Ms. Taken Identity (9 page)

“That’s what I have,” Steve says brightly, without a hint of embarrassment.

“And buy them to fit you right now,” Rosie chips in. “Maybe a half size small. The way you move out there—” and here she tries
to give a little bump with her hip, even though she’s sitting, so her chair skids a bit, “the leather will always stretch.”

Graphic designer Vicky with red-framed glasses speaks up: “Showtime is a good brand. So is Supadance.”

Dave: “Just stay away from Aztec. El cheap-os.”

I feel like I should write all this down. “Where do I get them?”

Jennifer: “Adonis’s catalogue.”

Dave: “EBay.” He looks around to make sure Adonis isn’t listening. “Save yourself a few bucks.”

I turn to Marie.

“If it were me,” she says, “I’d probably just go to a store. That way you can try them on, make sure they fit the right way,
especially for a first pair. There’s a place not too far from here called Dance Loft. Do you know where Fratelli’s Pizza is?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say.

“Crafty Corner?” Fran inquires.

“I’m not so familiar with that either.”

“What about Chesterfield Mall?” demands an incredulous Rosie.

Marie picks up on the “man overboard” look that must be plastered to my face. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “I could meet
you here on Saturday, we could drive over together. That is, if you think you need the help.”

“I’d
love
the help.”

We swap cell phone numbers and it’s settled: I have my first ever shoe-shopping date. At least, Jason does.

I call the hospital when I get home, since I figure I owe my father at least that much. They tell me he isn’t taking calls,
but he is resting comfortably in intensive care. Do I want to speak to someone in the family? No thanks. I don’t bother telling
them I
am
family.

The writing goes well again that night, and the next morning and afternoon and night, and I’m beginning to think I’ve punched
a winning ticket with this Cinderella theme. (But of course I have:
Cinderella
is the archetypal chick-lit story—down-and-out girl gets extreme makeover, glitzy gown, fancy shoes, handsome guy. No mention
of bedding her Prince Charming, but we all know that comes standard with happily ever after.) My method is to create a scene—at
the coffeehouse, jewelry shop, fitting room—and then ask myself what Rosie or Jennifer or Gina or Marie or any of them would
do, based on what I’ve gotten to know about them. And it’s not like I’m stealing their lines, since I’ve yet to hear any of
them say, “I wonder if I should get that Brazilian wax job or just a bikini bottom with more coverage”; it’s just that getting
to know them has allowed me to crawl into their heads and move around and see the world through their eyes, and the view isn’t
entirely repulsive. In fact, everyone’s been so friendly and helpful that I already feel guilty for jerking them around with
the whole Jason bit. Can I get a do-over on that, maybe slip the truth in there
discreetly
over drinks (“Speaking of Singapore Slings, my name’s really Mitch, not Jason, and I don’t rep drugs, I teach, but I like
mine with a dash of grenadine”)?

I haven’t seen much of Bradley, which is a good thing, at least for now, because it means I don’t have to explain what I’ve
been up to on Monday and Thursday nights, or why the writing is suddenly going so much better, or do I know some strange guy
who’s been chatting up his sister at the studio. But in a way I wish he were around, in the sense that I’d like to pinch some
information out of him, namely: did he ever think about setting me up with Marie? I think I know the answer: Hell no. That’s
because she’s been living in North Carolina for the last few years and I’ve been in St. Louis, and even though she’s been
back for five months, I’ve been living with Hannah the entire time, except the last week. But even so, I still don’t think
he’d do it, because he’d just assume she wasn’t my type, what with the dancing and hairstyling and Kenneth Cole T-straps.
That’s the thing about Bradley: he can be so narrow-minded. Though sometimes, I guess, so can I.

M
arie and I meet around noon at the studio parking lot. I was afraid Rosie might show up, not in person, but in the form of
Marie wearing big hair and too much makeup and a matching earring and bangle set for the big day out. But she looks the same
as always—fresh, natural, with flared jeans and flip-flops and a gauzy white top, maybe even a spritz of Calvin Klein’s euphoria
and some lip gloss in sheer peach (Bare Escentuals? MAC?). She’s driving a convertible VW bug, top down, and since I’ve shown
up again without my car (today’s excuse: it’s at the shop), she drives.

