The Look (14 page)

She drags herself off to the bathroom again.

She may have a point. Just after a fresh bout of chemo is not her best time. Even in
The Devil Wears Prada
they never made Anne Hathaway look
that
bad.

Ava’s brave, but I can see now that she’s struggling more than I’d realized. She needs something to keep her going while Jesse’s away. Something fun. Something to take her mind off her body, and how everything’s gone out of control.

What’s Ava’s idea of the most fun thing you can do without a boyfriend? Then it occurs to me. Shopping.

More specifically, shopping for cute little tops, new handbags, and skinny jeans. She tried to cheer herself up by giving me a skirt, but it would be even better if I could get her one. Much more effective than the endless blueberry and nasturtium concoctions that Mum keeps feeding her.

I call Frankie again and ask if she can advance me some of my “very nothing” TV money. After all, I earned every penny of it wobbling about on those red platforms for Sandy McShand. Normally it can take months for the money to come through, but when I tell Frankie about Ava, she agrees to put some in my bank account straightaway.

“Give her a hug from me, OK?” she says.

I promise I will. Actually, I won’t, because hugging hurts Ava at the moment, but I know what she means. I’ll give Ava a spoonful of ice cream from her instead.

W
hat we’re up to isn’t exactly illegal, but it isn’t encouraged by Ava’s doctors. Or technically
allowed
by Ava’s doctors. They don’t want her out and about in major public places so soon after her latest session of chemo, in case she gets an infection.

Does Constantine & Reed count as a major public place? Since opening in July, it’s now officially the coolest store in Knightsbridge, with bouncers at the door, like a nightclub, and lines of teenagers waiting to get in. It probably counts as a
bit
public. But it’s
so
amazing that I’m sure the doctors wouldn’t mind if they could see us drawing up outside in our taxi. Meanwhile, Mum thinks we’ve gone to the library, and Dad didn’t ask
where
we were going, which was perfect.

Inside, the store is exactly how Ava’s friend Louise described it: huge, dark spaces with spotlights in the ceiling, colored lights in the floors, and loud music pumping through the sound system. The good-looking staff wander about in shorts, high heels, and tans, and there’s a strong sense that if you went back outside you’d be on the beach in Miami or somewhere glamorous in LA, and the bouncers would be making space for J-Lo and Jay-Z.

I can’t believe I never took shops like this seriously before. I’ve always gone for places that sell things cheaply, on racks, in simple displays that I can quickly flick through. I could never understand Ava’s passion for wandering around, soaking up the atmosphere. Here, things are draped on quirky pieces of futuristic furniture. It takes ages to figure out what’s what, but as soon as you find something you like, you discover something even more desirable right next to it. It’s not about finding your size; it’s about being cool and fitting in. And I want to. Suddenly, I really want to. I wouldn’t mind a job here myself next year. I wonder if they hire ex-almost-models with TV issues.

Ava is happier than I’ve seen her for weeks. For half an hour, she wanders from room to room, with Louise in tow, picking out things to try on. There’s a massive line for the changing rooms, but this is when it helps to have your best friend working there. Louise has reserved the best room for us, so we just waft right up to it when Ava’s ready. There’s even space for me to sit down and admire her as she tries things on.

“Call me if you need me,” Louise says. “I won’t be far away.”

Once Ava’s inside, Louise catches me for a moment outside the curtain, puts a hand on my shoulder, her eyes wide with shock. She’s been so busy working recently that she hasn’t seen Ava for a little while and she obviously wasn’t expecting her to look so different. I suppose I’m used to it, because I’ve seen it happen gradually, day by day. I put my arms around Louise and give her a quick squeeze. I’m just grateful that she didn’t say anything. Ava hates people commenting on her new appearance, and Louise is a good friend for respecting that.

Inside the dressing room, Ava is struggling to undo a fussy top without interfering with the tubes in her chest. I help her
out of it, then turn to admire the huge pile of other things she’s brought to try on.

“Pass me that dress, would you?” she asks.

