If I Had Your Face

by Frances Cha

  But Candy, Candy would be a different story altogether. She is the type of insolently beautiful that’s offensive, and everyone knows she’s been bullying the new girl in her group. People hated her even before this scandal and the Crown fan portals are jittery with disbelief and unease. “There’s no way Taein would go for Candy—he’s always said he wouldn’t date other idol stars!” “I saw her once in the restaurant in Itaewon and she was being a complete bitch to her manager.” “Who else is going to go to INU Entertainment HQ tonight to wait for her to come out? Charming is supposed to have rehearsal until they have to go to Star Plus Radio for the guest appearance at ten P.M.”

  Photos of Taein and Candy together have not surfaced yet, but on its home page, LastNews has been hinting for weeks at the biggest idol scandal it’s ever scooped. On the portals, people are saying the reason it’s taking so long for them to release the photos is because they’re negotiating with each star’s agency about which ones to publish. The more scandalous the photos, the more money they can extort from the agency. Usually only the tamest ones end up being released—just some light handholding or a shot of a couple in a car together.

  Neither Taein’s nor Candy’s agency has released a statement yet, but there is an announcement that Crown will be wrapping up their promotions for the album this week to start preparing for their world tour. “We are so excited to kick off in L.A. this time!” says Bestie on social media, and then there’s a mad scramble on the portals about what the various fan clubs are going to do about the last music show this week. The club president decides on the chant “See you soon, Crown!” and chooses the messages that are to be painted on ribbons for the flower wreaths that will be delivered backstage to the members at that last show. Five separate donations will be made to each of the members’ favorite charities in their names. There is a brief scuffle about the amount of each donation (Taein fans insisting that our amount exceed the other members’ because there are more of us), but a conclusion is reached swiftly (same amount for each member) and the comments die down for the night.

  I’m reeling, however, from a comment that a Taein fan writes about how she’ll miss seeing him for years, since they’ll be heading out on tour for at least a year and then they’ll need another year to make a new album. Years? How am I supposed to wait that long? What will I be living for? I need to see him. I need to.

  * * *

  —

  I’VE BEEN JUMPING every time Manager Kwon calls for me with a client, but the KBC producer doesn’t come in until Friday morning. I smile extra-wide as soon as I see her and give her a little squeeze on the shoulder. Cherry sees this and surveys me with speculation.

  “Someone’s in a good mood today, Miss Ara,” says the producer with a pleased smile back at me. I shake my head and touch her hair with a question on my face. She’s always kept the color dark and changed the style only slightly in the three years I’ve done her hair. The clients who come to me are the ones who do not have many demands—they are the type to give themselves over, with trust. But today, she seems restless, tapping her loafer on the floor as she stares at herself in the mirror with displeasure.

  “I think I want to go lighter this time,” she says, fingering her hair self-consciously. “I’m sick of black, you know?”

  I nod and smile and bring her a book of color swatches to choose from and she picks a medium chestnut with a brassy tint. It’s a bold choice for her and I write so on my notepad and show her.

  “I know, but I have a blind date this weekend so I kind of want to shake things up,” she says with a toss of her head. A lot of my customers do this before blind dates and I’ve seen it both work and fail. Sometimes they are imbued with new light, other times, they are distraught and ask that I return their hair to the old style and I have to frantically reschedule other customers.

  I nod and smile again and retreat to the coloring closet. In my head I am writing and rewriting what I want to ask her and the anxiety is making my hands tremble. Today is my only chance.

  As I’m blending the dyes in a bowl with a brush, I hear Manager Kwon calling my name again and I rush out to see who it is. It’s one of Mrs. Oh’s friends who wants her roots dyed black. Of course, Cherry is nowhere to be seen and I sit my new client down next to the producer before going to pick up the dyes again. As I run to retrieve my dye bowl, I see another of my regulars, Mrs. Chin, walk in with her daughter, and Manager Kwon waves to catch my eye as he asks them to sit for a second to wait for me. While I whirl around frantically, trying to find some help, I see the girls scattering helter-skelter, avoiding my eye.

