Split Ends (10 page)

“Vanilla. I left her at home.”

“Good. I don't want you attached to an old head and your own ways. You'll get a new head this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.” I feel as though I'm betraying Vanilla, the beloved head that loved me when I was poor and badly trained. Yes, I do realize that borders on psychotic, but you know, Vanilla is one of the few who misses my presence.

“You never mix until you're instructed to do so by one of our colorists, and only then to their exact specifications. People will stop our clientele on the streets and ask about their color because it's natural, but it has much more of a wow than they can get at any other salon.”

“Should I be writing this down?” I ask.

“You should be writing everything I say down. It's gold. Pay special attention to the techniques used in washing hair; it's your first entrance onto the salon floor working with customers. I cannot stand to see someone sit still. If something needs to be done, do it. Do not wait for someone to tell you to jump into action.”

“No, sir.”

“There should never be hair on the floor. When a stylist is cutting, and you see hair drop, get the broom immediately. But do not make the customer feel as though you're hovering or that they're creating a mess, no matter how bushy they are. It's an art, do you understand?”

Not in the least.
“Of course.”

“We offer all our customers a menu. Wine, champagne, espresso, mineral water, diet soda. It is all available to them while they relax. It's your job to make sure their glass is full and they're happy during their experience here.”

“You offer champagne?”

“Coming to Yoshi's is a celebration,” he answers, deadpan.

“I don't mean to be forward, but when will I be cutting hair, exactly? It's my passion; I'm not quite sure I can live without it for so long.”

“Eventually, you'll be doing the rinses and washes, giving hand massages in your free time. But until I say so, you are not to be on the floor for any reason other than cleaning the floor or bringing beverages. Is that understood?”

“Wh—when do I get to learn?”

“Every moment is a learning opportunity. Classes are held daily before the salon opens and in the evenings on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We'll have special classes offered on Sundays for specifics, where representatives from hair companies will assist. Today we're teaching razor cuts. You missed a fabulous day. Any questions?”

“Did you ever meet Cary Grant?”

I did not just say that.

Yoshi's serious demeanor falls away and his eyes sparkle. “Are you really going to take this moment with one of hairstyling's greats to ask about a movie star?”

“It's just I had this poster and— ‘A movie star'! Cary Grant was far more than a movie star!”

“Sophistication, my dear girl. Sophistication is everything. I can't have a teenybopper in here looking for autographs. You will meet stars daily—” He stops himself. “But, yes, I did meet Mr. Grant once, and he was everything you saw on the screen. He exuded charm and grace. Practice that skill and you will embrace that same sophistication.”

I want to reach out and touch Yoshi. He met
the
Cary Grant. It's like in Exodus when Moses is warned he's walking on hallowed ground. Granted, I know this is not the same as that, but man, can I just touch him right now?

“I need a fresh start, Yoshi.”

“Everyone needs a fresh start. That's what LA is all about.” Again he peers over his glasses at me. “You have years of training ahead of you. Are you willing to do that? More than half your class will fall away before it's finished, but the ones who get Yoshi-trained can go anywhere in the world. You understand this?”

Anywhere in the world
. Power. Control. The best in my field. I have to think long-term. One day I can send a Christmas card to Mrs. Gentry from Paris.

“There will be other pupils in your classes, but you're the only one on staff, which means all eyes—and they will be jealous eyes—will be on you for your position. You don't wear enough makeup.”

I swallow. “I'll get some more.”

“Naked lips, though. Don't come in here looking like an old Technicolor movie with the real Max Factor doing your makeup. Your coloring is good; just shine a little more. Do you have a bronzer? Tan is very in here.”

“I'll get some.”

He holds up a finger. “On second thought—” He pulls a business card from his desk. “You need a blue peel. This is Isabella. She offers the best blue peels in the city. Call her and arrange to have one done for yourself.”

A blue peel? Another single name? It sounds expensive and quite possibly painful. I'm not fond of pain.

“Did you see Jenna's skin? Or even your cousin's?”

