A Naughty Santa Gram

by Alyssa D Mynx

  "Shit, you almost made me burn myself, and I HATE burns!" Jenna whines, setting down the iron and turning to me. "Here's the trick. Wear the hair down, put these babies in, pull hair forward, and no one will know. They let in some noise, but mute the fuck out of it, and they almost hide in your ears with just the little wire."

  "So basically, you're saying they're a reverse hearing aid? Are you calling me old?" I ask, about to pout.

  "No, ya dork, the opposite. We are young, and our ears pick up too much. So we block some of it. It'll keep you from going insane in here. I give all my stylists and staff a pair."

  "Well, hot damn, thank you ma'am. These could keep me from killing some old lady wanting a perm who thinks she has to talk louder because her hearing aids are out.” I perk up, a big cheesy grin covering my face. “Wait, we should call these non-hearing aids. Though you do realize I’m not technically an employee. This under the table shit is only because your normal lackey is sick, and I need the money.”

  “Oh, shut up and take them. You know I run one of the top salons in the area, plus I work on movie stars on the side. I can afford it.”

  I shrug. “Ok, girl, if you’re sure, hook me up," I say, grabbing a brush to go through the snarls in my hair.

  "You know," Jenna starts, "it's a damned good thing we cleaned your hair yesterday, or you would've taken longer in the bathroom. We're going to have to come up with a schedule for that room because I didn't have time to curl mine, just straighten it."

  "True, true. Can't say I'm too sorry, though. That water felt amazing. I like the cute little closet bed, I do, I really do, but I just couldn't get comfortable, and then I rolled out of it once last night. I think. At some point, I woke up on the floor, so I'm not exactly sure what went wrong." I ramble all of this while relaxing into the stool so Jen can curl this beautiful violet mess.

  Jenna snorts and laughs, causing her to put down the iron for a moment. "Oh yeah, babe, you fell off the bed. I think the neighbors down the street probably heard you." She giggles and picks up the curling iron again. "There was a loud thunk, then more curse words shouted than I even knew existed, to be quite honest. I think the old lady downstairs probably died of a heart attack, old prude that she is."

  I groan, burying my face in my hands but not moving, because, ya know, burns. "Please tell me I didn't do the accented curses? Please?" I beg, peeking an eye out from between my fingers.

  "Oh Blake, you did, you really did. You started with the British-sounding accent, then rolled into Scottish. When you finally wound down, you were back to normal, but you were getting cuddly with my fuzzy rug." Jenna laughs.

  "Cuddly? What do you mean by cuddly?" Dread is already leaching the blood from my face because I know once the drunken angry girl leaves, the sappy lovey dovey girl comes out.

  "Well, since you'd woken up the whole neighborhood, I did take some pictures just to assure people that there was not, in fact, a battle going on in my apartment. And when you settled down, you were just too cute. Wanna see?" Jenna asks, moving in front of me to put the iron down and reach for her phone.

  "Dear god, NO! No one should see drunk Blake, she's a mess! She makes bad choices! We should hide drunk Blake in a closet or something!" I whisper shout, terrified to see what my own stupidity has wrought this time around.

  Jenna giggles. "We tried that, and the closet wasn't a good fit. Since you don't want to see, let me just paint a magical picture for you with words," she says as she resumes curling my hair again.

  "Oh when will this nightmare end? How about you don't finish the fucking curls, and I just go sweep, hmm? I think that is a GREAT idea, don't you?" I motormouth, starting to stand.

  "NOPE!" Jenna grabs my hair and yanks me down to my chair.

  "Ouch! Abuse! Abuse!" I whisper-shout again.

  "Oh shut it, darling, we all know you like it rough like that. Anyways, as I was saying, let me tell you a bit about your cuddly drunk self," Jenna teases. I can't even see her face, but I know she's got a foxy grin on, one side of her mouth turned up and eyes sparkling. Damn her.

  "Just get it over with. And the hair. Your client’s probably missing you," I add.

  "Oh no, Sarah's fine. She's got at least 30 more minutes with that color, and the haircut I was going to do during her process canceled last minute, so I’m yours for now."

  A heavy groan shoves its way out of my mouth.

