by M. E. Carter
“How long have you been dating?” I gesture to the mirror/shrine.
“Chad? Um… about six weeks.”
That’s… surprising. “Oh. I thought with all the pictures, it was longer than that.”
She giggles. Not like a shy giggle. But like an I’m-barely-out-of-high-school-and-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing giggle.
I have a bad feeling I won’t be getting out of this chair with any dignity left intact.
She pulls the hair tie out making my messy bun fall around my shoulders and begins combing through my hair with her fingers. “Callie said I could do whatever it takes to make you feel beautiful. I have some ideas. How much time do you have?”
“Wow. I didn’t realize my hair was that bad.” And I can’t believe I’m letting a teenager take scissors to my head.
“It’s not bad, exactly. It’s really healthy. It’s kind of… well, you look like my mom.”
“I didn’t know being a mom was a bad thing,” I say defensively.
“No, silly.” She rolls her eyes and already I’m having visions of ripping her voice box out of her throat. Her voice is slightly too high pitched and bubbly. “It’s not bad to be a mom. You don’t want to look like one, ya know?”
I honestly don’t know, but I let her blather on and try to ignore the dig on how insignificant and unimportant my entire life for the past eight years has been and how I should be doing my best to not look the part. Someday, she’ll get it. The more babies she has, the more she’ll get it.
I make a mental note to pray she’ll have triplets someday.
And then she says the magic words….
“What do you think of having a keratin treatment?”
My face immediately brightens. I know, because I see it happen in the mirror. I go from scowling to excited in a split second.
“I’ve always wanted a keratin treatment, but I was afraid it wouldn’t work on me.”
Jordan stops and gets a very serious look on her face. “Elena, keratin treatments were made for people like you. For people who have lots of hair, but battle frizz because your hair isn’t quite curly enough to hold curl, but isn’t quite straight enough to stay straight.”
“Yes. That’s it exactly. I want my hair to be sleek and stylish.”
She smiles like this new plan is going to change the course of history. As long as it changes the course of my history, that’s good enough for me. “Then you came to the right place. First, we’ll start with your color. You have a good base with your natural color. Let’s add some dimension….”
She rambles on for the next ten minutes about what all we’re going to do, and it sounds good to me. I haven’t gotten more than a Super Cut in years, so even if it looks like shit, I can at least claim it’s stylish.
“Hey Jordan, I’m going to run a couple of errands. How long do you guys need?” Callie grabs a cookie off the coffee bar and takes a bite, handing me the rest of it.
“Oh, it’s going to be a while. Do you think you can bring us some lunch?”
“It’s only nine in the morning,” I mumble through some crumbs.
Jordan turns to me and smiles. “I know, silly. But beauty takes time. And we’re going to make sure you are the best version of you, you can be.”
Ok, this teeny-bopper is starting to grow on me.
“I guess I’ll be bringing lunch,” Callie shrugs. “Burgers work?”
“Make it Chinese,” Jordan shoots back.
Callie wasn’t expecting that response. Apparently, her husband’s sister’s niece has a little more bite to her than Callie knew.
“I’ll grab some Panda Express.”
“I’d rather Cho-Min Chow down the street.”
Callie gives me a look that tells me she really wants to wring Jordan’s neck, but she won’t for my sake. You don’t want to piss off the woman who could “accidentally” mix chemicals that burn all your hair off.
“Ooookay. I’ll be back in a few.”
As soon as Callie walks away, Jordan gets to work. Listening to her talk non-stop about Chad, her boyfriend of six weeks, and how as soon as he graduates from college and gets a job, they’re going to get married, is really annoying. Especially since Chad is undecided on his major and spends a significant chunk of his time planning frat parties.
Sounds like Chad might have a future in event coordination.
When I mention it to Jordan, she stares at me blankly. I guess she doesn’t agree.
While her voice continues to grate my nerves, watching her work isn’t annoying at all. Quite the contrary, surprisingly. Her fingers move quickly and efficiently. She watches the clock like a hawk, and says it’s to make sure she doesn’t over-process. When Callie drops off our lunch, Jordan never stops checking my foils. And even more interesting, several times, other stylists approach her and ask for advice on mixing a color or a special cutting technique.
This ditzy, stereotypical hairdresser who could be a stand-in for Minnie Mouse voiceovers is actually a master of her craft. After Kristi gave me my makeover, I should have learned never to judge a person’s abilities by their personality. But did that lesson compute? No. I’m continually surprised by how competent some professionals can be.
Five hours later, yes five hours, I am highlighted, lowlighted, deep conditioned, cut, keratined, trimmed again, blow-dried, flat-ironed, and I’m about to see the new me. Because at some point during the cut, Jordan decided I needed a big reveal instead of watching as the process happens.
“Are you ready?” She giggles and claps her hands, which I’ve strangely gotten used to over the day. She spins me around and…
“Oh no, why are you crying?” she asks. “Is it the color? We can change that. Or if it’s the cut we can do something different or…”
I put my hand on her arm to stop her from working herself into a panic. “It’s beautiful.”