“The plastic look!”

“What?”

“The peel. That's what gives everyone the mannequin skin?”

“I haven't noticed that, but—”

“Sure. Sure, it looks like they're wearing Vaseline.”

Yoshi sighs loudly. “It's a medium skin peel. Your skin will glow afterwards, and I think that's going to help with your appearance overall.”

“Actually, I'm more concerned about the money aspect. Right now, I mean—”

He slams his hand on his desk. “You're out here with nothing, aren't you?”

“Well, yeah. That's sort of why I came out.”
Does he
think I left the diamonds at home?

He stares at me for a long time, saying nothing, only scanning my expression for some telltale sign—perhaps that I can forgo the peel. Ugh, when I hear that word, all I can think of is
What on earth will they peel off?
How much epidermis must be victim to my job choice? Will I look like an orange?

Yoshi looks back over my shoulder. “I'm taking a chance on you, Sarah,” he says to his mirror. “I have no idea why, but I'm taking a chance. Your cousin will probably hijack my clients, and I'll regret this—”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Scott wouldn't do that.”

“Jenna!” After some rushed footsteps Jenna appears in the doorway. “Get Isabella's number, call her, and get an appointment for Sarah.”

“It's Monday, Yoshi. No one works but you.”

His eyes thin. “Your cousin working today?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you stop saying that? Call her at home, Jenna. I can't have Sarah out too long.”

“Out?”

“It hurts like a mother!” Jenna says. Then she perks up. “But you look great afterwards. Totally worth it.”

I whimper. I'm not fond of pain. Have I mentioned that? And I really have no money. “Mr. Yoshi, sir. I really can't afford this right now. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I can't.”

“There is no beauty without a price,” Yoshi says. “But that's fine; we'll schedule you for next month. Who's on duty now? Sarah needs her hair cut.”

I grab my head. “I do?”

“I have spoken.”

And with those incredibly arrogant words, I am led off for a makeover of frightening proportions.

chapter 6

I have spent the greater part of my life
fluctuating between Archie Leach and Cary
Grant, unsure of each, suspecting each.
~ Cary Grant

I
am shorn. The door slams behind me, and I stand abandoned on the pristine sidewalks of Beverly Hills in skinny jeans with a very bad shag cut deemed “edgy” by Johnny, my very gay and perfect-looking hairstylist-in-training. I will say he fit the Yoshi image to a T, but if indeed Yoshi can teach a monkey, that doesn't speak well for Johnny. My hair is . . . awful, to put it mildly. It's a boxy, shaggy bob that looks like what it is—a very bad razor cut by a trainee. He didn't even waste organic product on me, and if I'm not a poster child for styling paste, I don't know who is.

I was also shorn of my name. Scott didn't go far enough with the Winston, apparently, because instead of Sarah Claire, I am now Sarah Winston. So sophisticated. And if I didn't look like a labradoodle, I'd say it worked for me.

I pull out a compact, and even in that tiny little circular reflection, it's bad. I came across three states to get a bad haircut and an appointment with a scary, foreign woman who will take my skin and turn it into the plastic look of everyone else. Which, lucky for me, I can't afford yet. And rather than money in my pocket, I'm in more debt for the job requirements—along with a necessary four days off next month for pain and suffering! I have entered Stepford, and my transformation is nearly complete.

I look at my watch, wondering where on earth Scott
went and if he has any plans to retrieve me. I'd call his cell, but wait—I don't have one.

Thankfully, he pulls up just then. He spends a moment cooing into yet another woman's ear before clicking shut his phone, which is far too small for the size of his head, and looking at me. “You're done?”

“You're disgusting, do you know that?” I climb into the car.