  "Now, you know my rug is, like, super fuzzy and soft? Well, apparently you thought it was a giant kitten and decided to ride it. But first, you told it you had to get some heels on, so you could match the majesty of her royal kittiness. Somehow, you got a high heel and a wedge on, totally not matching, but whatever, and grabbed the pillow from the bed. You said it was fluffy kitty food for the fluffy kitty and shoved it under the rug," she says, grinning at my mortification but at least releasing a few curls while talking.

  "I think you finally fell asleep then, but after a 4 am bathroom run, you fell back on the bed like a good human." Jenna finishes her storytime just as she finishes my curls.

  "Thank fuck. Let me go get that hair now," I chime, standing and attempting to make my escape towards the old bristle-missing broom I've claimed as my own.

  "Not so freaking fast. Second rule of curls: You got to brush them out with a brush, a wide tooth comb, or your fingers at least. Ain't nobody wants to be seeing side hoe curls," Jenna chides, pulling me back to the chair with her fresh acrylics.

  Her crazy butt got up and got them done at like 7 am. I swear, she's a freak of nature. That, or she didn't drink as much as me. I'm going with the freak of nature story though.

  "If that's the second rule, what's the first?" Seriously, hair has rules?

  "Curl rule number one: Curl away from the face to avoid bat wings. You know the ones I'm talking about,” she shudders, spraying enough hairspray on my head to kill the ozone, then grabs a wide tooth comb to run through my curls.

  Finally, she releases me from my misery. "Done! Now put those earbuds in and go take a gander at my beautiful handiwork." Her release means I can get off this god awful chair, and by god awful, I mean the fact that I couldn't escape. It's quite a lovely chair, actually.

  I head to the mirror and shove the earbuds in, then look at myself. "Well, shit, babe. I think you outdid yourself with these fine-ass curls. And ok, ok, you're right. They look good combed out a little. Now, may I use Old Dusty?"

  "Who the hell’s bells is Old Dusty?"

  "The broom. You know, the old one that no one uses. He wants to be loved too. Plus, he looks as ugly as I feel, so I felt like I should use his wood today." I shrug, heading towards the only man I'll be feeling up today.

  "Seriously? For fuck’s sake, use a decent broom, you crazy woman." I can practically hear her signature eye roll. Again.

  "I'll use whatever damned broom I want. It's my under the table job to sweep and stock retail and advertise your work." I grab Old Dusty and go find some hair to sweep. It's a salon, there's got to be some somewhere.

  Fifteen minutes later, after helping remove perm rods, gah, those things stink like rotten eggs and skunk rolled into one, and sweeping some hair, it's my break time. Not scheduled, but I'm taking one, because fuck it. These ear things work pretty well, but old Mrs. Anderson yells like a freaking banshee, and she did not like her perm rods getting pulled out. Let's just say I didn't yank them out on purpose, but I also wasn't purposely gentle, so there is that.

  BZZZ BZZZ BZZZ. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and see that I've gotten a new email. And a few snaps. And Facebook has blown up. My new iPhone will probably die within the year with how much abuse it receives from me. I mean, I got it a screen protector and case, but my last one died in puke, so yeah.

  I check the fun things first and see that I must have drunk posted on Snapchat since there's a lot of 'WTF did you drink', and some 'Oh, I LOVE your new hair color.' I don't remember posting last night at all. Oops. I'm about to close my phone down as I see strict Jenna coming my way.
Probably because there's hair on the floor.

  "And how long of a break did you want to take? Should I let you use my office? Set you up for a foot rub while you're at it?" Jenna snarks at me, hands on hips with one cocked out to the side.

  "I'm done, I'm done. I was just checking Facebook and Snapchat. Apparently, I drunk posted.”

  "You did, and let me just say, you petting my rug and posting duck face pictures with it was my favorite," Jenna says through her giggles.

  "Ugh, remind me to hide my phone from myself next time I get that hammered." I put my head in my hands, clunking myself with said phone. "Anyways, I'm done, I only had an email to check, but it can wait."

  "Who's it from? I know you applied a few places last night, maybe someone replied already." The excitement and anticipation in her voice is like a tightly-wound top about to be released.

  "Who knows, I haven't checked it."

  "Well, check it, dummy." Jenna rolls her eyes.