Dance Loft is one of those mom-and-pop stores, though I’m guessing pop didn’t want to have much to do with it since I’m the
only guy around. The signs are homemade—“Women’s Tops,” “Men’s Shirts,” “Women’s Skirts,” “Men’s Ball Hugging Pants with Lots
of Sheen” (at least, that’s the sign I would have printed up)—as are the price tags. There are a fair number of sparkly and
glittery items, as you might expect, but also a few pieces you could almost wear out in public, for a nice occasion, maybe
dinner at Cardwell’s. One skirt, a little black one hanging right there on an end cap, catches my eye. Marie sees it too.

“You like that?” she asks.

“Not my size. And my legs are a little too hairy to pull it off. But on the right person, I’m sure it would look great.”

She slips it off the rack and holds it up to her waist. Slit and all, it reminds me of something Molly might wear—to class.
“Shows a lot of leg, doesn’t it?”

“Denim, actually,” I say, since that’s all I see of her below the hemline.

She glances at herself in the mirror, adjusts the skirt this way and that, and I’m tempted to tell her to try it on, just
for fun, since I wouldn’t mind seeing just how much non-denim leg it covers, or doesn’t. But I don’t, since that would be
a little self-serving. In the end, she seems embarrassed about the whole thing and puts it back on the rack.

The shoes turn out to be more expensive than I imagined. I’ve paid this much for basketball shoes, but that was for real shoes.
If I were alone, I might just walk out of the store, give it more thought, see if I’m a hundred percent—and a hundred dollars—committed
to this whole dancing gig. But I don’t want to seem like a cheapskate, and Marie has assured me a dozen times that the right
shoes make a huge difference, and the saleslady has promised that if I don’t like them or they don’t work out, for any reason,
I can bring them back, so I pick up a pair of size eleven unisex Urban Trainers in black with crisscross Velcro fasteners.

“How about lunch?” I say, when we get outside. “I’d like to pay you back, for your time.”

“Don’t worry about it. This was fun.” In the sunlight, her top is a little sheer, and without even trying, I catch a glimpse
of lace.

“I’m doing this for me, Marie. I’m hungry. Shopping for dance shoes always takes it out of me. How about that pizza place
you mentioned?

“Fratelli’s?”

“Yeah. Can you take me?”

She gives me a look like I’m trying to con her. “I’ll take you. Just don’t try to make me eat anything.” She tugs at her waistband.
“Still working on those last five pounds.”

But of course, we get there, and the place smells great, and maybe she’s a little hungry after all, so we both take a look
at the menu and agree on a large Hawaiian pizza, thin crust, which should be just about right for two, one of whom only plans
to nibble. Right. So that’s what we order, plus two root beers.

“Do you always have Saturdays off?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Every other one, usually. Unless it’s December or prom season or something like Mother’s Day weekend
or Valentine’s Day. Then the place gets crazy busy. Today, since it’s none of those, I’m free. Though I do have an appointment
at three.”

“On your day off? That’s odd.”

“It’s a bit of a special circumstance. I have a customer who’s been through a nasty divorce and she’s been trying to date,
but she keeps getting guys who drink too much or are too much into their money or cars or themselves. She finally met a guy
she likes, and they’ve talked a couple times on the phone, but they both have kids and getting their schedules to coordinate
is tough. Tonight’s the first night they’re going out, just the two of them. A jazz club, which she told him she likes, so
she thinks it’s a good sign. She’s a little nervous, so I told her to come in and we’d give her a style for the night.”

“Wow. And you got all that info just by cutting her hair?”

“People sit in those chairs for a while. They talk.”

“And you like hearing all that?”

“I don’t like hearing that people have problems. But I like people, so if they trust me enough to talk, I listen.”

The waitress brings out our root beers and sets them on the table.

“So does that have anything to do with why you got into hairstyling in the first place?” I ask. “The therapy part?”

