The School of Beauty and Charm (15 page)

“Is that him?” She started toward a fat man who passed quickly through the room with a can of diet Fresca.

“No,” the boy lied. Florida stared him down.

“We are scheduled for a three o'clock appointment,” she informed him. With Emilio. He's doing my daughter's makeover: cut, color, perm, makeup, manicure, and pedicure.”

On the white Naugahyde armchair, I prayed that she wouldn't mention Shirley.

“Shirley Frommlecker, from Counterpoint, is one of his regulars. She recommended him to us.”

Inclining his head ever so slightly, the receptionist said, “Emilio only does consultations.”

“I'd like you to look in your book and see if that's written down anywhere. We don't want to see anyone but Emilio.” She added, “If you don't mind.”

The woman in the fox fur now watched Florida with interest. I could have told her the outcome. If Florida had gone to
Oz, she would have rooted the Wizard out in five minutes flat. Once, while vacationing in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, she had stepped over a yellow ribbon surrounding John F. Kennedy, marched forward, and while several Secret Service men aimed their guns at her, she gaily snapped the president's photo. There was no way the receptionist could have known that Mrs. Peppers was not afraid of bullets, but he sensed a problem and went to get his boss.

Emilio was a short, fat little man with a salt-and-pepper goatee, all smiles.

“Delighted,” he said, kissing Florida's hand and then mine.

“Louise is fourteen,” she told him. “This is her first makeover. She just lost over thirty pounds.”

“How charming,” he said. He clapped his chubby hands. Breathing loudly and smelling strongly of onions, he snapped his fingers at one of his swan boys. “Justin,” he said sharply. “Bring some wine for the ladies.”

“God makes mistakes,” Emilio was explaining to Florida as he slowly circled me. He lifted a handful of my hair, rubbed it between his fingers, and let it drop.

“The boy got the hair,” Florida said, before she could catch herself.

“Ah, you have a son?” Florida pretended not to hear him.

Emilio leaned in close to us and said in a confidential voice, “She's really a redhead.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Florida.

“Not red-red. Not even strawberry. I'm talking a deep, rich auburn. Don't you see it?”

“We were thinking of blonde,” said Florida. To me she noted, “Boys like blondes.”

“It is certainly up to you,” said Emilio. He turned away as if he had suddenly lost all interest in us.

“She has a picture, I think,” said Florida. “Louise, show him your picture. It's from a magazine. I know you all don't like to work from those.”

“They can be inspiring,” said Emilio. He faced me. “Let's see it.”

My neck grew warm, then my cheeks, and finally my ears, which turned red hot at the tips and then began to buzz. The more I told myself,
Stop! Stop that right now
! the harder I blushed. With my head down, I dug through my pockets.

“Well, get it out,” Florida said. “Hurry now, he doesn't have all day.” To Emilio, she whispered, “Big secret. I haven't seen it yet.” I was blushing so hard I thought I would bleed.

I handed Emilio a tiny square of glossy paper, which he rapidly unfolded while Florida leaned over his shoulder. For a moment, there was silence. Emilio stroked his goatee.

Finally, Florida spoke. “Honey! That girl is black!” She sighed, looked at the wall, shook her head. Then sat down, holding her pocketbook in her lap like a small dog. “Let me see it again,” she said.

“West Indian,” said Emilio with authority. “Anyway, doll, I can't see her hair in that shot, so tell me what you want.”

“Speak up,” said Florida crisply. “She likes the natural look. She thinks her mother wears too much makeup. Louise, there is no sense having him put makeup on you, if you're just going to take it off. What do you want?”

“I don't know.” I looked at the black-and-white floor and began to panic. Why had I shown them the picture?

I should have known they wouldn't understand how I wanted to be that woman, lying naked, face down on a boulder. Her long arms were stretched wide, hugging the rock— you couldn't stop yourself from touching the slick paper to feel the difference between skin and stone. Every muscle in her strong back was a rippling thought, and her hair spun wildly out to the sun, a long curling scream. Waves crashed against the rock, spraying across her thighs in an emerald arc. I had looked at the photograph and thought,
This is beauty. This is what I want
.

“You have to be realistic,” said Florida. “Tell him if you want long or short, and what color.”

