KUDOS: To ATN newcomer, eagle-eyed Ryan McGreavy. The first to spot the fake!
The Look: If FLOTUS had gone to dinner, two designer gowns were ready to go. A pink Alexander Wang cold-shoulder in silk-georgette or an ombré Kate Spade sequined strapless illusion gown. See them here: www.TheEarlyBird.com/theLook. Tweet our link!
**EarlySponsor™: GlobalCom’s SecureCorp™. Secure Your Reputation with Our eSafety™ Plans. We Scrub the Web of Lies Your Competitors Are Spreading About You.**
10
Whatever it Takes
Three hours. That was how long the receptionist at Salon Badem had told Natalie The Treatment would take.
“We process candidates for The Treatment a month in advance,” the receptionist had added, making the salon procedure sound like the CIA’s extraordinary rendition program, only less enjoyable and harder to get into. When Natalie had mentioned she was calling at the suggestion of Bibb Connaught, the woman’s tone changed. “Why didn’t you say? With this referral, we can place you immediately.”
The receptionist had requested a two-hundred-dollar nonrefundable deposit and for a moment Natalie had hesitated. What kind of person would pay six hundred dollars to get scalp cancer at 6:30 a.m. on a Wednesday? Then her mind had flashed to the studio, to Ryan on air, and she’d mentally raised her hand and shouted, Me! I’m that kind of person! Sign me up!
* * *
Badem was the It salon of Washington, DC, located, like its clientele, as close as possible to the White House. Made of enough white marble to qualify as another monument, it was as famous for its blowouts—the first one at 5:45 a.m. to accommodate those in early news slots—as it was for the ugly rumors about its flamboyant owner, Osman Badem.
Based on the profiles she’d read to steel herself for the experience, Natalie wasn’t sure if it was despite or because of Osman Badem’s reputation for abuse that the A list flocked to the place. Magda, the hairdresser Bibb had insisted she see, laughed when Natalie had asked about this. “You are a smart report, habibi,” she said with a friendly wink and a vaguely Moroccan accent. Magda wore elbow-length black rubber gloves, clear safety goggles, white pants, and a white lab coat cinched at the waist with a belt that managed to showcase her ample cleavage. With her shoulder-length auburn hair brushed back off her forehead and her full mouth carefully made up in plum, she looked like a biological scientist from a future styled by John Galliano.
Natalie had been sent off with an assistant “to blank the slate,” as Magda said, which meant having her hair washed and blown dry. “We will speak when you come back.”
With her head in the sink, Natalie felt a rising tide of anxiety. She should have been at the office, or at least on her way there making calls and looking into the fallout from Molegate. The White House had put out a statement reaffirming that FLOTUS had indeed been home with a migraine, meaning that the photo had been a fake. Now she worried about White House reaction. What if the First Lady showed up to speak to reporters while she was at the salon and unavailable?
“No point in stressing,” Matt had scoffed. “You won’t get on air if you don’t get that hair. Do you want me to go with you and hold your hand?”
The only thing worse than missing out on a mega-story while paying to possibly get scalp cancer, she thought, would be listening to Matt the whole time.
Her phone buzzed.
MOM: Gerald’s son Trace says if you don’t have a date he thinks one of his friends would be willing to sit with you.
MOM: There is no reason to be embarrassed about needing a setup. According to New York Magazine, 32% of educated women in their thirties are single. Your group has a name: The 32%.
MOM: Also I was watching your clip on YouTube and I wonder, have you run out of the placenta-based moisturizer I got you? Don’t be mad but I think your skin could use a little buff up before the wedding. For the sake of the photos!
MOM: And before you accuse me of being critical, remember, I only tell you this for your own good.
MOM: Would it hurt you to respond now and then?
Natalie dropped her phone in her purse, closed her eyes, and tried to practice one of the deep breathing exercises Sarah was always trying to get her to do. “Imagine you are somewhere safe, you feel comfortable and totally yourself,” Sarah had recommended and Natalie pictured sitting at her desk, in front of her computer. She wondered if everyone would agree that there’s a thin line between relaxation and hyperventilation.