It’s a stretchy floral number that slides over your head. No fussy buttons. I do as I’m told, then check out what else she’s chosen. There are lots of skinny jeans in different colors and styles, a few simple tops, some pretty dresses with ribbons for decoration, and lacy cobweb cardigans. Interesting: They’re all very much Ava’s style and they’ll look gorgeous on her, but I happen to know that they’re not the latest trend — as modeled at every go-see — which is more voluminous and luxurious and out there. I always assumed Ava was a fashionista, but really, she’s just a girl who’s comfortable with her own look. I love her confidence. I still haven’t got around to wearing my Woodland Trust T-shirt as a dress yet, and there’s a part of me that really wishes I would.

Suddenly, there’s a noise behind me. A sort of strangled shriek from Ava. It’s definitely not pleasure caused by the loveliness of the cardigans. I look up and catch her reflection in the mirror. Her face is drained and gasping. It’s poking out of the neck of the floral dress she’s got on, which has strange, dangly embroidery around the neckline that I don’t remember seeing before.

“Help me. Help me. Get it
off
!”

I stand up quickly and reach forward to help her. Which is when I spot it. The embroidery around the neckline isn’t embroidery at all. It’s
hair
. Ava’s hair. Lots of it. Pulling the dress over her head must have dragged it out, not in strands, but clumps.

We stay there for a moment, breathing fast, not talking. I didn’t know hair could
do
this. I can feel my panic rising,
especially when I see the exposed patches on Ava’s scalp. This is exactly what she feared the most, and the sudden appearance of her pale, exposed skin is shocking. I wonder if I’m going to be sick. Why did we stupidly go out without Mum? But the fact is, we did, and Ava’s only got me. Somehow, I’ll have to deal with this.

I calm my breathing and think. This is just one more surprise in a summer full of surprises. I have recently dealt with fat ankles, cartwheeling on wet pebbles, and looking like an idiot on daytime TV. Ava has coped with far worse. Of course I can deal with this.

“It’s OK,” I tell her gently, putting my hands on her quivering shoulders. “Close your eyes. Put your arms up. I’ll get it off. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

Her breathing calms a tiny bit, too, and she does as she’s told. For once, it’s useful being so much taller than her. It makes it easier to pull the dress back over her head. I quickly brush as much hair off her shoulders as I can and wrap one of the cardigans around her.

“Get rid of it!” she whimpers.

I pick up the dress and I’m about to take it away when she squeaks, “The hair! I mean the hair.” Then, with a sob, she slumps slowly to the floor.

So, carefully I remove the hair, strand by strand, until the dress is back to its old state, ready to give back to Louise. Trust Ava to worry about the clothes. As I work, I steal glances at her head with its patches of bare scalp and remaining tufts of hair lying limply against the skin.

“You need to cut the rest off,” I say gently. “Before it gets any worse.”

“I know,” she says, biting her lip and shivering. “I was going to get it shaved soon. But I’m scared, T. I’ll look like a Buddhist nun. Or an
alien
. A big, fat, ugly alien.”

“A gorgeous alien. We could do it now. I’ll come with you.”

“I just want to stay here.”

She can’t stay here, in this dressing room. The longer she stays, the harder it will be to move.

“I’ll hold your hand,” I reassure her.

“Will you?”

“Yes.” Then I think of something. “And I know somewhere we can do it. You’ll be fine.”

She looks lost and uncertain. “And you promise you’ll hold my hand?”

“Every minute,” I tell her. “Trust me.”

Louise is standing outside the curtain. She heard the shrieking. I ask her to get us a taxi and she goes off straightaway to find one, without staring, or saying anything to Ava, or asking why. Not remotely ditzy in any way. I like Louise.

T
wenty minutes later we’re in Covent Garden, standing in the reception of Locks, Stock, and Barrel. It’s the only posh hair salon I know. It reminded me of a spaceship the moment I walked through the door to have my hair cut. The perfect place to become an alien.

The girl at reception looks through her book to see if she can fit Ava in.

“What was it you wanted done?” she asks. “Cut and blow-dry?”

“No, we need it all cut off,” I say.

Louise lent Ava a straw trilby to wear, but she’s hot and she’s fanning her face with the hat.

The receptionist catches sight of Ava’s head and gasps.

“Excuse me.”