  My head is pounding and I breathe in to try to steady my nerves, but the fumes from the dye and hair products just make my apprehension worse. I’ve learned to control my reaction to the fumes over the years, but today, I feel like I am being smothered.

  I cannot blow this opportunity. After this week, Taein will be gone, perhaps for years, singing and dancing in America and the rest of Asia, for those who can afford to travel to see him in concert.

  My hands shaking, I take out my notepad and start composing my request, but Manager Kwon appears in front of me.

  “What are you doing?” he hisses, grabbing my elbow. “You are keeping three customers waiting and they’re starting to complain, especially when they can see you just standing around doodling! Go see to them immediately.”

  I bow an apology and hurry to escort Mrs. Chin and her daughter to empty chairs. By the time Mrs. Chin has finished telling me what she wants for her daughter—a toned-down color that’s not too somber and a layered trim starting from her cheekbones—Mrs. Oh’s friend has called for me in a high-pitched, complaining voice. “How long am I going to be kept waiting like this? This is outrageous!” And by the time I go through color swatches with her, I see in the mirror that the KBC producer is standing up in her chair with an enraged look on her face.

  “Look, Miss Ara,” she says in a cold, steely voice when I go to her side. “Isn’t this just too much? I usually never complain when you keep me waiting because I know things must be a bit harder for you and everything, but enough is enough. I told you how important this hair appointment is going to be, and I took precious time off work today to be here since my blind date is lunchtime tomorrow, and I just waited and watched you attend to everyone else who came in after me, and you still haven’t even applied the dye! I can’t wait any longer, I’m going to have to leave.” She starts taking off the black salon robe and gathering her things from the side table.

  I am shaking my head and bowing and clutching to find my notepad to write her an apology, but she is already gone. The glass doors close behind her and I stand there in shock, staring.

  “Isn’t this yours?” says a voice behind me, and when I turn around, I see Cherry, holding out my dye bowl and notepad. Her smile is both sly and hard, glittering with mockery and derision, and she is holding the notepad in a way so that we can both see my writing as clear as day.

  Would it be possible for you to let me come to the taping of KBC’s idol music show this weekend? I am such a fan of Crown and would really really appreciate seeing them one last time before they go out on tour, it reads in my spidery handwriting, my words quavering with hope.

  “I told your customers you always need a little more time,” says Cherry, watching me. “I tried to calm Manager Kwon down too. But he’s asking for you. He looks mad. You don’t need this anymore, right? I’ll go wash it.” She takes the dye bowl back to the dye closet, a skip in her step, for all the world looking like a happy schoolgirl in her little plaid skirt and bouncing ponytail.

  * * *

  —

  A FEW HOURS LATER, around dinnertime, the news breaks all over the portals. The top ten trending keywords on every site pertain to Taein and Candy.

  “Taein and Candy photos,” “Taein and Candy car,” “Taein and Candy dating,” then, about an hour after th
at, “Taein’s management agency acknowledges Candy relationship, asks fans for understanding,” “Taein’s official statement.”

  The photos don’t show much—both of them are heavily camouflaged in hats and masks, but Taein’s lanky silhouette is unmistakable and so is Candy’s signature bleached hair jammed under the hood of her sweatshirt. There is a photo of them walking to Taein’s car together, a few feet apart but clearly together, and then there is another of Candy supposedly leaving the parking lot of Taein’s apartment, and yet another shot of Taein exiting a few minutes after that. Rumors swirl in the comments that there were photos of them checking in to a hotel together in Japan but Candy’s agency paid an astronomical sum for those to stay under wraps.

  I eat my dinner of take-out dumplings in the rec room, reading and refreshing the LastNews home page, which keeps rolling out more articles to accompany the same photos.