“Oh, that’s all.” She puts her hand over her chest and breathes out. “Don’t scare me like that, silly. You like it?”
Like doesn’t even begin to describe it. My normally frizzy not-quite-curly, not-quite-straight hair is sleek and shiny. The color is almost what I remember my hair being like as a teenager, except with more definition to it. The bangs I swore I would never have are swept to the side, covering my giant forehead.
I look like me. Only better.
“I love it,” I finally reassure her. “It’s perfect.”
“Well good.” She takes the cape off my shoulders and does one additional quick sweep of my hair with her fingers. “Let’s go get you checked out and make your next appointment.”
Callie looks up as we round the corner and her jaw drops open. “Holy shit, Elena. Your hair is gorgeous.”
“It’s good, huh?”
“It’s great. Wow. I knew Jordan was good with hair, but if I knew she was this good, I would have started making appointments with her instead of the lady I’ve been seeing since high school.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to make a change as well.” Jordan punches some buttons on the register while Callie keeps touching my hair. I feel like things are finally falling into place. I’m feeling confident and strong. I have an actual date. I’m on the path to taking my life back and making it whatever I want it to be.
“Your total is four hundred and twenty-three dollars.”
And just like that, the new path I’m on goes right over a proverbial cliff.
Chapter Eleven
If the look on her face was any indictor, my mother was as shocked as we were when she saw that receipt. The squeak she made was a dead giveaway that she never expected to get me a five-hundred-dollar visit to the salon for my birthday.
But then she looked back over at me and caught me staring at myself in the mirror again. Very quickly she forgot about the cost and said it was the best birthday present she had ever gotten me.
Well, she didn’t totally forget about the cost. She said it’s also the best Christmas present, because she’ll still be paying this gift
off around the holidays so I’m not getting anything else.
It’s still totally worth it. Especially as I walk up the sidewalk to Greg’s condo.
I feel all jittery and nervous, smoothing down my skirt and running my hands over my hair. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me in yoga pants and a messy bun before. Why am I anxious?
Because I like this guy. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why he likes me, but I really, really want to be attractive to him. Not in a she-has-such-a-great-personality way, but in a I’m-really-hot-for-her way. Is it too much to ask for your date to be turned on by you? I think not.
One more smooth down of my skirt. One more fluff of the hair. One more rub of my finger over my teeth to make sure my lipstick doesn’t make me look like I’ve been punched in the mouth when I smile. And I push the doorbell.
He opens the door and stops. And then he stares. And he stares some more.
“What?” I’m not sure why he’s looking intently at me. “Shit, do I have a stain on my shirt?” I pull at the soft fabric, trying to find the spot which is probably on my shoulder. “I told Max not to lay her head down on me after eating peanut butter. Is it bad?”
“No. There’s nothing on your shoulder. Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare…” he opens the door a little wider. “Come in.”
Stepping inside, the first thing I notice is how bright and airy his apartment is. There’s quite a few windows and the blinds are all open, letting the natural light in. The second thing I notice is the aroma.
“Wow, it smells great in here.” Dropping my purse on the couch, I look around at his pictures. They’re everywhere. Some are artsy landscape looking pictures. Some are snapshots of family and friends. But most of them are Peyton over the last two years.
“I’m making pasta primavera,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks toward the back of the room, where I’m assuming the kitchen is. “I hope you don’t mind lots of sauce.”
I laugh and gesture to myself. “I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m not a picky eater. The more sauce the better.”
“Good.” I can see him over the counter, tossing a salad. “Nothing irritates me more than heating up leftovers and the pasta’s too dry because there’s not enough sauce. So I always overdo it.”
“You also need a few more calories than the average person for your job.” I situate myself on the bar stool and watch him work. How in the world does he make chopping lettuce sexy? I need to make an appointment with my ob/gyn. Clearly, I need some sort of hormone therapy. Mine are out of whack. “I still feel terrible that I didn’t know you were a coach.”
“Why?” He throws the salad into a big white bowl and starts chopping up hard boiled eggs.
“I don’t know. I feel like you know so much about me and Callie, and we haven’t made enough effort to know you. Makes me feel like we haven’t really been good friends to you.”
“I kind of like that you didn’t know about my job right away.” A few eggs get added into the bowl along with some dried cranberries. “I like that we can hold fun conversations without bringing work into the discussion. I talk about work all day long. It’s much more fun to talk about things like what a perv Callie’s mother really was before she had Calixta.” He emphasizes her given name, referring to the character she was named after, which makes me laugh. Callie’s mom really is kind of kooky.
“Shoot! I forgot the wine.” He turns toward the fridge and grabs a bottle of something pink.
“You got us wine?” A slow smile crosses my face.
He looks surprised I would even ask. “Of course I did. What kind of date would this be if I didn’t splurge at least a little?”
It’s been a long time since anyone has made that kind of effort for me, and I can’t help but wonder, of all the people in the world he could have asked out, why me? I’m nothing special. No that’s not right. I’m special to my family and friends. I’m just nothing overly remarkable. I’m kind of… average. Average height, average weight, average number of kids. He’s got a good job, is a loving father, and is pretty much the prettiest man I’ve ever met in person. I can’t quite see how we’d be on equal footing if this went any further than one date.