“I'm only paying the bills. How'd the interview go? You're starting tomorrow, I take it. Your hair is ghastly, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks. Love you too. I got the job, but only because he wants your clients.” I cross my arms. It seems I'm destined to be defined by family members no matter where I go. “That's the only reason he's hiring me. When he cuts hair, someone shadows him at all times, and I may get that privilege in six months or so. Until then, that's as close as I'm coming to a head of hair unless I take a trip home to Sable. Or buy a Barbie head at Toys“R”Us. My duties will include making sure the toilet seat is down after a male client goes to the bathroom, sweeping up hair, and making coffee concoctions with a steamer engine posing as an espresso machine.”

My cousin starts to laugh.

“Not funny!” I tell him. “Not funny at all.”

“It's a little funny. Who doesn't have to pay their dues in life, Sarah Claire? What makes you so special?”

“I have a skill,” I say with my palm on my chest.

“To Yoshi, you have an eight-by-ten glossy and a skill yet to be learned. Right now, you have only potential.”

“Chauvinist—”

“Never mind. Certainly you didn't think you were going to have your hands on Ashton Kutcher in the first week.”

“I'm scheduled for a blue peel next month before I'm let loose on the hallowed grounds of Yoshi's styling floor to sweep hair.”

“Ouch.”

Not what I wanted to hear. “It hurts?”

“Hair is such a personal thing. My clients go where they want, so don't let that stop you with Yoshi. Just appease him and you'll have your job. If you get good enough, he'll lose all power. Did he give you the Yoshi spiel?” His eyes roll. “You know, the ‘
You are Yoshi. You will eat Yoshi, sleep Yoshi
—'”

“It wasn't that bad.”

“I guess he's trying not to scare you. He
is
that bad. He's a genius, but a crazy genius. Tom-Cruise-jumping-Oprah's-couch genius.”

We squeal up the road until we're once again in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, the place to be while you sit in your overpriced car wasting gas on idling. His phone rings again, and he holds up a finger. “Scotty here.”

Scotty?

Another distraught female voice comes over the speaker. “They're saying I'm not on the list, Scott!”

“Who's saying that, baby?”

“These thugs at the door! Big-necked losers. They have no idea what they're doing! Didn't you get me on the list? How could I not be on the list?”

“I'll be right there, Cassie. Just hang on.”

“You're going to help me, baby, right?”

“I'm just the blackness in your universe, helping you shine.”

Can I puke now?

He flips the car around and pulls to the side of the road, then reaches over me to open the passenger door, pushing it toward the dirty sidewalk. “I've got to get to work; this girl's on the verge of stardom. Get yourself home, all right?”

“Scott, you have got to be kidding.” I cling to the seat. “I don't even know where you live yet. Just take me along. I'll help you be the blackness in her universe. Come on, I can suck up. Remember?”

“Can't do that.” He scribbles on a pad that's mounted on his dash. “The address.” He rips off the paper and pulls a twenty from his ashtray. “Go get yourself some dinner, and go home and prepare for tomorrow. Read that manual from cover to cover. And lose the furrowed brow; you're going to need Botox before you're thirty. You want to look like your mother?”

“Please, Scott.” I try to keep the desperate pleading from my voice, but to no avail. “Can't you just take me home first? Or I can go with you. You'll never know I'm there.”

“I'll never make it with traffic, and I'm not showing up to work with a woman on my arm. I have enough needy women in my life where that isn't smart business.”

“Fine. Maybe if you had fewer women on your arm, your problems might be fewer. Did you ever think of that?”

He pushes the door wider. “Go shopping before you get home, Sarah. I'm not going to baby-sit you, and I hardly think you need me to dress you. You've had a subscription to
Vogue,
I'm assuming, and this is your business too. Show me you know what you're doing.”

“Yes, but the magazine is the only part of it I can afford. Unless you count rubbing the perfume-sample pages on my wrists.”

“Go vintage, Sarah. There's a shop up the street. Do your best and accentuate your tiny waist and your booty. Hollywood loves a good booty.”

“Somehow, that doesn't provide me with any motivation.”

“Booty sells in Hollywood.”

Why do I suddenly feel like something ordered at Kentucky Fried Chicken? “What is wrong with you?”

“Go. Before I lose this client.”