  I see Cherry and the other assistant girls huddling together and giggling out of the corner of my eye but I ignore them as I keep reading. Charming is now going to have to wrap up their promotions too, until this dies down. Taein’s fans are already gearing up to swarm Charming’s performances at KBC and BCN tonight. They will not take this well, to say the least. She may have to leave the country for a few days until the next celebrity scandal takes over the media.

  I finish my dumplings and throw out the styrofoam box, then go find Manager Kwon. I’ll clean and lock up tonight, I write on my notepad with a smiley face. Send the other girls home except Cherry.

  Manager Kwon looks at me and sighs.

  “Okay, Miss Ara. I know you’re trying and I am not heartless.”

  I bow in thanks and go to brush my teeth, and on the way I see him talking to the girls, Cherry turning to look across at me as he gives instructions.

  * * *

  —

  AT 10 P.M., the last customers leave and the stylists are not far behind, having already touched up their hair and makeup in a flurry of anticipation of Friday night revelry. “Thanks, Miss Ara!” some of them call as they hurry out, and the girls stay only the shortest amount of required time before they leave too. They don’t say anything to me as they go, just bow halfheartedly and mumble unintelligible sounds. They can’t get out of the salon fast enough. “See you tomorrow, Cherry!” they yell, but Cherry is wiping the closet doors so she doesn’t hear them. She started cleaning crazily about half an hour ago—she must have plans tonight.

  I make sure the floors are mopped and the mirrors and counters spotless before getting my coat and keys. Cherry comes running with rags in hand as I start turning off the lights in the back.

  “I’m done with the bathrooms and the rec rooms and the closets,” she says, panting. “Do you need to check them?”

  I shake my head and gesture for her to get her things and stand by the front door, waiting until she comes out to turn off the last light and lock the double door carefully.

  “Well, that was pretty fast,” Cherry says cheerfully, all smiles now, and she turns toward the stairs. That is when I reach out and yank her by her ponytail so hard that she falls on her back.

  “What the fuck?” she screams in shock, and she is still screaming when I kick her hard in the stomach. Earlier, I’d changed into my boots with metal tips. As she writhes on the ground, I reach again and pull her up by her ponytail and then drag her over to the bathroom in the hallway. She is heavier than she looks, but no matter. Flipping the toilet seat up, I smash her face into the bowl. I’m happy to see that it’s quite dirty. She is thrashing ferociously now, but she’s still in pain from the fall and the kick so she’s no match for me. She chokes bubbles into the toilet water and seems to swallow a good amount before I’m satisfied. My friends and I, we used to pull this toilet bowl trick a lot when I was in middle school.

  I give her ponytail a final yank and shove her to the floor of the bathroom. Hunching over her, I fish her phone out of her pocket, then throw it into the toilet, the water splattering on her hair. Then I take off her shoes and leave with them, slamming the door shut behind me. After I’ve walked a few blocks, I fling them into an alley, one after the other, as far as I can throw.

  * * *

  —

  BACK AT HOME, Sujin is waiting for me with my favorite green tea cake from the bakery near her work. She’s still wearing a dark brown scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, even when I protest that she should take it off when she’s home with me, but she has vowed to live behind a mask until all her swelling goes down.

  “Sweetie, I’m so sorry about Taein,” she says, her voice muffled through the scarf as she gives me a big hug and steps back to survey my face.

  “Wait, why do you look so excited?” she says suspiciously, and I shrug, opening the kitchen drawer for two forks. I will my body to stop trembling.

  “I was going to save this as a birthday present, but I figured you need some cheering up so…” She opens her bag and takes out a small white envelope. Inside, there is a ticket to the final Seoul show of the Crown World Tour.

  “I got it through one of my customers who works for that ticketing company! It was apparently so hard to get, but she’s been a regular of mine for years and she only charged me a ten percent premium, which was really nice of her. Although, with this scandal, do you think people are going to start refunding tickets?” Sujin chatters on as she opens the refrigerator, taking out two beers.

