The Importance of Being Married (9 page)

Pedro grinned, then put his hand up to my hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “Short? Color?”

“Blond,” Helen said firmly, just as I said, “No color, thanks.”

Pedro nodded as my face drained. “Blond?” I gasped. “I can’t go blond.”

“Of course you can,” Helen said dismissively. “So, Pedro, what do you think?”

He frowned. “Yes. I think so. But peroxide funky blond or highlighted chichi blond?”

Helen glanced at me. “Highlights,” she said. “Expensive looking.”

“Not just expensive
looking,
honey.” Pedro laughed. “Okay. So we go natural-looking highlights. And the cut?”

They frowned and stared at my head, neither of them appearing to be remotely interested in my thoughts on the matter. I felt my hands clench into fists. I’d promised to go along with whatever Helen suggested, but
blond
? Seriously?

“Just a trim, please,” I heard myself saying. “I had it cut only a couple of weeks ago.”

“I think layers might be nice,” Helen said, ignoring me.

“Layers. Yes, I think so,” Pedro agreed, maneuvering me into a chair. “Layers and a long fringe. Like this…”

He lifted up the front of my hair so that I had a sweeping fringe cascading down my face.

“Perfect!” Helen squealed, clapping her hands. “God, Jessica, it’s going to be great. Now, Pedro, she’s also having her eyebrows and legs done, and we’ve also got to go shopping, so don’t keep her too long.”

Pedro grinned. “Okey dokey. You sit right here”—he pointed out a chair next to a sink—“and we get started, huh?”

I sat down rigidly, gripping the sides of the chair. Blond layers. I was going to look like Lassie. I was going to look ridiculous. I was going to look like one of those loose women Grandma used to shake her head at in the street. Women in miniskirts, women in pastel pink, women wearing too much makeup. “They’ll end up like your mother,” she’d mutter, darkly. “And so will you, if you don’t watch out. Men look at women like that and they see a conquest, they see a victim. They’ll walk all over you, mark my words. Leave you before you’ve even noticed they’re gone.” I’d nod seriously, determined that I would never be caught out like that, determined that I would never allow myself to be a victim, or a conquest. Not that I’d allow myself to think of my mother in that way, either. Grandma had her wrong, I’d tell myself. She didn’t mean to leave me behind. Didn’t mean to get killed in a car crash.

But even without my mother to act as a warning, Grandma was proof enough. After forty years of marriage, forty years, she’d tell me again and again, Grandpa left her for a woman half her age. Just walked out, without a care in the world. That’s when Grandma stopped wearing makeup. That’s when Grandma stopped smiling, too—at least, I was fairly sure it was. All the photos of her with Grandpa showed a different woman—a happy, cheerful-looking one with eyes that twinkled. But after he left, she had a permanent scowl. He left one month after my mother left me with Grandma for the weekend. One month after my mother got into a car, drove down a street, and ended up in a crash. She could so easily have not gotten into the car, I used to tell Grandma. She could so easily still be alive, if only she hadn’t gotten in, if she’d stayed at home instead. Grandma disagreed about that. My mother had been wearing a miniskirt, she told me, as if that explained everything. A woman her age wearing a miniskirt was asking for trouble.

But before I could explain about highlights and short skirts to Pedro, the seat moved, throwing my legs up in the air as he pulled it backward toward the sink. He grabbed my hair and started rubbing something into it—not shampoo, but something else, something oily.

It was oil, I discovered a few minutes later.

“For condition,” Pedro helpfully pointed out. “Before we putting on peroxide, yes?”

“Peroxide?” was all I managed to gasp before I was whisked out of the chair, moved to another chair, given a copy of
Vogue
to read, and told to look straight ahead while Pedro focused on my hair, picking out a few strands, covering them in white gunk, wrapping them in tinfoil, and then doing the same all over again. I concentrated on an article about the ongoing drive for exclusivity in the fashion world and tried not to think about my burning scalp.

As soon as my entire head was covered in foil, I was whisked downstairs to Maria, a stout woman who turned out to be Pedro’s mother, who looked me up and down sternly, ordered me to undress, got me lying down on a narrow bed, and then went to work on my legs, laying on hot wax before ripping it off with what felt like most of my skin. It was agony, but I didn’t want to say anything, so I just clamped my teeth shut and closed my eyes against the pain.

Next, she turned her attention to my eyebrows, wrapping two pieces of cotton together then letting them unravel, quickly, ripping out my eyebrows as they did so in a way that seemed so haphazard I was fairly sure I was going to look like something out of a horror movie by the time she’d finished. She handed me a mirror to inspect her handiwork but I was too scared to look in it, so I just handed it back and nodded, forcing a smile onto my face so she wouldn’t suss me.

Immediately she pulled me off the bed, yelling “Pedro! I finish!” Then she sent me back upstairs to have my hair washed before I was plonked down in front of a mirror.

“Ah!” Pedro said, his eyes lighting up. “Ah, yes. Is better, yes?”

I looked down at my knees and nodded. It was just too humiliating. I felt like a turkey being basted for Christmas.

“So, now we cut,” Pedro said, picking up his scissors and flourishing them like a matador’s flag.

“So now we cut,” I repeated, nervously. As soon as the scissors started to snip I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the pieces of hair that kept plopping into my lap, onto my hands, up my nose. I could always buy a scarf, I told myself. I could start wearing hats. I could shave my hair off and tell everyone I had that stress disease where your hair falls out.

And then I felt the heat of a hair dryer on my scalp, felt my hair being tousled and primped.

“Okay you have to look now.”