“Come with me,” Emilio said, waving his hand decisively. “We'll put you in the chair and let it happen. Art needs space sometimes.”

“I don't want you to be unhappy,” said Florida.

“She'll love it,” he said. “And you will, too, Mom. Come, come, let's play!”

“I think she wants me to stay in here,” said Florida. “Where I won't interfere.” I followed him into the next room, into the familiar hum of hair dryers and the clip, clip, clip of scissors, the engulfing hair spray. In this room, I was handed over to a wiry fellow in a black turtleneck named Mike.

“Shampoo, perm, and set,” said Emilio. “Red dye number 31. Have you seen my roast beef sandwich? It was supposed to be delivered half an hour ago. Jesus Christ.”

“A fresh prisoner,” said Mike. “Hop into the electric chair,
short stuff. Woops, take off those earrings before they get hung and we lose an ear. Look, she has points on her ears—little antennae. Loving it.”

“I'm going home,” said Emilio.

“Kiss, kiss,” said Mike, pressing my head under a stream of warm water. It would be worse, I thought, to leave without being changed at all.

Florida sat in the waiting room all throughout the shampoo, color, and perm; it nearly killed her. For all she knew, I was in there becoming a black person. To calm herself, she struck up an acquaintance with the woman in the fox fur, who turned out to be from Kentucky. Finally, curiosity got the best of her, and Florida came into the next room where I was sitting under the dryer, holding a tall glass of wine and a cigarette, giggling with Mike.

“And girlfriend,” Mike was saying, “he was a fudge packer if I ever saw one!” He waved his glass at Florida. “Is this Mom? Hello. I just put her under the dryer. Do you want me to turn her off so you can talk?” He lifted the plastic bubble, exposing my curlers. Drunk, I peeped at Florida, then, in a fit of laughter, lowered the bubble back over my face.

“Quit acting silly,” said Florida. “What color did you all decide on?”

“Red, honey,” said Mike. “Red as sin.”

“Oh, dear.”

“You'll love it. Can I get you some wine?” Florida shook her head. “I'll just sit under this empty dryer if that's all right. She doesn't like me to interfere.”

“Princess!” cried Mike, throwing up his hands.

“Let me tell you,” said Florida.

M
Y KNEE GRAZED
Mike's knee as he pumped me up to eye level, keeping the mirror behind me. I had not seen myself since he washed my hair.

“It's red all right,” said Florida, who had pulled up a chair to watch the makeup. “I don't know if you'll like it or not.”

“You hush,” said Mike, flapping a powder brush at her. “Or I'll have to do you, too.”

“No, this is just for Louise. I'm old and ugly; there's nothing you can do with me.”

“Shame on you! You're a head turner if I ever saw one. And you know it, too, don't you?” Florida adjusted her earring while Mike admired her. “With your figure and those green eyes—I'd do you blonde in a minute.”

“How much would that cost?” asked Florida, and when he told her, she changed the subject. “Emilio must have gone back to his office.”

“Mmmm, hmmm,” said Mike, bending close to my face with a sharpened pencil. “Hold still, hon. You are going to be gorgeous. Close your eyes, pooh bear. Don't squint. Squinting . . . Don't make me have to beat you with this mascara wand.” With my eyes shut, feeling his warm, winy breath on my cheek, I tried to imagine the face he was drawing over mine. “Suck your cheeks in.” A short, stiff brush stroked my skin. “Grand.” He tweezed one last hair, then said, “Open your eyes, Cinderella,” and spun my chair around to face the mirror.

I stared. A new Louise stared back at me. The new Louise was older than I, of average-to-slightly-below-average intelligence. She did lunch, ditched girlfriends for dates, went to church, and read romance novels. She was immune to imagination. She wanted a husband—her own or someone else's.
Nothing extraordinary would ever happen to her. No matter how I moved her mouth, or her eyes, I couldn't change her expression of sultry pique. My own expressions had been buffered out.

Mike stepped back and stood with his head cocked, one hand on his hip, smiling at his creation. Another hairdresser swung by, paused, and said, “Girlish! What have you done to this child!”

“Isn't he fabulous? An artist. Is this her mother? I could tell. Do her, too, Mike. I want to see!”

I touched my hair. “Is it Murfreesboro Red?” I asked Florida quietly.