  "You― but, time... you just told me to get off my phone in a very roundabout way, and now you WANT me on my phone?" This hangover thing is not making thinking any easier for me.

  "Yes, you, you, I don't know what you are, but open it up!" She squeals, the sound piercing through the little buds and straight to the core of my brain, slaying it in one go.

  "Shhhhh.... loud Jenna, hurt brain." I wince, eyes squeezed shut and a grimace on my face. "Just give me a second, you rabid animal, and I'll open it." I swipe right and wait for my phone to read my darling face, then open up my email. "It's from SHG, Inc. Wait."

  Realization dawns on me, and the blood rushes to my cheeks, heating them while my face hurts from grinning so much. "I got the Santa job," I whisper shout, clutching my phone to my chest and doing a small spin.

  "Let me see that, silly," Jenna orders, grabbing my phone from my hands and reading through the email. "It says you have an interview. Tonight at seven."

  "Yes!!! Wait, hold on, what am I going to wear? Shit, can I borrow some clothes? Mine are all boring lawyering stuff."

  "Hell no, this is cause for celebration! I'm done at four today, so that's plenty of time to go do some shopping for something sleek, sexy, and chic. My treat. Deal?" Jenna asks, her eyes sparkling probably just as much as mine are at the thought of showing these sexist bastards who they can and can't hire.

  I truly can't wait to see the looks on their faces when I walk in their doors.

  "Let's just go to like J. Crew. They're not that bad of a price," I state as we walk into the mall down on Grove Drive.

  "Look, you’re in LA, and you're going to fit in. I will not have my bestie walking into that Santa place looking like she's just anybody off the streets. No, you're going to look like a million bucks, like you are GRACING them with your presence, and that you own this, like you don't even need the job."

  "Jenna, I really do need this job though," I say, hunching my shoulders and dragging my feet.

  "Yes, but they don't need to know that. All they need to know is that you applied, you're a badass bitch who is sexy AF, and you are going to make them lots of money as their first woman Santa. Tell them that you can open a whole new market for them, stuff like that. Guys, especially businessmen, love money and power."

  "Fine, I'll do what you want, just please don't make me look like a freak," I say, avoiding eye contact by staring at my scuffed Converse on the ground.

  "Puh-lease. We are shopping at Michael Kors and wherever we need to get you looking glam."

  "As long as I look super fucking hot, but also demanding, commanding, and like I own the place.” I pause, then ask in my small voice, "What if they don't hire me?"

  "Oh, but darling, what if they do? Can you imagine? Look over there!" My girl grabs my arm and gives it a hearty yank forward, dragging me along with it. "There's one of the ads for it. Look at that gorgeous face. And that hair! My god, I'd love to get my hands on that hair. True, he probably has split ends, and his beard needs to be lined up, but I can work with that." And in less than 30 seconds, Jenna is off in her own world, drooling over a Santa Gram Santa.

  I have to admit he's a hottie with a naughty body. Muscles, broad shoulders, chestnut hair that flows down his pecs... I can see why she'd go for him. His lips just barely curl up at the sides, giving him a just-there smile, and his facial hair is on point. Nose is a bit large, but plastic can fix that. All in all, a man with a naked chest and a Santa hat, that's pretty damn good to me. I'd tap that.

  "Jen? Earth to Jenna? Anyone home?" I ask, trying to break both of us out of this groove of drooling over the Santa. "We have shopping to do, remember? Get me ready to go see some of these hunky men, maybe work with them and make some money? Hello?"

  "Promise me something!" The words fall from her mouth like the crashing of boulders: loud, annoying, and resounding.

  "Yes, dear?" I inquire, blinking my wide eyes and shoving a finger in my ear.

  "You have to promise that, in return for this and me just being the best damned friend there ever was, you take me to any holiday party, or outing, or whatever, and that I get to be your plus one for as long as you work there. Promise me, woman!" With every word, my taller friend has leaned over me ‘til I swear I am bending over backwards.

  "Oi, I promise, now move your giraffeness from my person.”

  I push against her, moving her from my personal bubble into her own again.

  "You swear it?"

  "Yes, yes, I swear it, ok? You'll forever be my work plus one. Now can we please get this shopping done? I only have a few hours ‘til the interview, and I KNOW how you shop." Eye roll to the bestie here.