I opened my eyes, slowly, and directed them toward Pedro’s face in the mirror. “Great!” I said. “Really great.”

“But you haven’t looked,” Pedro said, a hurt look on his face.

“Oh. Right.” I blushed and forced my eyes toward my own reflection, steeling myself for the surprise, preparing a smile that probably wouldn’t quite reach my eyes but would at least get me out of here with minimum fuss.

Except it wasn’t surprise I felt when I saw myself properly. It was shock.

“Oh my God.”

Pedro looked at me in alarm. “You don’t like?”

My eyes widened. “I don’t look like me,” I said. I looked again. I resembled the sort of girl who walked down the Kings Road talking loudly into her mobile. The person staring back at me was the sort of person I poured scorn on—the sort of girl who sat outside cafés on a Saturday, eating lunch with a gaggle of friends, talking about boys, about shoes, about inconsequential things that didn’t matter at all. My hair was sun-kissed honey blond with long, chunky layers softening my jaw. My eyebrows hadn’t disappeared, either; they were just thinner, higher, arched, and they made my cheekbones suddenly stand out, turning my face into a kind of permanent question mark.

“She no like,” Pedro said, his face falling. “She no like the makeover.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I mean…I don’t…it’s just…I…” I cleared my throat. “I just never thought I could look like that,” I managed to say, eventually. “It’s just different, that’s all.”

“Good different?” He had so much hope in his face, I couldn’t tell him how shocked I felt, how doubtful. I looked down at my hands, which were covered in cut hair. My hair. I felt like Samson. I felt like Cinderella. I felt thoroughly confused.

“Good different,” I agreed, uncertainly. Pedro, having decided that everything was okay after all, beamed.

“Yes!” he agreed. “Different is good. Is all good.”

“Good? She look good?” Maria appeared behind him and stared at me in the mirror. “Ah, yes,” she said approvingly. “Now pretty girl, huh? Now much better.”

I nodded weakly, still trying to equate the reflection in the mirror with myself.

“Wow,” Helen said, raising her eyebrows at the commotion as she pulled herself away from her magazine. “You are an amazing man, Pedro,” she murmured, surveying my reflection.

“And Maria, you’re an amazing woman,” she added quickly, when she noticed Maria glaring at her.

Pedro put his hands on my shoulders. “People, they have surgery,” he said sadly, “but all they need is hair cut.”

“And eyebrows,” Maria pointed out. “Eyebrows more than hair, in fact.”

Everyone digested this thought for a few moments, unwilling to argue with her, and then Helen pulled me up. “Okay, time to go. We’ve got shopping to do.”

“Shopping? But I hate shopping. And I haven’t got any money.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “Think of it as an investment,” she said impatiently.

I stood up slowly, and in a reflex action pulled my hair behind my ears. But it wouldn’t stay. It was shiny and soft, and immediately bounced back to its cascading fringe.

“A Jessica-proof haircut.” Helen smiled as she pulled me out the door. “It really is a minor miracle.”

Chapter 6

“I CAN’T DO IT.”

It was the following morning, and suddenly what had been one of Helen’s crazy ideas was now beginning to be very real and very scary.

“You can
so
do it.”

I swallowed nervously. Helen and I were standing in front of her full-length mirror as she put some finishing touches on my makeup. Makeup! I’d never worn makeup to work before.

It wasn’t just the makeup, either. I’d been up an hour and a half already, being tutored by Helen on the arts of flirting (you have to stay in the same room as the person you’re trying to flirt with), smiling (push lips out before allowing corners of mouth to go up, and don’t show too many teeth), accepting a compliment (look up seductively, and say “thank you,” then smile; don’t raise your eyebrows as if to suggest that the person complimenting you is an idiot), and what not to do with hands (drum fingers on the table, gesticulate vigorously), and it had just hit me that this wasn’t a game; this was real.

“I really can’t,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Honestly, Helen. And I don’t need the money. I mean, money doesn’t make people happy. Friends and love make people happy, right?”

Helen smiled and wrapped her arms around me. “Jess, I’m your only friend. Trust me, you need the money.”

I grimaced, then, shaking myself, focused back on my reflection. I was perched on two-and-a-half-inch heels, my legs clad in the thinnest of nude tights, my thighs encased in a skin-skimming skirt that didn’t even attempt to reach down to my knees. A soft, cashmere sweater covered my top half, and around my face my new, swingy mane of hair was glistening like I was in a hair spray ad.

Helen clocked my expression. “You don’t like it?”

I frowned. “No, I look like…like…”

“Like someone who people might actually be attracted to?” Helen asked, her eyes twinkling. “Someone who allows herself to have some fun from time to time?”

I met her eyes and reddened slightly. I’d been going to say
like a brain-dead floozie.
“Look, I have to go,” I said instead, looking down at the floor quickly, wondering why it seemed such a long way away.

“Okay,” Helen said. “Just remember, mouth shut when you smile, and no hiding behind your computer.”

I raised an eyebrow, and she hit me on the shoulder. “Come on, Jess. You’ve got to put yourself out there. You’ve got to be open and friendly.”

“Got it,” I said quickly, figuring resistance was futile.

“Then prove it. Stop fidgeting and looking in the mirror like you’re staring at a freak show,” Helen said firmly.

“I’m not fidgeting,” I said defensively.

“Put your arms by your side and stand up straight. You are Jessica Wild, hot babe. Who are you?”

I shrugged awkwardly. “I’m Jessica Wild,” I mumbled.

Helen rolled her eyes. “You are Jessica Wild, a hot babe, who Anthony Milton is going to fancy madly,” she said crossly. “Say it.”