concoction onto chunks of my hair and methodically wraps them in tinfoil. “When I’m done, you’ll finally look like you.”

  “And who did I look like before?” I ask.

  “Ugh, darling, don’t make me say,” Phillip insists, shaking his head and wanting to spare me the pain.

  Kirk has taken the opportunity of our little salon excursion to have another colorist tend to his eyebrows. Which, I find out, he likes to have exactly two shades darker than the lightest spike in his hair. This is a whole new world. I barely remember to tweeze my eyebrows, and now I’m finding out that people dye them. And that’s the least of my discoveries.

  “I want my pubic hair very, very blonde,” says a woman’s voice from across the salon.

  Pubic hair? I look into the mirror and notice a scrimmed-in area behind me. Is nothing left untouched? Are there no virgin areas anymore?

  “I want it white-blonde, not yellow-blonde,” the woman directs loudly. “Whatever you do, no red.”

  And why no red? Lucille Ball had plenty of admirers. But this is a woman who’s taking color-coordination to a new level. Bad enough to be her hair stylist, I’d hate to be her housepainter.

  Hearing her demands, Phillip chuckles. “One of our more difficult clients,” he whispers to me, wrapping another chunk of my hair. “She’s trying to get her ex-husband back. I can only imagine what else she’s trying.”

  “This has to be perfect!” the woman commands arrogantly. “I’m not leaving until it’s right.”

  It sounds like she should be worrying about her personality, not her shade of pubic hair. But then again, what would I know? Until today the only highlighter I used was a pink one to underline my textbooks.

  “I have a big theater date tomorrow night,” says the woman. “And it’s going to end in bed.”

  I clutch the arms of my chair and half stand up. I suddenly realize who the pubic-dyer really is.

  “Mimi!” I hiss.

  Kirk comes over, his eyebrows now a dreamy sun-kissed shade.

  “Mimi,” I repeat again in a panic.

  Kirk immediately recognizes the name from the hot tub, and not being a stranger to soap operas, he understands we have a little drama on our hands. He pulls the scrim around my chair. “Just talk softly and she’ll never know you’re here,” he counsels. “You’re safe.”

  Safe from being spotted. But will I ever really be safe from the conniving Mimi? First she leaves and breaks Bradford’s heart. Now she wants to steal it back. And break mine.

  Kirk puts his hands on my shoulders, currently covered by a brown plastic cape, and rubs them gently. “You’re the star and Mimi’s the wannabe,” he says reassuringly. “And not just on TV. In life. No matter what she does, Mimi can’t possibly compete with you.”

  Phillip picks up the drift. “Don’t worry, honey,” he adds supportively. “I’ve seen her pubic hair. You have nothing to worry about.” And then he turns to Kirk. “But if there’s a competition going on, I should make Sara a little blonder than we planned, right?”

  “Right,” says Kirk.

  And blonde is what I am, when Kirk and I are finally ready to leave the salon almost two hours later.

  “Is it too much?” I ask, taking a final glance in the mirror and trying to figure o
ut how the person looking back could be me.

  “No it’s perfect,” says Phillip. “I used Marilyn Monroe base and Madonna highlights and a little Reese Witherspoon thrown in for good measure.”

  With all that talent going for me, maybe I should set my sights higher than a cooking show.

  By the time we step outside, the sun is going down and it’s magic time in New York, when the city glistens and a strange silence seems to descend. You can almost feel a pause in the usually manic bustle—the sea of Saturday shoppers have gone home and the night people haven’t come out yet.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Kirk says, taking in the city and the last rays of sun gleaming from the art deco spires of the Chrysler Building. “Let’s grab something to eat.”

  I’m starved. I didn’t even have a bite of the key lime pie we made—not that I wanted one. The last thing I remember eating today was a handful of Skittles.

  “Thanks, but I should get home to Bradford,” I say.

  “So you can warn him about his predatory ex?” asks Kirk.

  “No, I don’t want to talk to him about Mimi. I’ve been there, done that,” I say. “It just ends in a fight.”

