Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks

by Lauren Myracle

  “Um, actually . . .” I start.

  Toni lifts her eyebrows.

  “I’m not sure, you know, that, um . . .” I flounder, because I don’t want to hurt the cute stylist’s feelings. Not that he’s listening. He’s shutting off the blow-dryer and giving his client one last hair fluff.

  “Beautiful,” he says in an accent I can’t identify.

  The girl smiles.

  “Listen, Carly,” Dad says. “Unless you’re willing to pay the difference, you’re getting the bargain matinee.”

  The girl’s getting up, and the stylist is brushing off the chair to prepare for the next client.

  “Fine,” I say, because (a) I don’t have fifty dollars, and (b) what the heck? Maybe it’ll be great. Maybe the New Talent guy will be even better than Toni.

  “Have fun,” Mom says. “I’m going to Sephora. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Toni ushers me over to the salon chair while Anna and Dad take a seat in the waiting area.

  “Carly, this is Kazim,” Toni says.

  Kazim takes my hand and gives a slight bow. He’s even hotter up close. “Pleased to meet you,” he says.

  “Kazim, I am proud to announce, is as of this moment one of my premier stylists,” Toni says. “Excellent job with Nicolette, Kazim. Very, very nice.”

  Kazim flicks the name tag clipped to his shirt, which says stylist-in-training. “Does this mean I can finally throw this away?”

  Toni laughs. “No, just pass it on to Jerr.” She raises her voice. “Jerr, are you ready for your first-ever client?”

  Kazim’s not cutting my hair? Kazim’s going away? I look around for this Jerr, my heart pounding.

  A chubby girl who looks like she should still be in high school emerges from the back room.

  “Am I ever!” Jerr says. Her own hair is long in the front and short in the back, teased up to look like duck fluff.

  She bounces over, pumps my hand. “I am so excited, I can’t even tell you. Do you know how boring it is cutting hair on mannequins? I mean, it’s all part of the process, life’s a journey, I know. But it’s going to be so different on a real live person.” She giggles. “And no, my grandma doesn’t count.”

  Oh no. Jerr scares me—I want Kazim!—but how am I supposed to get out of it now? Jerr will think I changed my mind just from seeing her. The fact that it’s true doesn’t make it any better.

  Okay, breathe, I tell myself. There’s no reason Jerr won’t be just as fabulous as Kazim, despite her teased hair. I glance at Anna for reassurance, but Anna’s eyes are wide, and she mouths the word run!

  I glare. Not helpful.

  Jerr chatters endlessly as she washes my hair, combs out the tangles, and gives me a head massage so rough that I feel like one of those Bozo the Clown punching-bag dolls. I grip the chair for balance.

  “Now,” she says. “What are we doing today?” She lifts my damp hair. “You have a lot of heaviness here. Should we go shorter? Maybe a bob?”

  “Like that girl before me? You could do that?”

  “It would look awesome. You want to add some highlights, too?”

  My spirits pick up. I glance at Dad to make sure he’s not listening—he’s not, he’s absorbed in his New York Times—and say, “I really liked that blue.”

  “Hmm,” Jerr says. “Problem is, your hair’s so dark. We’ll have to lighten it up first, lift some of that color out. Hey, you know what would be really cute?”

  “What?”

  “Do a base color underneath, maybe a deep auburn, and then bring the top layer several shades lighter. A honey blond, maybe?”

  Me, a blonde? Blond is for Peyton, blond is for Anna. Blond is the color of conformity.

  If I had auburn underneath, though, I wouldn’t be conforming, since I wouldn’t actually be a blonde. . . .

  “You really think it would look good?”

  “Oh my God,” Jerr says. “With your brown eyes? Amazing.”

  Honey blond with auburn underneath. A short flippy bob with fun colors for the first day of school.

  Just do it, part of me says. Do you want to be a free spirit or not?

  The wimpier part of me says, But do you really want to free your spirit with Jerr? Jerr is wearing a miniskirt with holes cut in the front to show her thighs. The pendant hanging from her necklace is a giant rhinestone cherry. You don’t like Jerr’s own hair, and you want her to radically change yours?