Forty-five minutes later, Magda was carefully measuring chemicals into a mixing bowl, talking as she worked. “You ask about Osman. The clients, they love his attitude. He is rude, he is risqué yes? This must mean he is the best! Only the best dare to be rude!” She smiled. “The people who love power, they love the challenge from the rude people. They must work to prove they are important, you see?”
Natalie laughed. “It sounds like you’ve spent a lot of time around politics.”
Magda clucked her tongue. “Too much and also too little. Yes and also with the report like you. Your type is not so different.”
Questions started popping like corn kernels in Natalie’s head, but before she could start asking, Magda’s easy, playful manner vanished. She’d suddenly become withdrawn and stiff and Natalie was wondering what she’d done to offend the woman when she realized that the atmosphere in the whole salon had become tense, with a hushed expectancy that made the six flat-screen TVs hanging on the far wall seem loud.
Osman Badem came striding into the room trailed by three assistants, his thin, shoulder-length hair flying out behind him. He sent ripples of confusion across the calm surface of the salon, barking an insult here, a compliment there, growling, ordering coffee, tea, juice, goddamn not that green juice, and get rid of that fucking cushion, can’t you cunts get anything right? As he passed Natalie’s chair, Magda bent down to receive a kiss on each cheek and Natalie was surprised at just how short he was.
The next moment he was gone and a moment after that the normal sounds of the salon reemerged, like a jungle after a tiger stalked through. It struck Natalie that the salon embodied something she’d begun to notice about DC in general: there was a collective agreement to conform, to bend toward a sameness—the blowout, The Treatment—while celebrating and feeding off of the outrageousness of a few.
And here she was, paying extravagantly to have a woman in a push-up bra apply a compound that smelled like rotten eggs and car exhaust, a compound which had been shown to cause tumors in lab rats just so she could pass as one of them—someone with Sparkle! Authenticity! A permanent beat!
You’ll make a fine conformity model, the voice in her head taunted her.
Did everyone have a subconscious always set on Mock? she wondered. She would have preferred a subconscious set on Sympathize or Encourage or I Got Your Back.
“Plenty of people make sacrifices for their jobs,” Natalie said, speaking to her reflection.
She was surprised when Magda answered, leaning close and speaking in a low tone. “It is true. But sometimes it is dangerous to notice this. As we were saying, people like the rudeness over the kindness. And the pity.”
Natalie realized that Madga had thought Natalie was talking about her. That Natalie had noticed her discomfort with Osman.
“I wasn’t—I didn’t—” Natalie stammered.
Magda’s smile was warm and her voice jocular again as she stood. “Of course not. You are correct, habibi. We all do things for survival. Do I want to be sniffing chemicals all day? No. But I have a child and responsibilities. I must take care of myself. Also, I have the fans,” she said, gesturing at the circle of three large fans ringing them. ‘They protect me. It is important, as a woman, to protect yourself.”
Natalie nodded. “You’re right.”
In that light, Natalie saw that her hair was kind of an armor. One more thing to strengthen her defenses and make her less vulnerab
le to danger. And it wasn’t as though she hadn’t been to other salons for equally byzantine treatments involving chemicals and procedures that sounded more like weapons—lasers for her legs, boiling wax for her bikini, electrical shocks for her eyebrows—than beauty regimes. Those incursions had been waged in the name of some abstract notion of beauty; maybe she should just be grateful that this current foray had professional backing.
Her eyes wandered to the mirror and she stared at the salon behind her, taking in the other women in identical robes sitting on carefully placed poufs and chaises, also investing in the defense of their realms. She wasn’t looking in judgment, it was just—there was something about the people, or maybe the atmosphere, in this salon that was different from other parts of the beauty industrial complex she’d known.
“Washington, DC, is not like other places, yes?” Magda said and gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze. “I tell you what it is. Other places there is something that stands for power. Money or beauty or youth or sex appeal, yes? Here, power is power.”
