Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  “Open your eyes.”

  “No.”

  The cameraman follows my every step.

  “Hmm. Not bad.” From Tricia, this is a ringing endorsement.

  “Come on, Betsy. Open your eyes,” LaRonda says.

  “Is the salesgirl gone?”

  “Yeah.” LaRonda laughs. “I think she was afraid of guilt by association.”

  “Okay, then.” Reluctantly, I open one eye the tiniest bit.

  Three-way mirrors are like God. You can’t escape anything about yourself when you’re standing in front of one. Shoot, they’re worse than God—they don’t forgive a single flaw. I’m still me, but… Dare I say it? I look semihot.

  “Yes, I think that will work.” Tricia sounds more convinced now that she’s had some time to study me like a bug under a microscope. “She needs heels, though, to give her legs a longer line.”

  LaRonda slips out of her mile-high sling-backs and hands them over. “Try these.”

  Why not complete my humiliation? But as I bend over to slip them on, I discover tight leather isn’t conducive to reaching your feet.

  “Here.” LaRonda kneels to help me into the shoes, and I turn back to the mirror. The addition of three inches to my height does perform a wonder akin to the parting of the Red Sea. The pants hang properly, and the blouse falls to just below my waist, mercifully short of my hips.

  “Wow.” Suddenly I’m voluptuous. The cameraman whistles, and I blush.

  “Excellent.” Tricia turns to the camera. “Now, for the next step…”

  “Next step? There are more steps?” Isn’t this enough humiliation for one day?

  Tricia frowns. “Hair. Makeup. The works.”

  “But I took a vacation day!”

  LaRonda puts an arm around my shoulders. “And what better way to spend it? What better way to get a certain lanky reverend to sit up and take notice?”

  My blush could be seen by the astronauts on the International Space Station. “Ronnie!”

  Tricia’s ears perk up like a Yorkshire terrier’s. “What’s this? Is there a potential romance we could exploit … er, I mean, nurture?” “No.” The whole thing has gone far enough. I’m not the leather type or the chiffon type. Or the David type. “That’s it. I’m done.”

  “No, you’re not.” LaRonda has a look of steely determination in her eyes. Tricia looks bewildered. The cameraman zooms in for a closeup of my answer.

  I cave.

  “New hairdo, then?” I squeak and slink back to the dressing room.

  Next, Tricia drags me to a salon where an eyebrow wax costs more than I spend on a shampoo, cut, and blow-dry. Granted, I usually walk into the nearest Cheap Cuts and have the next available stylist whack away at my hair. But at Exquisite, I’m swept into a den of luxury, as opposed to the previous den of iniquity where leather and see-through chiffon carried the day. In the dressing room I leave behind my faded black twill pants and gray sweater set. The salon’s terry robe barely closes in the front, and the huge embroidered E sits squarely on my generous left breast. I emerge with all the enthusiasm of a backslider returning to church.

  “First, exfoliation.” Tricia presses her palms together like the high priestess in a pagan temple. “The key to beautiful skin.”

  I’ve never exfoliated any part of me, at least not voluntarily. Though I suppose falling on the sidewalk outside the post office and taking the epidermis off both my knees might qualify.

  Tricia pushes me down a beige hallway and through a door into a room that looks like my dentist’s office. I look around for any sign of a drill.

  “Sit.” Tricia doesn’t spare many words for me, but she has plenty for the camera.

  “Years of neglect and outright abuse have left Reverend Blessing with the skin of a woman almost twice her age.”

  Twice my age! I rear up out of the chair, but a large woman appears from behind me and presses me back down.

  “Velcome to Exquisite, dar-link.” And with that exotic greeting, she attacks my face.

  Cattle are treated more humanely at slaughterhouses than this behemoth treats me. Wrap, slap, pain. It’s like hells version of lather, rinse, repeat. Exfoliation is akin to having your skin scrubbed with boric acid and a Brillo pad.

  “You’re glowing,” Tricia enthuses.

  “I’m not glowing. I’m bleeding.”