  Then starts the endless back-and-forth of me against me, because I do that. I overanalyze things. I worry that I want the right things for the wrong reasons, or the wrong things for the right reasons, or even—perhaps most often—the wrong things for the wrong reasons.

  The wheels in my brain spin like this:

  Jerr is . . . kinda redneck.

  So you’re going to judge her for not being all perfect preppy Buckhead? She’s not wearing tiny printed whales, after all. Doesn’t that count for anything?

  She kinda scares me.

  Because you’re a big fat weenie, that’s why. Because you talk the talk, but you can’t walk the walk.

  Yeah . . . but getting an un-Holy Roller haircut can hardly be considered social protest.

  But it is rebelling against the norm. Isn’t something better than nothing?

  I could go on like this for eons, and probably would, except that Jerr cuts off my internal debate by saying, “So whaddaya think?” She can’t stop lifting and stroking my hair.

  Toni wouldn’t have hired her if she wasn’t good, I tell myself. So even though the increasingly panicked voice of self-preservation says, No! Don’t do it! You’ll regret it!, I throw caution to the wind and say, “Sure, why not?”

  Forty-five minutes later, I have the answer to my question. In fact, I have multiple answers to my question.

  Why not do a total hair makeover with Jerr? Well, because:

  1. the “auburn” underlayer could turn out as bright as a fire engine;

  2. the “blond” top layer could end up the color of early-morning urine; and

  3. my bangs could end up completely uneven and way too short, as in an entire inch above my eyebrows. And completely uneven. Did I mention completely uneven?

  Put them all together, and the answer to “why not?” is BECAUSE JERR IS THE ANTICHRIST AND SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED NEAR HAIR.

  Of course I say none of this because I’m in shock as I stare at my reflection. I am in shock, and Jerr needs to go back to beauty school . . . or better yet, Antarctica. Or I should go to Antarctica. Maybe the penguins would be nice to me out of a sense of two-toned commiseration.

  Who am I kidding? Even the penguins would flap off in squawking terror.

  “All done,” Jerr chirps, whipping off my cape. “I love it. Do you love it?”

  I gape at her. Is she insane? Like, truly insane, to the degree that she honestly likes what she sees? Or is she attempting to brainwash me while I’m in a state of shock in the hopes that I won’t burst into tears until I’m out of the salon?

  Mom returns as I’m climbing numbly from the chair. When she sees me, she blinks in dismay. Anna, whose eyes have grown progressively more alarmed with every step of my “new look,” hops up and hurries to her, and there’s a quick exchange of whispers. Mom hesitates, then nods. Anna approaches Dad.

  “Hey, Daddy?” she says.

  He puts down his paper. “Ye-e-ess?” He draws it out as if he’s indulging her by giving her his attention. “Isn’t it your turn to get your hair cut?”

  “Well, um, Mom and I thought maybe we should go on to dinner. And come back another day?”

  Dad turns to Mom. “Maureen?”

  “The girls are hungry,” she says faintly.

  Dad’s gaze sweeps over me, and his face slackens. “Good Lord.”

  I fast-walk past him out of the salon, a lump rising in my throat. Anna hurries after me.

  “Carly—” she says.

  “I look hideous,” I say as soon as I’m outside. “You don’t need to tell me.”
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  “But . . . why did you . . .”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say fiercely.

  Once the four of us are in the car, however, my misery bursts free. “Dad, why did you make me go to her?”

  “Me?!” Dad says, as if it’s news to him that I hold him responsible.

  “My appointment was with Toni,” I say. “Toni would never have done . . .” I search for appropriate disaster words. There are none. “This.”

  “Carly,” Mom says, “did you and . . . that stylist . . .”

  “Jerr,” Anna supplies.

  “Did you discuss the look you were going for?”

  I scowl. Blame it on me, sure.

  Mom twists in her seat to face me. “It’s just . . . it’s probably not a good idea to try something so drastic with a new stylist.”

  “Well, yeah!” I say. I’m floored by the unjustness of it, and I flop back against my seat. If Dad hadn’t been such a cheapskate with my hair, I would still look like a relatively normal person instead of an escaped mental patient.

