by Renee James
“We have a go on Trans U,” she says. It’s TransRising’s pet project, a set curriculum of practical lessons and support kids usually get in a family environment, everything from everyday survival skills like how to apply for a job, to traditional education initiatives, like getting enrolled in school and help with homework.
Cecelia got me to pledge money to the enterprise months ago, before I became a capitalist debt queen. I really don’t need to be writing a check for $500 right now.
“I know you’re worried about money,” she continues. “So if you want to hold off on the contribution, you won’t hear an objection from me.”
“No,” I say. “A deal is a deal. Besides, five hundred dollars won’t move my debt needle a tenth of a percent.” I don’t know if that’s true, but it feels true.
Cecelia raises a regal eyebrow and hands me a document. “The educating part is just as important as the money. Will you do a seminar on hair and makeup, Bobbi? These kids know how to look like hookers and Goths and all the teen stuff, but we need to prepare them for applying for jobs and fitting in at school.”
I nod in mute acquiescence. Even if I could say no to the kids, I couldn’t to Cecelia.
“One last thing,” she says. I brace myself. Cecelia’s last thing is always like getting hit by a train.
“TransRising has a committee working on plans for a fund-raiser. I’d like you to be on it.”
I groan and make a face. Committees were bad enough in the business world, but they’re even worse in volunteer organizations because so many people in the room are there for ego gratification.
“Why me, Cecelia?” I whine. “I donate money, I donate time, I do people’s hair, I contribute to every cause under the sun. Isn’t that enough?”
“Because you actually know something about marketing and strategic thinking, Bobbi. We have a committee full of young people who have entry-level jobs and think they know everything.”
“I would rather bob for apples in a toilet than spend an hour with those snots.”
Her face shrivels into a grimace. “They’re just young. They need to be around some experienced people.”
“Do you see the way they look at us?” I counter. “They start hormones in their teens. They never look like men. They look at us and see what straight people see—men with tits. I don’t need any more angst in my life.”
Cecelia is unmoved. “You’re such a wimp! Stop whining. We need you on that committee. The only leadership right now is that girl Lisa.”
I groan.
“Yeah,” says Cecelia. “The prom queen. She’s an assistant something at a downtown ad agency and thinks she’s the second coming of Leo Burnett.”
“I’d end up killing someone.”
Cecelia smiles her smug, know-it-all smile. “You know you’re going to do it, Bobbi. And you know it always turns out for the best when I make you do something you don’t want to.
“I know,” I reply. “But it’s the only chance I get to whine.”
5
TUESDAY, AUGUST 5
NEWS MEDIA PEOPLE are calling it The Great Recession. I’m a believer. After the big financial crisis, business got soft but it wasn’t like we were falling off a cliff. When I bought the salon, economists were still expecting a recovery in the near future.
Now, it’s like we’re falling off a cliff. Few economists talk about a recovery anytime soon, and people on the street are bracing for things to get even worse and stay that way for a long time. Beauty salons are supposed to be recession-proof businesses, but if that was ever true, it isn’t anymore. The enormity of this economic disaster is touching everyone and everything. Millions of people are losing their jobs. Millions of houses are being repossessed. People who just a year or two ago were living the American dream are suddenly destitute. Buses and commuter trains are half empty, traffic is moving freely on the expressways, even in rush hour. You see working-age men and women at the grocery store in the daytime.
We’re feeling it, too. Our bookings have plummeted. I’m explaining this to the entire staff. It’s eight o’clock on Tuesday night, the end of a horrid day. They are much quieter than a roomful of hairdressers and assistants ever should be. There are many worried faces staring at me, from senior stylists who have families to feed, to our newest hire, who expects to be fired. She looks like someone just shot her dog.
I feel the same way. I made my payments on the salon in July by not paying myself. I paid my home mortgage and living expenses with savings. But my savings are very limited. I put almost everything I have into the purchases of my brownstone and this business.
“We’re in trouble,” I tell the staff. “I know you’re worried about your own incomes, but the salon is having serious financial issues, too.”
Like many salons, L’Elégance stylists get a commission on their work, not a flat salary. When times are good and popular stylists want to work hard, they can make very good money. When things slow down, incomes drop. Now, we’re getting hammered.
I explain that our problems stem from two sources. Simple attrition is taking place because some of our customers are in households where one of the wage earners is out of work. They either quit going to the salon altogether or go to a cheaper one. Just as painful for us, many of our regular customers are still coming in, but at longer intervals. Our hairdressers are not dumb. Some of them are brilliant. And they are all very artistic. But simple marketing concepts like this are not part of their experience. What everyone knows is that corporations are responding to the downturn with massive layoffs, which is why many of our people are worried sick about getting fired.
“We have difficult choices to face,” I continue. “We can downsize the business and try to move into a smaller space with fewer stylists and assistants and operate at a lower level of volume . . .” The frowns deepen in the room, especially on younger faces. The juniors and entry people who are the most likely to be let go.
“Or we can work as a team and work like dogs to bring in more new people.” Faces brighten, even among senior stylists.