  “You’ll live,” LaRonda pronounces. She’s in the corner having her nails done. That’s the last I see of her, though. Hefty Gal drags me off for a massage.

  “You vill like zis. Make a new voman uf you.”

  “I like the old woman.”

  Wait a minute. That didn’t sound right.

  I have to admit, though, the massage feels pretty good. And the bruises should heal fairly quickly.

  “Zere.” Hefty Gal slaps my backside. “Now you are ready for Antoine.”

  “Antoine?”

  “Your hair shapist.”

  Shapist?

  “He vill shape your hair.”

  Into what? Triangles? “Do you mean cut my hair?”

  The look of horror on her face is a bit of recompense for the punishment she’s inflicted on me. “Here at Exquisite, vee do not butcher zee hair.”

  Somehow I doubt that.

  Once I meet Antoine, I miss Hefty Gal.

  He spins my chair away from the mirror so I can’t see myself. Antoine’s hair has been “shaped” by nature, but he’s fighting it with a bad comb-over. This is the man who will make me look like a supermodel?

  “Tsk, tsk” He fingers my hair as if dead eels are hanging from my scalp. “I can do nothing until the color is fixed.”

  “It’s my natural color.”

  “That is why we must fix it.”

  A new woman appears at my shoulder. Her hair is at least three distinct colors, none of which normally occur in nature. Where do they get these people? Central casting?

  “Hey, girl.” She pops her gum and joins Antoine in fingering the dead eels on my head. “Tricia got you here just in time.”

  I had no idea my hair was terminal, but apparently my very life has been in danger. That’s why twenty minutes later Nancy, the tri-colored colorist, is painting my hair with a smelly concoction and then wrapping it in tinfoil. When she’s done, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like E.T.’s less attractive cousin. LaRonda appears, admiring her new manicure.

  “Ronnie, is this normal?”

  She takes one look at me and bursts out laughing. “Well, it is for some people, but apparently not for you. Quit looking like you’re about to face a firing squad. Most women would enjoy this.”

  “Most women would have had enough sense of self-preservation to run away when all this started.”

  “Here.” Ronnie thrusts a cold diet drink into my hand. “Have some caffeine to take the edge off.”

  I comfort myself with the diet cola while a strange wheel rotates around my head, heating up the tinfoil until my scalp feels like its being stir-fried. Just when I think I’m about to spontaneously combust, Nancy rescues me.

  “Excellent.” She pulls the foil from my head with brisk efficiency. “Now you’re ready for Antoine.”

  But is anyone ever really ready for Antoine? He spins the chair around twice, again so I’m not facing the mirror, and pulls his scissors from a velvet-lined case. No kidding.

  “Now, we will bring out your cheekbones.” He takes a big hunk of hair from the side of my head and slices through it with the scissors.

  I bite back a scream. It’s too late now. I’ll have to let him do his worst. Maybe they can fix it at Cheap Cuts.

  Tricia has been interviewing Hefty Gal and Nancy the Color Girl. Now she swings back to me. “So, Reverend Blessing, how does it feel to be a work in progress?”

  “It’s great.” If my smile was any more wooden, they’d use me to build a bonfire at church camp.

  “And what about the special guy? What do you think he’ll think of all this?”

  “T
here’s nobody special,” I bite out. My jaw is now as wooden as my smile.

  “Now, Reverend Blessing, isn’t it a sin to tell a lie?”

  If I hurt this woman, will the cameraman get it on tape?

  “What’s next, Tricia?” I ask brightly to divert her.

  “Makeup. The finishing touch.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  Once I’ve let them paint me up like a strumpet, I can escape. I have plenty of Ponds Cold Cream and Suave shampoo at home. And lots of baggy sweats.

  Antoine still won’t let me see my hair, even when he’s done scalping me. Judging from the piles of curls on the floor around me, I’m going to look like the topiary in Edward Scissorhands. He dries my hair and uses a flat iron to straighten out any resistant natural curl. Then I’m off to another room in this warren of beauty, where an exotic Middle Eastern woman proceeds to smooth, pat, and powder a new face on top of my old one.