  Anna’s hand snakes across the middle seat to find mine, but I jam both my hands beneath my thighs. What really sucks is that all I wanted was . . . I don’t know. To make an outward gesture that said, Yes. I will hold on to myself. I will not be afraid, and I will not be a clone.

  And look where it got me.

  “I didn’t want new talent,” I mutter, my words aimed at Dad. “You made me, just like you always do when it comes to saving money. You care more about deals than you do about us.”

  Dad’s jaw tightens. “Enough.”

  “I didn’t say anything, Daddy,” Anna says in a small voice.

  Traitor.

  “Carly, your hair isn’t as bad as you think,” Mom says.

  “It really isn’t.” Anna falters.

  I glare at her. She recoils.

  “How is this my fault?” she whispers.

  “It just is,” I snap.

  “Girls,” Dad warns.

  I blast hate waves at Anna through pure force of will. Anna can feel it; I know because I can feel her feeling it. I’m glad.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HOW DO YOU GET A HAIRY-LEGGED BLONDE OUT OF THE BATHROOM?

  At Slummy Peachtree, people stare at me. I can feel them, all the perfect mommies and daddies and little girls in smocked dresses. All the tennis-toned grandmothers with Botox and stylish haircuts that look a heck of a lot better than mine.

  Dad tells us we can order anything we want, and I think, Ooo, such a big man. Is this his idea of a peace offering?

  Anna orders a Diet Coke and the Chinois salad. I order water.

  “Very good,” our server says. He carefully avoids looking at my hair. “And what to eat?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just water.”

  Dad exhales through his nose, and I can tell Mom is exasperated. With her eyes, she says, All right, Carly. If you want to go hungry, you can go hungry.

  Blah, blah, blah, I silently say back to her. I make a face, but only in my head.

  The sun slants through the windows, and the muted thump of tennis balls echoes from the courts outside. Mom and Dad discuss where they should take their next vacation: Paris or Italy. Anna glances at me every so often, but leaves me alone. Minutes tick by, and my anger turns into something cold and bleak. I’m a lump on a chair. I’ll never be happy again.

  Our food comes, and Anna offers to share her salad.

  “No, thanks.” Sometimes I wonder if I’m manic-depressive and should be on drugs. Sometimes life seems so great, and other times, it just sucks.

  I turn to Anna, and her features loosen, as if she’s relieved I’m letting her in. “What am I going to do?” I ask. “School starts in three days.”

  She bites her lip as she looks at my hair. “There’s got to be some way to fix it.”

  “It’s piss blond, Anna. My hair is the color of piss.”

  “Not all of it.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “The red is kind of cool,” Anna says tentatively.

  Yeah, whatever. “And my bangs? They’re grotesque. I’m grotesque. I would terrify penguins.”

  “Your bangs are bad,” Anna admits. She tilts her head. “You could even them up, maybe? Turn them into microbangs?”

  “I would look so stupid with microbangs. More stupid than usual, even.”

  “You never look stupid,” she says. “This might not be your best-ever haircut—”

  I snort.

  “—but, Carly, you’re still pretty.”

  “Yeah, right. Pretty like a pee stain.”

  She lets out a tiny giggle.

  Dad turns his head. “You’re not still griping about your hair, are you?”

  My cheeks burn, because his tone makes me feel this small.

  “Think of it this way,” he says. “You want to be different, right? Well, now you are.”

  Tears well and overflow, and dammit, I don’t want him to see me cry. I push back from the table and run for the bathroom.

  “Ted,” I hear Mom chide.

  “What?” Dad says. “She’s blowing this way out of proportion.”

  Screw you, I say in my head. You’re a jerk, and I’m allowed to be upset, and you can’t control me. I’m not your puppet. I reach the ladies’ bathroom and stumble inside. Stupid, ugly sobs choke out, and I hate it, I hate myself for being so powerless, and I swear to myself that I will never make my kids feel like they’re weak for having feelings.

  You wanted to be different and now you are, you ridiculous girl who blows things out of proportion.