“How many of you would be willing to spend part of your days off and maybe one night a week promoting the salon?”
Curiosity fills the faces in front of me. Hands raise tentatively, held low.
“What would we be doing?” someone finally asks.
“Handing out promos in front of office buildings, at the El station, in front of apartment buildings. Doing styling demonstrations on the sidewalk while the weather’s nice and hopefully in some office building lobbies when it gets cold . . . I’m working on that.”
There is great interest in the styling demos. I explain that we’d get hair models from a Craigslist ad for a modest cost. The demo would require a team—a stylist, an assistant, and someone to distribute promos and chat up anyone who stopped. We’d do them right in front of the salon at first, then maybe in other places. Our promotion pieces would offer discounts to first-time customers and the discounts would come out of the pockets of both the stylist and the salon.
I tell them I’d like to try in-store demos on new cuts and colors every month or two. We’d set up some seating and some standing areas, have light hors d’oeuvres, wine, and coffee. One of the stylists would do a cut while another would do a color demo and a third person would do the talking and take questions.
A buzz grows in the room as people begin considering these ideas. I announce a break as pizzas are delivered. The buzz grows as people get food and beverage and scatter around the shop. They are a good bunch of people. Even the couple of stylists who might be prima donnas in a different salon are relatively contemplative here because of the culture. I know the staff will go along with the plan. They love it here as much as I do and we still have a chance to make good incomes if we’re willing to go the extra mile.
When we reconvene, Barbara raises her hand. She is a beautiful fiftyish woman who was born in Australia and ended up marrying a Yank who brought her to Chicago. They have two teenage kids and
she likes to be at home as much as possible. Promo time would be difficult for her.
“I think those are great ideas, Bobbi. Let’s get going!” she says.
She is one of the most respected stylists in the salon, a brilliant cutter who combines the precision of a watchmaker with the art of a Rembrandt. Her embrace of the idea wipes out any lingering doubts among the staff. There is a murmur of assent across the room. I call for a show of hands. It is unanimous. People are laughing and smiling at each other. Nervous anticipation. Something completely new, but something that might be fun.
We tidy up the salon and as people leave I go into my office to shut down my computer. Our new hire, an assistant named Jalela, follows me in. Jalela is a transwoman, eighteen, African-American. Someone at TransRising suggested she apply for work here, figuring since I’m trans I’d be sympathetic. I wasn’t. She came in looking like a streetwalker, all mumbles and attitude. I didn’t see any way she could fit in here. We’re multiracial, but we’re also snooty and we have a snooty clientele. Plus hiring someone just because we’re both transsexuals is a good way to get an employee who doesn’t think she has to work hard.
In the end, though, she seemed like a good kid who needed a break, so I took a chance.
“Will you have to fire me?” Jalela expects the worst, but she’s able to look me in the eye without being confrontational. She has only been here a few weeks, but her evolution has been rapid and her motivation is off the charts. She loves working in a salon the way I did when I first got started. It would be a tragedy to lay her off.
“No layoffs of anyone, if I can help it, Jalela.”
She ponders this for a moment. “How am I doing?”
I smile inwardly. Jalela is learning to be assertive in a positive way.
“You are doing great, kid.” She is. She’s quiet and conscientious and she never stops working, from the time she comes in to the time she goes home. I don’t know how she manages to spend the day in high heels and bend that long, elegant frame of hers to do shampoos and scalp massages all day, but she does. I share these observations with her and she beams. She’s heard them before, but the feedback is important. Her happiness makes me glow inside. Even though I’m sliding toward a financial cliff I may not be able to avoid.
That thought accompanies me as I make my way home. Robert Logan, business executive, workout king, and all-around hotshot—the former me, the male one—would be absolutely fixated and anguished over the business situation. He would have been able to think about nothing else. Bobbi Logan feels the pressure but still cares about the human things. In fact, most of the pressure I feel is in letting down Roger and the staff.
* * *
THURSDAY, AUGUST 7
In the middle of a blow-dry Samantha comes to get me. Very unusual that she would interrupt a service. She stands watch over the sanctity of our beauty emporium like a Knight Templar guarding Jesus’ remains.
“Bobbi, you have a call. It’s important. I’ll get one of the girls to finish the service.”
Sam’s face is serious and puckered with concern. Not like her. Her tone is insistent. The call must be very important. I ask Jalela to finish the service for me. In my office, I pick up the phone and say hello. All I can hear is sobbing, I can’t tell whose.
“Hello? Are you okay? Who is calling?” I try not to be impatient. Whoever this is has enough problems already.
More sobbing. I’m thinking this can’t be a client complaint. Our mistakes produce anger but never bereavement.
“Can I help?” I say it softly, like an offer of a hug.
“Bobbi!” My name is spoken in a long, thin voice so filled with anguish it makes my eyes tear up. The voice belongs to Betsy. Oh God, I think, not Robbie!
“Betsy?” My voice cracks.
More sobbing and weeping, then the reedy, shattered voice again. “Bobbi, he’s dead.”
It’s not Robbie. I’m so selfish I rejoice for a moment. “Who’s dead, Betsy?”