  “This will look heavy to you, but that’s for the cameras. For everyday, just use a lighter hand.”

  Since my hand is already featherweight when it comes to makeup, that shouldn’t be a problem.

  Makeup applied, I’m shoved back into the dressing room to shed my robe and don the leather/chiffon combo. Somewhere they’ve rounded up a pair of leather boots with four-inch heels for me to wear. The fact that they’re a size too small doesn’t seem to trouble anyone but me.

  “Come on, Betsy,” LaRonda calls through the door. “We want to see you.”

  Despite my resistance, I want to see myself. There’s no mirror in the dressing room (how odd is that?), so I’m going to be as surprised as everyone else.

  “Drumroll, please!” Tricia requests with a flourish, and I bravely step into the hallway.

  Stunned silence. I’ve heard it before, most notably after I preached my first sermon—possibly the worst homily in the history of Christian worship.

  “Is it that bad?” I hate the whimper in my voice.

  When I look at LaRonda, she has tears in her eyes. “Oh, Betsy.”

  Sweet Mary, I guess it is that bad.

  Slowly, I walk toward the mirror at the far end of the corridor. It takes a minute for me to absorb what I see.

  It’s me. Only it’s not. What I see in the mirror is a better version of me. What I could look like, with regular help from the modern miracle of cosmetology.

  My hair is three luscious shades, varying from blonde to brown. It falls in saucy layers, framing my face. Or is it my face? My eyes have new depth, new sparkle, and my skin glows. The clothes give me the attitude of a woman on her way to the hippest New York night club.

  And then I realize who I look like. Barbie. And suddenly I’m crying too. Because I both love and despise this image in the mirror. It’s every dream and every fear I’ve ever had, all rolled into one scary package.

  “Don’t cry!” shrieks Tricia. “You’ll ruin the makeup!”

  Who cares about ruining the makeup? These people have ruined my life. Because there’s no way, left to my own devices, that I will ever again look like the hottie I see reflected in the mirror. If I wanted to be reminded of how I always fall short, of what a disappointment I am in normal life, I could have called my mother so she could grill me about my marital prospects. I don’t need Tricia and her makeover to know that I’m only good enough if I’m someone other than the real Betsy.

  “I miss my sweater set,” I pout to LaRonda as we head for our cars. It’s easier to be petulant than honest with myself. “And leather pants chafe.”

  “Beauty is pain. Deal with it.” LaRonda gives me a quick hug. “Be ready Saturday night at seven. And be wearing that outfit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s when your date will pick you up.”

  “So you’re loaning me your brother?”

  “I think I owe it to you,” she says with sudden solemnity.

  I blink back tears. “No, Ronnie. You don’t owe me anything.”

  She frowns. “I thought a makeover would make you happy. Boost your confidence.”

  “It did. It did.” I always repeat myself when I’m telling a lie, an unfortunate verbal tic. “And you don’t have to drag James into this.”

  “He owes me. Besides, I think you two will enjoy each other.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Instead of answering, she gives me a quick hug. “I love you, Betz.”

  I hug her back. “I love you, too, Ronnie. Thanks for trying.”

  We wave to each other as we get into our cars, and I’m thankful to have a well-intentioned, if a bit misguided, friend who cares.

  So it’s Saturday night, Valentine’s Day, quarter till seven, and I’m stuffing myself into the leather pants. I briefly consider wearing my Doc Martens for comfort but decide that clunky man-shoes will draw LaRonda’s ire if she finds out about them. I work the zipper of the pants up, allow myself to breathe out, and go in search of a pair of black stilettos I once wore to a costume party. Naturally, they’re at the back of my closet. I wriggle my way past the solid wall of bland clothing hanging from the rod, pawing my way through the closet equivalent of leftovers at the back. I can’t breathe when I bend over in the leather pants. By the time I fish out the stilettos, my ears are ringing from lack of oxygen.

  No, that’s not my ears ringing; it’s the doorbell. My date is early. I sneak a quick peek in the mirror, fluff my new hairdo, slip on the stilettos, and teeter to the front door.