She fiddles with her straw wrapper. “Maybe a little. I mean, I used to do all my friends’ hair in high school, and we’d talk
about our boyfriends or parents or whatever, and I got a kick out of that. But I think the real reason is that I figured out
pretty early I wasn’t cut out for college, and I’d have to make a living somehow, and if I had to spend the rest of my life
getting up in the morning and doing something, it might as well be something I enjoyed. For me, that was cutting hair.”

I suppose a bank robber would also say he enjoys getting up and doing his job, so I’m not sure that qualifies as the number
one reason to choose a career. But whatever floats your boat, I guess. “Hey, listen, Marie. Can I ask you something that may
sound a little rude or insulting, but I don’t mean it to?”

“Sure you do, at least a little. Otherwise you wouldn’t put it that way.” She manages to say it without sounding sour. “But
go ahead.”

She’s right, of course. That’s why we use those disclaimers, “I don’t mean to sound rude or judgmental or racist or selfish
or cold-hearted,” so we can go ahead and say something rude or judgmental or racist or selfish or cold-hearted. Now I feel
a little sheepish. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “I’m sure.”

“Okay. People spend money on haircuts and mousses and gels and shampoos and blow dryers and flat irons and color treatments,
and if you added it all up, worldwide, it has to be in the billions every year. Agree?”

“Agree.”

“So here’s my question: Isn’t it just
hair
?”

She takes a long moment to mull it over, and I can tell she’s giving it real thought, the way she keeps narrowing her eyes
and playing with her lower lip and looking like she’s about to speak, then stopping, then cycling through the whole routine
again.

“The quick answer or the philosophical one?” she finally says.

“Quick.” Then, to distance myself from her brother, “I hate philosophy.”

“Then, yep, it’s just hair. An outgrowth of dead cells from follicles in the dermis, composed primarily of keratin, with a
certain color, texture, thickness. And that’s pretty much all it is.”

“Good. Now the philosophical one.”

She gives me a mock-stern look. “And you won’t laugh?”

“We’ll see.”

She picks up on my tone immediately. “Fine. Forget it.”

“Oh, go on already. I won’t even crack a smile.” Which, ironically, makes us both smile.

“All right, then,” she says, pushing her root beer a little to the side. “Everybody says it’s what’s on the inside that matters.
And it’s true. That’s where you want to have it together and be kind and patient and have all those good qualities. But we
also have these bodies and faces, for better or worse, and these are
us
, too. There’s nothing wrong with taking a little pride in the way you present yourself to the world, coming up with the best
possible version of you. And hair makes a difference in how we look. Certain lines and curves and colors and styles flatter
a certain nose or eye color or mouth or chin. That’s what we study in cosmetology school, how to assess an appearance, see
what might look better, bring out what’s most attractive or appealing or natural. Because the eye knows what it likes when
it sees it.”

“Sure it does. Just like with the ancient Greeks.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, not that I read much, or know much about the ancient Greeks, other than they were Greek and lived in Greece.”
Shit
. “But I think I heard they used to build some of their temples based on certain geometric proportions that tended to please
the eye. Plus, some of their columns tapered as they got higher, because it made them more aesthetically pleasing from the
ground.” I fear I’m confusing her. “Uh,
prettier
, like you were saying.”

“Yeah, thanks. I got it. And the other thing about hair is that it has this kind of symbolic quality. For instance, say you
just got a new job, or lost your boyfriend, or started a diet, and you want something to reflect a goodbye to the old you
and hello to the new you. Most people can’t just go out and buy a new car or house or have plastic surgery. But what you can
do is change your hair. Go shorter or more styled or change a color. And even though it’s just hair, something about it taps
into a deeper place inside and makes you feel like a whole new person and gives you confidence and a different attitude.”

She might be on to something with this last part, hair tapping into a deeper place. There’s hair as strength—Samson of Samson
and Delilah; hair as beauty—Botticelli’s
The Birth of Venus
; hair as a cable to heaven—the dreadlocks of Rastafarians; hair as sign of obedience—the monk’s tonsure or the military’s
crew cut; hair as ladder—Rapunzel. We have movies and plays and TV shows about hair:
Hair
,
Shampoo
,
Hairspray
,
Barbershop
,
Friends
(isn’t that what that show was about?). We even have hair as embodiment of the crudest tendencies of human nature: the mullet.