Natalie nodded, and as the thought sank in, she realized what was unusual about the salon—she kept meeting people’s eyes as she looked around. “Everyone is looking at everyone else in the mirror,” she breathed.
Magda clapped her hands delightedly. “That is it! Exactly right! The people here, they are not always looking at their phones like New York or themselves like California. Here they look at each other. Because Washington, DC, is a city of who you know. Also, unfortunately a city of very ugly clothes.” Magda shook her head. “But that cannot be helped.”
Natalie laughed. She liked Magda a lot. “What is your secret of survival?”
“My life story is for appointment number three,” Magda teased. “You have already gotten me talking more than I should because you pay attention.” Magda’s eyes moved beyond Natalie and a slow smile spread across her face. “Ah, this is good.”
In the mirror Natalie followed Magda’s gaze to the front desk where a beautiful, cartoonishly thin woman with ink-black hair to her waist was checking in. “Karima,” Magda said in a hushed whisper. “Karima Sahadi. You know who she is?”
Natalie nodded. “Yes.” Everyone knew who Karima Sahadi was. Even people who were not (slightly) obsessed political reporters would have caught the profiles of the DC hostess of record in the New Yorker, Wired, or Vogue. Wife of the ambassador to the Arab League, a coalition of Arab nations, she was the vortex of the social whirlwind around which boldface DC swirled. According to the Vogue piece, Karima’s living room was “the capitol of the Capitol” because it was one of the few places Democrat and Republican, junior staffer and chief of staff could comfortably mingle with one another. According to Wired, you could always find the most important figures on the frontier of tech and policy in Karima’s living room. According to the New Yorker, she occupied a top tier in the hierarchy of access in the city.
“She loves to know all the reports. I will introduce you.” Magda winked. “This will be a very good thing.”
Natalie’s excitement at the opportunity dimmed slightly as she caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror. An introduction to Karima could be invaluable, but with her red-rimmed eyes and toxin-slathered hair, she did not look the part of the smart young reporter on the rise.
“Hello, darling.” Karima leaned in to air-kiss Magda. She had just the slightest British accent. “You look like you just stepped out of a Luc Besson dream, as usual. I wish I had time to chat but I’ve got to be at the Portrait Gallery in an hour and I must have Osman give me a fluff.” She leaned close. “I hear he is in a mood.”
Magda nodded as she put her hand on Natalie’s shoulder. “Karima, before you go, I would like very much to present to you my new amie, Natalie Savage. She has come to do the White House for ATN. She is a smart one.” The warmth of Magda’s introduction was beyond anything Natalie could have hoped.
Karima’s face lit up with a magical smile that made Natalie feel at once important and awed. She offered Natalie her hand. “How lovely. You have already started at the White House?”
Natalie stammered, not wanting to miss her opening or get caught in a lie. “So happy to meet you. I did my first press briefing this week.” See, not a lie.
“Ah!” Karima’s eyes lit up in recognition. “I have heard of you. You asked after Anita, the First Lady, yes? They said it was a new girl. That was you?”
Natalie felt herself blush, deeply. Was it possible someone was talking about her—to Karima Sahadi?
Karima was regarding her with interest. “You are very smart. Thinking of Anita, looking where others aren’t.” She leaned toward Natalie as if she was going to impart a secret and Natalie caught the scent of her perfume, burnt wood and roses, marvelous even through the haze of chemicals. “Anita is a good woman. This is all too terrible.” Then she seemed to alight on an idea. “We will have lunch, you and me. Yes?”
“Oh that’d be so nice,” Natalie murmured to the lovely woman who called the First Lady by her first name and was undoubtedly just being polite. There was no way Karima Sahadi had time for lunch with temporary White House correspondents.
“Wonderful,” Karima said, pulling out her phone. “Bombay Club on Monday? 12:30 p.m.”
Stunned, Natalie just stared at her.