  I stare at the ticket and stare some more because it is too improbable to be believed. I finger the thick green paper incredulously. And then I start to cry.

  Sujin lurches, spilling her beer, and automatically reaches over to rub my shoulders. “What’s wrong, Ara? What’s wrong?” she asks in a panic as I sit there with tears dropping onto my hands and the precious ticket. “What is the matter? You can tell me,” she soothes, the way she always has, ever since we were children.

  Kyuri

  My young friend Nami and I are drinking again. I’m avoiding Sujin, who I know will be home soon and knocking on my door.

  We are sitting at my favorite pocha, where the fish cakes in the fish cake soup are just the right marriage of chewy and salty, and the owner always brings us free plates of food to go with our soju because he has a crush on me. Last weekend, he sat and drank a round with us and then had some fried chicken delivered from another store because I said I was craving gochujang wings. He’s one of those shrinking, gawky types that knows he doesn’t have a chance in hell with me, which is the only way I like them.

  Nami and I—we drink together at least every other weekend. Getting drunk by ourselves is completely different from getting drunk when we are working. When the two of us are drinking, it’s “game over” from the beginning. Nobody else can keep up, although sometimes men try to join us, but they give up when we drink shot after shot while ignoring them. We see enough men at work, Nami and I. They need to leave us alone on the weekends. We wear baggy sweatshirts and baseball caps pulled down low and no lipstick, just eyeliner, but still they come talk to us. “You’re too pretty to drink by yourselves,” they say. “Can we join you?” And then when we ignore them, they turn nasty. “What the fuck,” they say, real manly, muttering under their breath as they slink away. “Stuck-up cunts.”

  Nami is the only girl I still talk to from my red-light-district days. None of the other girls at Ajax know that I used to work in Miari, and if they knew, many of them would likely never talk to me again. It’s ridiculous—we are all doing some variation of the same work, even if you’re one of the “prettiest 10 percent” and don’t actually sleep with the clients. But they’d judge me all the same. It’s basic human nature, this need to look down on someone to feel better about yourself. There is no point in getting upset about it.

  I wish I could share this sort of wisdom with Sujin but for now I’m avoiding her. She is wild-eyed these days because her nail salon has been flailing and her b
oss told her that she will probably have to let her go soon. It’s only been two months since her surgery and parts of her face are still inflated and she talks funny because she can’t open her mouth very wide, but she’s already hounding me about next steps to getting a job at a room salon. I have told her to just look for another nail salon job for now where she can wear a dust mask and no one looks at her anyway.

  The problem is that Sujin feels obligated to take care of Ara. Yes, Ara is handicapped but she also has a job, even if the hair salon probably doesn’t pay much. But when I tell Sujin she should learn to look out for herself before worrying about anyone else, she tears up and says Ara cannot adjust to the real world and must be protected and Sujin has to make as much money as she can for both of them.

  What she doesn’t understand is that I am trying to save her. Once money exchanges hands and you step into our world, things turn bad really quickly.

  One minute, you are accepting loans from madams and pimps and bloodsucking moneylenders for a quick surgery to fix your face, and the next minute the debt has ballooned to a staggering, unpayable sum. You work, work, work until your body is ruined and there is no way out but to keep working. Even though you will seemingly make a lot of money, you will never be able to save because of the interest you have to repay. You will never be able to get out of it entirely. You will move to a different shop in a different city with a different madam and a different set of rules and times and expectations, but it will still be the same, and there is no escape.

  * * *

  —

  I WOULDN’T HAVE made it out of Miari myself if it wasn’t for one of my oldest customers—a balding, stooped grandfather, who fell in love with me and actually gave me the money that I needed to pay off my debts—fifty million won cash. The owners of the place I worked, they would have tried to scam me into working there even after taking the money, but the grandfather was a retired lawyer and he made them sign all these documents confirming that I was debt free. The mixture of the two—cash and fear of the law—was the reason they let me go.