Well, that’s depressing.
Putting those thoughts out of my head again, I concentrate on having a fun evening.
“How did Fiona like her first class anyway?” He pulls the cork out of the bottle with ease and pours two glasses.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about work,” I chide, taking a sip of the crisp Moscato. It’s good. Sweet and not too dry.
“I don’t. But I’d like to get to know you better and part of that means getting to know your kids.”
I hold his stare and see nothing but sincerity in his gaze. It’s a little frightening when he says things like this. It makes me feel good, but also makes me nervous. What if I say or do something wrong? Will he stop liking me? And why the hell do I sound like an overly dramatic high schooler? Did Jordan’s immaturity rub off on me while I was at the salon?
I’m disappointed in myself for always going back to my insecurities. I’m a nice woman. I have a lot going for me and I have a lot to give. If someone can’t see that, even Mr. Perfect here, that’s not my problem.
“She had a great time. She’s been wanting to take classes for a while now, but I kept dropping the ball.”
He tsks playfully at me. “How could you keep forgetting?”
“I know, I know. I’m the world’s worst mom. You would think being a former gymnast myself, I would’ve gotten her in there the minute she showed an interest.”
“I knew you were a gymnast the minute I set eyes on you.” He moves around the kitchen when the timer buzzes, finishing up our dinner. For as tall as he is, he’s not lanky. He doesn’t slink around the room. He’s way more graceful.
“How could you tell?”
“Every former gymnast looks the same when they see the equipment,” he says, waving away the steam as he drains the pasta. “It’s like they’re trying not to run over to the bars and climb on. Even if they’re little bars like Peyton and Max use.”
“Guilty.” I raise my hand in the air. “I had to hold myself back from running out on the mat with Fiona the other day. It looked like a lot of fun.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost thrown my back out demonstrating a move. Getting old is kind of shitty sometimes.”
“Were you a gymnast growing up?” My mouth starts watering as I watch him mix the sauce into the pasta and dish out our servings. It smells really good, and I have a soft spot for carbs, as my waist line reminds me on a daily basis.
“I wasn’t. Is this enough?” He holds up the plate full of steamy goodness. I nod and take it from him, following him to the small table off the kitchen. He refills our wine glasses and makes sure we have everything we need before digging in.
“If you weren’t a gymnast…” I ask around a bite of my food. Good lord, this is good. “How did you get into coaching?”
He chews and swallows his bite before answering. “My sister, Joie, was a gymnast.” He gestures to a picture on his wall. I’m pretty sure it’s his family, but none of them look anything alike. The older couple, I’m assuming are his parents, both have an olive complexion and dark hair. They’re average height. The woman, I guess is his sister, is short and looks to be Hispanic. She’s standing next to a dark haired teenage boy. He’s a good-looking kid. And then there’s Greg, holding Peyton. He’s taller than anyone else by at least a few inches, and blond with blue eyes. “I spent a lot of time at the gym during her practices when I was young, so the coaches knew my family pretty well. By the time I was in high school, I was over six feet, and when they needed to hire some big, strong guys to learn how to spot, they called me.”
“Wait… did your sister train here?”
He shakes his head and wipes his mouth. “No. Most of my family is in San Antonio. I moved here when I was in college and my boss
happened to be friends with Dave, the owner here. They needed a coach. I needed a job. I’ve been there ever since.”
“That’s really cool. It’s almost like you fell into your calling.”
“Yep. I realized pretty quickly how much I loved it. But I also knew there isn’t much room for advancement as a coach, so I got a business degree. Now, I run most of the operations.”
“That’s really awesome.”
“I think so.” He stacks our plates and leans back in his chair, sipping his wine and flashing that flirty smile. “What about you? Did you get a scholarship to a Big 10 university?”
“Hardly,” I say, playing with my hair. This is literally the only flirty move I know, and since my new ‘do makes me feel pretty confident, I go for it. “I got to Level 9. I have no idea what that means anymore since they changed the levelling system.”
“It’s still almost elite level. You were pretty good.”
“Yeah, I held my own. I just couldn’t get past that mental block.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes hold so much interest in what I’m saying. I don’t remember anyone ever really hearing me talk about my gymnastics days. It’s either something that interests you or it doesn’t. I don’t know if he’s interested because it’s his career or because he’s interested in me.
“Um... it’s like the harder the skills got, the more fear I started feeling. It’s hard to explain, but I started visualizing crashing and burning my release moves.”
“And you couldn’t do them anymore?”
“Exactly. I did everything I could think of to visualize sticking my landings and completing the moves, but I hit a wall.”
What I don’t tell him is that I still struggle with this part of myself. It doesn’t affect my normal day-to-day life, but if I start to feel anxiety about a situation, if I don’t get a grip on it quickly, it can become debilitating. Like people who run from a four-centimeter spider, or women who refuse to have their picture taken. It doesn’t really affect anything externally, but internally the struggle is real.
