Heavens to Betsy (6 page)

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.”

“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.

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?

“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.”

“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?”

“There’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.

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.

“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.

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.