  My apartment is on the ground floor of a 1920s bungalow in a half-seedy, half-trendy neighborhood near Vanderbilt University. The old hardwood floors slope a good bit, so I decide to blame my unsteadiness on the tilt of the floor and not on my lack of skill with high heels. I reach the door, flip on the porch light, and pause with my hand on the knob. Even though I’ve met James a couple of times before, I’m nervous. I turn the knob and open the door.

  There, blinking in the bug-zapping yellow glow of my porch light, is David.

  “Whoa, Blessing. Check you out.” He’s laughing.

  “What do you want?” He’s always dropping by to use my DSL to surf the Internet because he’s too cheap to upgrade from dial-up. Maybe he forgot I told him I was busy tonight. Yeah, right. And maybe Mrs. Tompkins is my guardian angel in disguise.

  “Oh yeah. You have a date. I forgot about that.” Did he really? He looks über-cool, not at all concerned about my plans for the evening, but how weird is it that he would turn up like this?

  “He’ll be here in a minute. Did you want something?”

  I step back into the living room, and David follows me. He looks at his watch. “Are you running late?” He gives me the once over as impersonally as if he were selecting a pork chop at the grocery store. “You look ready to me.”

  A flush creeps up my neck and spreads across my cheeks, but it’s not embarrassment. I feel hot from head to toe, but not in a sexy way. In a volcanic way.

  “That’s all you have to say? I look ready?” My voice skips up a good third of an octave.

  David swallows, the universal signal from a male of the species when he realizes he’s messed up. “So, you’re not ready?” he asks cautiously. “You look fine to me.”

  “Fine? I look fine?” I am standing here in heels that a streetwalker would envy. I’m wearing leather pants, a see-through shirt, fashionably cropped and tousled hair, and discreet but helpful makeup. And the man whose casual touch has sent me into this torment says I look fine? Not fine as in “Hey, babe, you’re so hot,” but fine as in “Well, you’re no Gwyneth Paltrow, but you’ll do.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, you look weird.” David has apparently decided to go for broke in the compliment department.

  “Weird?”

  “Yeah. Not like you. You’re all … sexy and stuff.”

  From his tone of voice, I perceive this is not a good thing. Why do I not just take out my ego and spread it on the floor so he can more conveniently stomp on it?

  I toss my hair back, which I can do now than
ks to these new layers, and remember that I look hot. The good kind, not the temperature kind.

  I take two steps toward David until I’m standing an eyelash from him. With these heels on, I have a shot at looking him in the eye, tall geek-man that he is. He’s still wearing his clerical collar, which only emphasizes that he’s swallowing again. Hard.

  I lick my lips, and I swear to God it’s not intentional, but some primal female instinct I never knew I had.

  “Would it amaze you, David, to discover that some men actually find me attractive?” Before he can answer, I place a finger on his lips. Every part of me feels as if it’s been wired to an electrical outlet and switched to high voltage. “No, don’t answer. I don’t think I want to know.”

  We’re standing in the middle of my living room, frozen like that for what’s got to be the longest moment of my life, when the doorbell rings a second time. I look over David’s shoulder, and there, standing in my doorway, is LaRonda’s hunky brother, James, who bears more than a passing resemblance to Denzel Washington.

  “I think my date’s here,” I whisper to David. “You have a key. Lock up when you’re done with the computer.”

  “LaRonda is a genius, and I will never doubt her again.” I dutifully repeat her words into the phone. It’s the next afternoon—Sunday—we’ve both finished our church duties for the day, and she and I are in full postmortem mode.

  “I told you the makeover would be worth it.” She’s crowing in triumph, but I don’t mind. It was well worth those few moments of makeover misery to see the expression on David’s face when I walked out the door with James. And my evening with James was the cherry on top. He was funny and gallant, and he treated me as if I had a brain. He also took me to the Melting Pot, a fondue restaurant I adore. David will never go there. He says if he’s going to pay that much for dinner, he wants someone else to do the cooking.

  “I’m never wearing leather again.” I wince and tug at my jeans.

  “If you play your cards right, you shouldn’t have to.”

  “So what am I supposed to do now?”