She disappears. When she comes back, she’s with a young, rangy man dressed in black with a studded belt and several earrings.

“This is Sergio. He’ll look after you,” she says, flushing with embarrassment. I hope Ava didn’t see the expression on her face.

We follow Sergio through to a chair at the back of the salon. He puts a gown over Ava’s shoulders and sits her down. Then we all look at her patchy head in the mirror, and her patchy cheeks, still red from crying in the taxi. I do as I promised and keep hold of her hand. Sergio doesn’t look very sure about this.

“How short do you want it?”

The message hasn’t gotten through. As calmly as I can, I explain again about shaving Ava’s head. There’s not much else we can do at this stage. Leaving any hair behind will just look patchy and silly. Sergio’s eyes widen, but he nods. He goes off to get clippers and whatever else he needs. Meanwhile Ava grips my hand tightly.

“Stay with me.”

I look at her in the mirror, where her frightened eyes seem huge. “Of course I’ll stay with you.”

Without letting go of her hand, I pull up the seat beside her and sit in it. It feels so wrong that she should be losing what’s left of her lovely hair, whereas my rubbish bird’s nest is still sitting there on my head, looking as hopeless as ever. I’ve never liked my hair.

Which gives me another idea.

“I’ll do it with you.”

“What?”

“We’ll do it together. It’ll be easier if we do it together.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says. But I can see something new in her face. Curiosity, besides the fear. Curiosity is a much better look. And I’m curious, too. And strangely excited.

“Come on! It’ll be an adventure.”

So when Sergio comes back, we send him off for another hairdresser and more clippers. He looks even more doubtful. The salon’s very busy. He disappears for quite a while and I can see lots of whispering going on among the staff. Other customers start looking around, wondering what’s going on. Then an older man appears behind us. He smiles at us both in the mirror. He’s huge — like a grizzly bear in a silk print shirt and gold jewelry. But his smile is pure honey and when he opens his mouth, his voice is rich and warm: like an American soul singer about to launch into a big number.

“Hi, I’m Vince,” he says in an accent that is pure South London. “I’m the head stylist. Now, I understand you two beautiful ladies need my help.”

Calmly and confidently, he places his hands on Ava’s shoulders, looking as though he deals with patchy-headed teenagers every day of his life. Sergio returns, clippers in hand, to stand behind me. He looks a lot more comfortable now that Vince is here.

“Shaving a head is an art form. It’s a ritual,” Vince explains. “We should have incense and flower ceremonies. Instead we have coffee and this month’s
Vogue
. Anyway, let me show you what we can do.”

He puts the clippers in front of us and shows us the difference between shaving the head completely, and leaving a millimeter or two of hair. I’m about to go for the gentler option, but Ava grips my hand and says firmly that she wants hers shaved off completely.

“I hate it now. Get rid of it, please?”

Vince can see the blackness in her eyes. He doesn’t argue.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say. He smiles and nods. There’s a pause while we’re given drinks and magazines to take our minds off it. Then Vince flourishes his clippers like castanets.

“Ready, beautiful girls?”

We say yes together. We hold hands tightly. We’re ready.

The clippers get going and our magazines sit untouched on our laps. Our drinks go cold. We’re mesmerized by what’s going on in the mirror. Slowly, our heads and faces start to change in ways we couldn’t imagine.

The first thing that happens is that I notice how alike we suddenly look. Without our hair as a distraction, our features seem stronger. Our eyes are similar: different color, same shape. Our chins have the same dimple. And I have slightly nicer ears than Ava. Cool! As it gradually appears, I’m fascinated by my scalp. I’d always assumed it was smooth as an egg, but it’s actually bumpy. It’s a whole part of me I had no idea about. I know I’m going to spend ages examining it in the mirror at home.

Ava looks down to see what’s left of the curls landing in her lap, on her shoulders, and on the floor.

I squeeze her hand again. “Watch your face. Watch mine.”

She looks at me gratefully. “Wow, T! You’re like something out of
Star Trek
.”

I am, but I rather like it. “Actually, I remind myself of Megamind,” I say, admiring my domed forehead.

She stares at me. Then at herself. She smiles.

“I look like a boy!”