  "You know, just because some of us enjoy shopping doesn’t mean you shame them. Shame on you for shaming me."

  "Now you're shaming me, so shame on you for shaming me for shaming you," I respond, ready to play this game and make it my bitch.

  "But you're- NO. I will not get into this with you. Just, come on," Jenna grumbles, hooking her arm through mine and moving me towards the horror of shopping. Oh fucking well, I won that round.

  "Are you SURE this outfit looks professional enough?" I ask, glancing in the full-length, extra-wide, silver gilded mirror Jenna keeps in the apartment.

  "Yes, I'm sure. Just look at yourself, dammit," Jenna insists from the white couch positioned behind me, playing on her phone.

  So I do. My violet curls have been twisted into a side pony, and the ends lay on the white button-up shirt I’m wearing. A few buttons are undone, of course, just for effect, and the sleeves are rolled just past my elbows. The gruple (gray that's like purple/lavender. I don't know what it's called, but we are going with gruple) pencil skirt sits on my natural waist with a darker belt in the same color.

  Jenna also has me in a pair of peep-toe heels in white to match my shirt. She made me promise to keep them clean ‘til the interview and only to wear them at the interview, not driving there. Jerk. I have some rose gold bangles on, with matching hoop earrings and a simple chain with a small flower on it. I feel like a woman, buh buh buh da da oh yeah! I turn to see the side view and almost fall over.

  "How the heck do you walk in these when you have so many fluffy damned carpets? I swear, they're going to wipe me out," I grumble, barely even able to move around in these things.

  "Well, you wiped out on one last night, and I didn't hear you complaining then, so?" Jenna shrugs, not even looking up from her phone.

  "Obviously that was different."

  "Oh? How so?"

  "I was drunk," I deadpan.

  Jenna looks up finally. "Yes, dear, you were. Rip roaring drunk. Now, you have forty-five minutes to get there, and you need to look fabulous. Take off the shoes, swap them for some flats, and get yourself gone, so you arrive in plenty of time. Oh, and take my car, yours is a bit... well, you know."

  "No, I don't know. What are you saying about my little Cherry Pie?" I move my hands to my hips, eyebrow raised and head cocked.

  "There! That's the look." Jenna smiles evilly.

/>   "Huh?"

  "The look. The one you give them when they say you can't work there, or they give you any guff. Use that look, and they can't say no to you. Trust me," she says confidently, holding her phone up and tilting her head for that perfect selfie moment.

  "I will. Now, what's wrong with Cherry?" I demand, crossing my arms and cocking out a hip.

  "Ugh, don’t make me say it. It's old, it's outdated, and it's costing you a fortune. You could sell it for a fortune and get yourself a nice little car," Jenna sneers, rolling her eyes and lining up for another selfie.

  "And get a little Prius like you? No thanks. My Mustang shows all the men that my balls are, in fact, bigger than theirs. And once I get this job, I'll be just fine. I've worked on that beauty since I was seventeen and in college. She's completely restored and just needs some tune-ups to stay in fine condition. Leave my baby alone, alright?"

  "Fine, fine. Drive your balls to the walls car. Who cares about the environment or anything like that? Not you, that's who," Jenna mumbles, playing on her phone.

  "Give me that," I demand, fed up with her phone. "Seriously, Jen? You're gorgeous as fuck and don't need to filter anything. Just post it as is. Trust me," I scold, tossing it back before slipping off my heels. "Now, any words of advice before I go own these motherfuckers?"

  "Yeah. Take their balls and show 'em to them."

  "Deal." Slipping on my flats, I head out of the apartment.

  I don't know the history behind the building, but parts of it look like an opera house or something. We're on the second floor, so I can either take the slow antique elevator or go down the swanky steps.The wide staircase that spans from the first to the second floor and the glass booth make me think this it had to be an old theater or something.

  This building has someone on security twenty-four-seven, and it’s surprisingly affordable. Passing through the old stained glass doors, I take the path to the back of the building to get to my baby, the one thing in this world that's been constant for the last nine years. My 1968 Ford Mustang is cherry red, hence the name. I'd found her my first year of college for pennies, and I’ve been having her restored as I can afford to. Luckily, I’ve made great friends with an amazing mechanic, who has a deep love for the old muscles too, so he's good if I need to make payments.