“Oh, Bobbi, it’s Don. He’s been killed . . .” Her syllables become muted by grief. I glean he was killed in a car accident.
My tears erupt spontaneously as I comprehend what she’s saying. I get out most of a condolence before my voice breaks with a sob. I can’t understand how something so horrible could happen to three people who are so good.
I get my emotions under control. I’m of no use to Betsy if I’m as brokenhearted as she is. “What can I do to help?”
“Bobbi, what am I going to do? This . . . this shouldn’t happen. These things don’t happen to people like us.” Meaning, she’s not prepared to lose her husband in the blink of an eye. Who is?
“He was such a good man, Bobbi. He deserved so much better.” Her high, tinny voice gives way to sobs. I agree with her. There are a million or so outright bastards who should die before anyone like Don. Life isn’t fair, and death is even worse.
I struggle to get information from her. She is having a hard time being coherent. Grief is numbing her brain and her senses. It comes out in bits. She got the call fifteen minutes ago. He had been taken to an Emergency Room in Evanston and was pronounced dead on arrival. Betsy has to do an identification, make funeral arrangements, break the news to her daughter, start her life as a widow with a small child. She can’t will herself to move, to go to the hospital, to descend into the pit of heartbreak where the next day of her life begins.
I talk her through it. She will take a cab to the hospital. I’ll meet her there. I’ll be at her side for the formalities. I’ll come home with her and help tend to Robbie, then help her call her attorney, Don’s family, the funeral home. Whatever she needs.
* * *
Betsy’s house is a sprawling, light-filled ranch on an oversized lot in tony Northbrook. It looks like a palace, with white stone floors and decorator walls and beautiful area rugs and modern art in blazing colors hanging on the walls. A million-dollar home before the recession. They picked it up for less after the real estate bubble burst, but they bought too soon. Betsy once laughed that they could have saved another quarter-mill if they had waited six months. That is proving to be more of an epitaph than a quip.
It is eerily silent now, with Robbie put to bed. Betsy sits across the table from me, red eyed, mourning the husband she lost just hours ago. Even with bloodshot eyes and dressed in black, she is one of the most beautiful women on earth.
We go over the funeral arrangements again. I offer to meet her parents at the airport and squire them to the visitation. It might get their minds off the tragedy that has befallen their daughter, seeing her first husband as a buxom transwoman. They were aghast when Betsy told them about my evolution. They would have been less bothered if I had taken up violent crime.
Betsy declines my offer. I ask if she would prefer that I not come to the visitation. She answers that she wants me there. I ask if I should make my stay a brief one. She says no. With Don gone, the only person between her and unbearable isolation is me. Her parents are decent people and they love her, but their relationship is based on judgment and advice, not nurturing and comfort. She has friends, but not the kind of friends you sob your heart out to.
I am her sole surviving soul mate. Since we reconnected during my transition, we have bonded like sisters, intimate, but not sexual, like our spirits have merged in an unending hug.
Which is why, even with my business sinking deeper every day, I will take time off to help Betsy get things done, and be there when she needs a shoulder to cry on.
She will need me in the weeks and months to come. I don’t know how much insurance Don had, but it won’t be enough for Betsy to carry on without some changes. She’ll be going back to work full-time—that offer has been there since she went on leave to have Robbie. But her salary won’t begin to cover the lifestyle she and Don had.
I get up to make hot chocolate. Betsy tidies some of Robbie’s toys in the corner of the living room. It is like the FAO Schwartz of toddler playrooms. Robbie’s corner is swathed in a deep pl
ush carpet that’s as soft as a cloud. The rest of the room is white marble with subtle throw rugs and modern furniture that manages to be beautiful and comfortable at the same time. An elegant fireplace graces one wall, chic chairs and a couch just in front, separated by a handmade teak coffee table.
They invited me here for Thanksgiving the year Robbie was born, along with Don’s parents and some family friends. There was a warm fire in the fireplace, taking the edge off a frosty day. We had a lovely, quiet dinner and sat in front of the fire afterward, sipping wine, talking about babies and favorite Thanksgiving memories, the economy, sports, whatever came to mind. I got to hold Robbie for much of the time, making an ass of myself with baby talk and funny faces and tender kisses to her tiny forehead.
We were somewhere between mellow and tipsy when Betsy took the child to bed. Don and I were quiet for a while, then, out of nowhere, he said it.
“I know she named Robbie after you,” he blurted out. Robbie’s formal name is Roberta, which is the name I took when I stopped being Robert Logan. “I won’t lie about it, I had a hard time with that . . . because, you know . . . it felt like she was cheating on me.”
I told him she would never cheat on him, and would never do anything to hurt his feelings. I wouldn’t either, but that wasn’t important to him at the time. He said he understood, that he’d gotten over it. He never held it against me. He didn’t let it stop him from giving me the full benefit of his business expertise, and he always welcomed me into his home.
For my quid pro quo, I will make sure his wife and child are safe and secure for as many years as I’m around. No matter what it takes.
* * *
SATURDAY, AUGUST 9