“A boy with cheekbones to die for,” Vince cuts in. “And the back of your head is
divine
. I’ll show you.”

He picks up a handheld mirror and adjusts it so Ava can admire her profile. He’s right: It’s magnificent. She just needs loads of chokers and jewelry to show it off.

We can’t take our eyes off ourselves. It’s as if we’re looking at different people. These girls somehow manage to be strange and scary, but also powerful and strong. I wouldn’t mess with the person I see in the mirror. But I’d want to know more about her. And I thought Ava would be fragile once all her beautiful hair was gone. Instead, she’s the opposite.

“You look like a warrior princess,” I tell her.

She grins. “I know! I look like you.”

“Uh-huh. Two warrior princesses.”

“Oh!” Vince exclaims. “Xena and Gabrielle. I
adored
those girls on TV. Did you ever watch that show? They were so
crazy
and
strong
and
hot
! You can be Xena,” he says to Ava, “and you can be Gabrielle. I see you now, fighting the gods, casting bolts of lightning. Add a bit of gold armor and you’re
smokin’
.”

I love it. I’m Gabrielle — whoever she is. No, I think I’ll be Xena, too. And I’m storming across the … wherever they storm — I’ll have to get the DVDs — causing havoc and fighting with gods. It’s just how I feel.

Once the hair is gone, Vince and Sergio go over our heads again with the clippers at their lowest setting, paying attention to every bump and hollow.

Ava lets go of my hand to feel her scalp. She does it gingerly at first, then with growing confidence.

“It’s so smooth and soft! It’s like stroking a baby.”

So much better than the fluffy patches that were there before. She looks healthier now that they’re gone.

I stroke my own head. My hair was tougher than Ava’s, and what’s left feels like sandpaper. There’s a shadow on my scalp where it used to be. It looks as if someone has drawn my hairline in light pencil. And I have a cute hairline. I never knew this.

Vince and Sergio rub lotion into our skin. It smells of pears and sweet spring flowers. I can’t help twisting my neck, adjusting to the new freedom. I had no idea how heavy my bird’s nest was. My head moves differently now that it’s not there. I could swear my neck’s grown longer.

Vince pats Ava’s shoulders. “Come on, Xena, we’re done now,” he says. “I
love
that look on you.”

She looks at herself seriously in the mirror and nods. “It looks a lot better than it did.”

I’m glad she thinks so, too. She looks very elegant now. Her Elizabeth Taylor eyes shine through.

We take off our gowns and head for the reception desk. I reach for my wallet in my bag. Which is when I catch sight of the price list propped up beside a space-age flower arrangement. I didn’t pay for my last haircut here — Frankie arranged everything. So I didn’t know that an average stylist charges £75 for a cut and blow-dry. Vince charges £150 —
each
. Mum complains when a haircut costs £50, or at least she did. Now Dad cuts hers for her. I didn’t know you even
could
spend this much.

Oh, goodness. I’ve done one measly modeling job and already I’m over £200 in debt. Ted would crumple at this point, but Xena just assumes that something will sort itself out, because warrior princesses are not defeated by mere hairdressing.

And Xena is right. Vince follows us and has a quiet word with the receptionist before greeting his next customer.

“That’ll be twenty pounds,” she says, surprised, punching numbers into the computer. “Vince says it was a simple job.”

I try to look sophisticated and relaxed, not pathetically relieved, as I pay her with my debit card. But when I’ve finished, I look over to catch Vince’s eye so I can say thank you. He’s back at work, but he sees me in the mirror and gives me a flash of a smile. A sad one. I think he knew why we were here today, but he never let on to Ava. Vince is a hero.

The two Xenas make their way out into the legendary landscape of Covent Garden. They are proud and brave (and not in debt), and all they need is some golden armor to complete the look. And leather bikinis, but frankly, there are limits. Wherever we go, people turn and stare. Normally I hate this, but today I think it’s only natural. Who wouldn’t stare at a couple of warrior princesses, striding through their domain and acknowledging the loyalty of their subjects? We smile at them regally. A few of them smile back.

I may — to some people — look like an alien life-form. But I know how I feel. Even aliens can be hot.