“She’ll be there!” Magda said, giving Natalie’s shoulder another squeeze. “This is wonderful, habibi—”
They were interrupted by the sound of a man yelling, straining like an unbroken stallion. Karima straightened. “Oh dear, there’s Osman. I must hurry before he tramples someone.” She turned toward Osman who was brandishing a hair dryer at his three assistants with increasing violence. “I’m coming, darling.”
As Natalie watched the delicate woman cross the floor, she breathed deeply and caught another whiff of Karima’s perfume.
“A custom blend of pure oils,” Magda explained. “The initial work costs tens of thousands. She goes through two bottles a month and every refill is—” She waved a hand as if numbers that size were incalculable. She gave Natalie a confidential smile. “She liked you.”
“I’m sure she was just being polite,” Natalie said.
“Trust Magda, habibi. When I do The Treatment to Karima’s hair, it takes five hours. In five hours one can learn many things. You go to lunch. Karima can make things happen in this town.”
For some reason it made Natalie feel better to know that a woman like Karima dealt with the same chemicals—and pressure to pass—that she was enduring. Like they were part of a sisterhood.
“Now you sit,” Magda said and disappeared. Magda’s assistant rolled a massive heat lamp over to Natalie’s chair, saying, “It will open the cuticle,” as if that explained anything. Then she handed Natalie a dry hand towel and gestured to cover her mouth. “If you do not like to breathe with the chemicals.”
Even with the towel, her nose began to sting after a minute. Soon she was more than uncomfortable. On the scale of sad to happy faces they show you at the doctor, she’d have assessed her level of misery at “the one who looks ready to impale himself on a sickle.”
Don’t panic. Don’t overreact. Still breathing through a towel, she slowly texted her sister, Sarah, using one finger.
NATALIE: Can you die of a hair treatment? If it’s made with formaldehyde?
Sarah was a naturopath, and while she could be a little too naturo for Natalie’s taste—Natalie had an abiding faith in the power of prescription medication—she knew her stuff.
After what seemed like six eternities, Sarah replied.
SARAH: I feel like I want more details before I answer that question.
NATALIE: If something gave monkeys scalp cancer, would it also give a human scalp cancer?
SARAH: There is no such thing as scalp cancer.
NATALIE: Tell that to the internet. It thinks scalp cancer is totally a thing.
SARAH: On the other hand, if you are starting to talk about the internet like it’s your boyfriend, you do have a serious problem.
NATALIE: The internet would make an excellent boyfriend. Always available and fully versed on Top Ten Sex Tips.
SARAH: Although kind of into conspiracy theories and porn. And prone to spreading viruses.
NATALIE: Happiness crusher.
SARAH: Speaking of which, Mom asked me to tell you about the bridesmaids activity Saturday morning before the wedding.
NATALIE: Oh god. Don’t tell me. Is it organic douching? Group sensual massage?
SARAH: No. We’re having an apothecary blending party. Making custom scents to “amplify the energy of love,” I’m told.
NATALIE: As long as it doesn’t involve any bodily fluids.
SARAH: I can’t guarantee that. Anyway, the Gerald-in-Laws will be there and she wants to make a good impression.
NATALIE: Got it. Attendance mandatory. I’ll be there!
Natalie felt the dryer lift off her head and looked up to see Magda scrutinizing strands of her hair like a computer programmer scanning software for signs of malicious code.
“Are you tweeting?” Magda asked as she rubbed the hair through her fingers. “This is very good for you to do. It is like vitamins for the reports. Makes them strong. This is what everyone says.”
Natalie laughed, guilty that she had been texting her sister, not building her brand. “It makes me crazy.”
“This is also what everyone says.” Magda smiled, then replaced the dryer over her head. “Ten more minu—” Magda broke off and lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. “Look as if you are very busy. Maybe an important fact has come for you? Keep your eyes down.” Natalie did and heard Magda say, “Ah, Karima, you look wonderful of course. What? Oh yes.”
Savage News Page 11