  “How can I help? Want me to play detective tomorrow and follow them after the theater?”

  “Not a bad idea. But how about an even bigger favor. Why don’t you just marry her.”

  Kirk laughs. “I’m not sure even that would get her off your backs.”

  I think about it for a minute and realize that in a way he’s right. No matter what happens, Mimi’s going to be part of our lives forever. I have to decide to get used to that—or not.

  “Come on, let’s be wild,” Kirk urges. “My regular hangout is two blocks away.”

  I give in, figuring that if I don’t eat now I’ll be munching potato chips all the way home on the train. “Okay,” I say. “A quick bite.”

  Kirk’s hangout turns out to be an unassuming coffee shop with standard booths, a two-tone linoleum floor, and some fifties-looking fixtures. But from the lanky, long-legged women and buff-bodied men draped languidly around the room, I can tell Kirk isn’t the only actor-model type who calls this place his own. The drop-dead gorgeous hostess, who probably bothers with this job only when Vogue hasn’t called, gives Kirk a welcoming hug. She leads us to a table, and as she drops the menus in front of us, she actually smiles at me. “Great hair color,” she says. “Who did it?”

  “Phillip,” Kirk answers for me.

  “Should have guessed,” the hostess says, tossing back her own waist-length blonde hair and walking away.

  We order omelets and a carafe of wine and I touch my hair self-consciously.

  “I’m still not sure about this color,” I say, stretching a lock of hair in front of my face so I can see how yellow it really is. “I thought it would be a little more subtle.”

  “It looks amazing,” says Kirk. And to prove it, he beckons over some of his buddies for a straw poll about my straw-colored hair. “What do you think?” he asks each of them. When the comments are in and the ballots are counted I have three “Fabulous!”, two “Phillip definitely outdid himself!” and one “Very glamorous. Even for an older woman.”

  “Not bad,” Kirk says, pleased. And I have to admit that a vote of confidence from this crowd can’t be all bad. Even the remark about my being an older woman doesn’t bother me. At least I was called “glamorous” by a stud who couldn’t be a day over eighteen.

  Kirk’s pals pull their chairs over to our table, telling funny stories from on and off the set. I’m laughing and enjoying myself, and somehow our quick bite turns into a whole night. I call home a couple of times, and when nobody picks up, I leave a message on the machine that I’m running late. And then it gets even later than I’d planned, because when I finally rush over to Grand Central, I miss the train to Hadley Farms by about forty seconds.

  “Can you wait?” I scream, dashing down the platform as the whistle blows and the train starts to pull away. But the commuter train waits for no man or woman. Even a blonde one. Frustrated, I head back into the mostly deserted station. By now, only Starbucks is open. What the heck, I’ll eat again. Given that it’s Saturday night, the next train won’t come for an hour. So much for my thirty-eight-minute commute.

  When I finally stumble in the front door of our house, it’s close to midnight and I’m tired and irritable. But nothing compared to Bradford.

  “Where were you?” he asks, putting down his Financial Times when I walk into the bedroom.

  “In the city,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “Seems like it took a long time to shoot a thirty-minute show.”

  “I went out with Kirk afterwards to get something to eat. Then I missed the stupid train,” I say, too tired to give a more amiable explanation.

  “Where’d you go to eat?”

  “What difference does it make?” I snap, wondering why he’s grilling me. And realizing that for once, the shoe is on the other foot. Bradford’s not used to sitting home waiting for me.

  “I just wondered,” he says. “You spent the morning with James and the rest of the day with Kirk. Any other dates I missed?”

  Whoops. Apparently it’s not just the shoe that’s on the other foot. It’s a whole boot.

  “I did have a little rendezvous with someone named Phillip,” I say, trying to be lighthearted.

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?” Bradford asks, looking down again at his newspaper. There must be something fascinating going on with corn futures since he seems captivated by the headlines.

  “I did spend time with a Phillip,” I say, now more annoyed myself. “He’s a hairdresser. And you’d know what I meant if you’d put down that paper and look at me.”

  Bradford does just that—though not to the effect I’d hoped.