“Oh for goodness sake, Louise. No!”

“What's Murfreesboro Red?” asked Mike, who was about to get his feelings hurt.

“Murfreesboro, Tennessee,” explained Florida. “We pass through there on the way to my home in Red Cavern, Kentucky. A lot of those people have red hair.”

“They're inbred,” I added. “Whenever you look out the window, you see the same crazy shade of red hair.”

“She's exaggerating. Some of them are normal. Anyway, that's not the red he gave you. Now leave Mike alone so he can finish you.”

“Inbred Red,” said Mike. “Loving it!” He pointed another pencil at me. “Open wide, wide, wide; I have a big surprise!” I winced as he painted on my new mouth.

“How did you do that?” asked Florida, impressed. “Louise, did you see how he did it? That doesn't look like your mouth at all! I don't know if she can do that herself or
not, every day. You'll have to keep at it, Louise. You can't just roll out of bed in the morning and go to school. Beauty takes hard work.”

A woman in a pink-and-white-striped smock with a head full of orange curlers came by. “Nancy!” said Florida. “I almost didn't recognize you. I want you to meet my daughter, Louise.”

“Louise, this is Nancy. We met in the waiting room. Nancy is from Kentucky; she's heard of Red Cavern. She has a daughter your age. Is she fourteen, Nancy?”

Nancy and I smiled blandly at each other. She looked older without her makeup, and less fierce without her fur.

“Sixteen, going on twenty.”

“She's an ice skater, Louise. Goes to Westminster. What color is her hair?”

“It's blonde, the same as mine used to be,” said Nancy.

“We talked about blonde. Emilio wanted her to go red. I tried to stay out of it.”

“Stunning,” said Nancy. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Louise, tell Nancy what you were telling me earlier today about the butterfly.” I feigned ignorance. “You know. What was it? At lunch. Something about this fellow who dreams he's a butterfly. You know.”

“I forgot.”

Florida turned back to Nancy. “It was a real cute story. Philosophical. Gets that from her father, not from me. Louise, what was that man's name? Chinese?”

Emilio walked in through the back door, carrying a pint of ice cream. “Ah,” he said when he saw me. “Fabulous, fabulous. I bet you didn't even know you were pretty.”

“Do you two know each other?” he asked Florida and Nancy.

“We're old Kentucky girls. We just found out.”

“Oh, Florida,” said Nancy, touching her shoulder. “I remembered something after you left the waiting room. I know somebody from your neck of the woods—Regina Bloodworth. I just met her awhile back, and she is the loveliest person. Just as sweet as she can be—cheerful—and a real hoot, too, when she wants to be. Do you know her? She said she was from Counterpoint.”

“The blind lady?” asked Florida.

“No, she's not blind. She quilts.”

“I knew a Regina Bloodworth who was blind, but it doesn't sound like the same person. She moved away.”

“Well, it must be someone else, then. Or maybe she said, Cartersville. I was almost sure she said Counterpoint, though.”

Suddenly, loud enough for the whole shop to hear, Florida said, “You don't like it, do you, Louise?” I couldn't bear to look at Mike or Emilio. “It's sexy, and you're not used to that. You don't look like a boy.”

Everyone agreed that I certainly did not look like a boy.

In the car, Florida said, “You don't like what he did, do you? I knew you wouldn't. If you go home and wash all that out, I'm going to kill you. I spent almost two hundred dollars on Emilio. What don't you like about it?”

I pulled the rearview mirror toward myself, still trying to find the real Louise behind my face. My eyebrows were gone. “I don't recognize myself,” I said.

“That's what we came here for.” Florida blew her horn at a
woman across the parking lot. “There goes Nancy. She looks good.” I caught a glimpse of fox fur and sweeping red hair; I couldn't bear to look at the rest. I lit a Virginia Slim; my nails were long and tapered, painted in a color called Very Berry.

“You don't appreciate anything I do for you,” Florida began as soon as we hit the interstate. “I have tried and tried. It's just ‘Me, me, me,' isn't it? Looking out for number one. You take and don't give.”

I French inhaled. “Leave me alone.”

“Leave me alone. That's all you say. ‘Just leave me alone.' What have I done to make you hate me? Just please tell me that. I'd like to know.” She started crying.