  Anna comes into the bathroom, which is actually an apartment-size lounge with carpet and chairs and spray cans of air freshener. She comes straight to the leather sofa where I’m sitting and wraps her arms around me.

  “Why does he do that?” I say. I cry into her shoulder. “Why does he treat me like . . . like . . . a stupid little kid?”

  “I don’t think he means to,” she says.

  “Well, he does!”

  “I know.”

  “Does he want me to hate him? Does he want me to grow up and never have anything to do with my family again?”

  A shift in her muscles communicates her distress. “You’d still like me.”

  I take a shuddery breath. I swipe my hand under my nose and say, “Yeah. We could have Thanksgiving together and not invite him.”

  “Would we invite Mom?”

  “She wouldn’t come if he didn’t.”

  The ladies’ room door swushes open, and there Mom is. My cheeks heat up, wondering if she heard.

  “Oh, Carly,” Mom says, and I start crying again.

  Anna keeps hugging me, and I’m grateful, because Mom stopped hugging me long ago.

  “Your dad didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she tells me.

  Uh-huh, sure. That’s why he made a joke out of my pain.

  “He shouldn’t have made me switch to new talent in the first place,” I say through my tears.

  “Well . . .” She presses her lips together, and I know she’s thinking that Dad may have loaded the gun, but I pulled the trigger.

  “I’ll take you back to the salon tomorrow,” Mom says. “We’ll see if Toni can’t figure something out.”

  I keep crying. My throat is so full of tears, it hurts.

  “It is just hair, Carly.”

  “I’m not going back to Venus. I’m not going back anywhere where I have to see Jerr.”

  Mom sighs.

  “If you looked like this, would you?” I demand.

  Mom adjusts her purse. “Anna, let’s leave Carly alone for a bit. Let’s go eat our dinner, and Carly, you can join us when you’re ready.”

  Anna searches my face. I feel like a ghost with hollow eyes.

  “What if I’m never ready?” I say.

  “We’ll see you at the table,” Mom says firmly.

  Reluctantly, Anna gets to her feet. My body, where she just was, feels cold.

  They l
eave, and another woman enters. I get up quickly while she’s in a stall and go to the sink. I splash my face off and press a fluffy white hand towel to my skin, holding it there until I hear the lady flush, wash her hands, and go out. I lower the towel and gaze at my reflection.

  I’m a nightmare. I used to be pretty—or at least acceptable—and now I’m not. Now I’m a ridiculous girl with ridiculous hair.

  But Mom, Dad, and Anna are out there discussing me. I can’t stay in here forever.

  I smooth out my peace shirt and adjust my skirt. I lift one leg to tug my sandal strap back into place, and my forearm grazes my shin. My fuzzy, long-haired shin. I make a snap decision that has an angry feel to it, a so-there act of defiance.

  Though who am I defying? Myself?

  But going to school resembling a pee stain will make me different enough, thanks very much. Tonight I’ll take a long bath with one of the “bath bombs” Anna gave me for my birthday, which fizzes and fills the water with glittery stars and hearts. I’ll sit and soak, and soak some more. And then I’ll dig out my neglected razor and shave.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHY BE A BLONDE WHEN YOU COULD BE A BEIGE?

  Peyton sweet-talks her stylist, Frederic, into giving me an emergency appointment the following day, and he manages to make me look marginally better.

  I beg him to just redye my hair brown, but he says, “Sorry, sweet-heart. Your hair’s so overprocessed after what that girl did, I can’t even layer color on top. You’d be looking at whole hunks breaking off at the scalp, which is not what you want.”

  No, not what I want. But Frederic “tones the heck-a-doo out of the fried bits,” in his words, so now the top layer isn’t piss blond as much as just . . . beige. Which is what every girl secretly desires, of course.

  Frederic also textures my bangs with some kind of razor, so now they look intentionally short as opposed to “gee, cutting real hair is different from cutting a wig” short.

  All of this is something to be thankful for, I guess—just as I’m supposed to appreciate the fact that Dad called Toni from Venus and made a stink about my botched haircut.

  “He did it for you,” Mom tells me. “He told her, ‘My daughter bawled all night, which is unacceptable. I demand my money back.’”