  “You’re right, your hair. What have you done to yourself?” he asks unhappily, clearly not casting his vote with either “Fabulous!” or “Very glamorous.” And I’m not about to ask him how he feels about “Older woman.”

  “I did it for the TV show,” I tell him defensively. “And everyone else I saw tonight thought I looked gorgeous.”

  Bradford fixes me with a long stare. “The TV show. Kirk. James. Phillip. I don’t get it, Sara. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know who you are anymore.”

  “Just because I’m blonde?” I ask, trying not to get upset. “This will grow out. It’s still me underneath.”

  “Is it?” he asks. “All of a sudden, you’re a TV star, running around the city all night. The woman I fell in love with was a down-to-earth art teacher. Funny and fun and in love with me.”

  “I still am,” I say. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  Bradford pauses. “Because you seem to be moving ahead with everything in your life except me. If you really want us to start our lives together, why aren’t you planning the wedding?”

  Now I could use a Financial Times to study. Because Bradford’s probably right. I’m terrified about the thought of getting married again. But I can’t admit that, so I go on the offensive. “You could plan the damn wedding, too,” I say. “Calling florists and picking the table linen isn’t for me. I never know what I want.”

  “When it comes to not knowing what you want, I think we’re talking about more than table linen,” Bradford shoots back. “It’s hard to keep up with what you’re thinking. First you accuse me of being too friendly with Mimi. Next thing I know James is hanging around.”

  “That was your idea,” I say. “You’re the one who thinks we should all be chummy with our exes.”

  “And Kirk? How does he fit into this little picture?” he snipes. “Hanging around in our hot tub.”

  “Let me remind you who else was in our hot tub,” I snipe back. “Or maybe I should say ‘your’ hot tub.”

  “What does that mean?”

  That stops me for a moment, since I don’t actually know. So instead, I go for the kill.

  “Your lovely Mimi has been busy preparin
g for her theater date with you tomorrow. She spent the afternoon dying her pubic hair.”

  Now Bradford’s the one who stops. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “It doesn’t matter but you’ll find out tomorrow that I’m right.”

  “Meaning that you still think I’m sleeping with her,” Bradford says accusingly. “Here we go again. No matter what I say you’ll never trust me. And I’ve got to tell you my trust’s being a little tested these days, too.”

  Our tempers are rising and so are our voices. If Skylar’s within earshot she’s probably breaking her arm patting herself on the back. I take a deep breath and try to be reasonable.

  “You were the one who said we have complicated lives. Did you mean just yours?” I ask, sounding angry and not quite as calm and reasonable as I’d hoped.

  “Maybe this whole thing has gotten too complicated for both of us,” Bradford says, slamming his fist into his Financial Times hard enough to rip through half a dozen pages. He grabs what’s left of the paper. “I’ll spend the night in the study,” he says. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “You already have,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. I’m so angry that I can’t wait for him to get out and leave me alone. But if he really loved me, wouldn’t he realize how upset I am and come over to comfort me?

  He stands at the door for a moment, possibly equally torn. But his anger wins out. “One more thing,” he says, “You look ridiculous. You weren’t meant to be a blonde.”

  The door slams behind him and I can’t help myself anymore. I fall onto the bed crying. My whole body is shaking and I crumple the king size pillow, burying my head into it to muffle my sobs. In a minute it’s soaked through with my tears.

  “Maybe I wasn’t meant to be your wife, either,” I whisper. But there’s no one next to me in the bed to hear.

  Chapter TWELVE

  I WAKE UP early the next morning, but Bradford and Skylar have already left. Dylan heads off soon afterward because today is Community Service day for his second-grade class, and the children are supposed to be helping the poor. Since there are no actual poor in Hadley Farms, they’ve settled for helping the middle class by planting bulbs in front of the Wal-Mart in the next county. I tried to volunteer for the outing, but so did every other mother in the class who’s trying to prove to her kid—and herself—that she’s the Best Parent in Town. I worked hard on the three-hundred-word essay “What I Can Contribute as a Chaperone,” but I didn’t even make the waiting list.