by Carmen, Roya
A Taylor Swift song is playing softly in the background. A young stylist works on a middle-aged woman, blow drying her hair — they’re busy chatting. Another young woman sits at the cash register, speaking on the phone. No one is paying attention to me, which gives me the chance to study the space and relax a little. I breathe deeply to try to settle my heartbeat.
I check my watch. There’s no sign of Joel. He must be here — I have an appointment with him in five minutes. I take a seat by the door on one of the four waiting chairs, and my gaze darts across the neat row of magazines. I look to my left and spot the hairstyling books on the end table next to me, and grab one. I’ve always been fascinated by those. The pictures are so great, the styles so streamlined, the bone sculpture of the models flawless — they’re definitely aspirational. I’m focused on a photo of a purple haired woman when I feel his presence.
My breath hitches. He’s spotted me, and as he nears, he flashes me that smile, that grin I’m already so familiar with. He offers me a hand. “You must be Mischa.”
“Uh… yes, I am.” I stand and my legs are shaking. For a split second, I worry I might faint. God, this is even more stressful than meeting Renee. I shake his hand and hope he doesn’t notice how clammy my palm is.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mischa. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” My gaze darts across the space. I can’t look him in the eye. If he only knew how many hours I’ve spent perusing pictures and captions of his life, he’d probably call the authorities.
“Let’s get you settled,” he says, and I follow him nervously. He swivels the second chair in my direction. I smile as I take a seat. My breathing eases a bit as I settle in. My gaze is focused on the display below the mirror; four photos; one of him and Renee and their girls, one of Ava in a graduation cap and gown, one of him and three light-haired middle-aged women, and one of his cat. I smile at the sight of the cat. I don’t know too many men who would have a photo of their cat at their workplace — Joel is definitely quirky. There’s a sweetness, a femininity about him you don’t often see. Yet, he’s also very masculine — strong shoulders, a long lean build, a two-day-old beard. I can definitely see what Renee sees in him. Lucky woman.
There’s a bowl of mints next to the frames, and my gaze is glued to it. For the life of me, I can’t quite glance up and look at his reflection.
He sets his hands on my shoulders. “So what did you have in mind today, Mischa?”
I finally find the courage to look up at his reflection. He’s smiling and his eyes are studying me, awaiting my reply.
“Just a trim,” I tell him. “I like to wear my hair in a bob, chin-length.”
He rakes his hands through my hair, and I’m shocked by my reaction to his touch. “You have great hair. Naturally silky. I won’t be needing to sell you any products today,” he jokes.
I wonder if he compliments all his clients this way. I’m sure that’s just part of the business. The beauty business caters to people’s vanity.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice small. My eyes find Ava’s photo again — for some reason, I can’t stop looking at it.
“You’d like a wash as well, yes?” he asks.
“Yes, of course.”
He gently wraps a towel and a purple smock around my neck — his touch gives me goosebumps. When’s he done, he grins and tilts his head to the side. “Come with me.”
I follow him eagerly past the partition, where the shampoo chairs are. There are two, and he helps me settle into one of them.
“We just got a new line of shampoos and conditioners in,” he says, “they smell amazing.” He grabs a hold of my hair at the nape and twists it in his hands — there’s something very sensual about the act. He instructs me to scooch my neck farther up in the basin, and when he runs the water, it’s warm but not too hot. I’m in heaven. I close my eyes.
This was a great idea. He might become my new hairdresser. His touch is much gentler than Katrina’s.
He was just a photo, thousands of pixels. But after days of stalking him in cyberspace, now he’s real. I can’t believe it. I’m here, and his hands are in my hair. He was right — the conditioner smells divine and as he massages my scalp, I sink into the pleasure of it and almost forget my initial purpose.
Which is what? I’m not sure. Get to know him better? Find a clue? Tell him what’s going on? He should know. But I can’t go there yet — I just don’t know enough.
He wraps a plush towel around my head. “All done here.”
I follow him back to his station where the framed photos await me. As soon as I settle in the chair, my gaze fixes them again. My eyes are frozen to the one of Ava. There’s something unsettling about it, something about her smile.
I tear my eyes away from her face and study Joel’s reflection in the mirror. I like his orange top — there are three small brown buttons, the top one undone. When his eyes meet mine, I jerk my gaze away and settle it on the business cards; RESTYLE FOR YOU and SERENITY YOGA. I smile and make a mental note to take one of each. I’ve been looking for a new yoga studio because I’m getting bored with my current classes, looking to shake things up.
He removes the towel from my head. “So just a trim?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“How about styling? Straight or curly.”
“I was thinking something retro-inspired.”
His face lights up, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. I’ve made him very happy. “Fantastic. How about something Jackie-O inspired?”
I smile up at him. “Oh, yes.”
Who is this guy?
He gets right to work. “So are you from around here?”
“Yes, I live in Orchard Heights. You know it?”
“Yes! Fantastic building. How long have you been here?” he asks, making small talk.
“About ten years. How about you?”
“Twelve years this September,” he tells me. “Love it.”
“Me too.”
We fall into silence, and I don’t like it. I struggle to think of something to say. I want to further the conversation, but I’m not sure how to. This is one of those times I wish I were more extroverted — why is this always so hard? “So…” I start. “Ever been to that yoga studio?” I ask. “Serenity Yoga?”
He smiles widely. “All the time. My sister owns the place.”
“Really? Cool.”
His hands are still busy, dancing above my head. Lost in deep concentration, the tip of his tongue sticks out a bit, which I find very endearing. “Yeah, it’s great. Really zen… great music.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Are you a yogi?” he asks with a smirk.
I laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself a yogi, but I do enjoy it. I do it three times a week… it’s good for me because I’ve never been into strenuous workouts. I’ve never been much of an athlete. I was the one in middle school who was always picked last…” my words trail off. Seriously, am I going to tell him my whole life story? Why don’t I regale him with the story of my first period next.
He smiles kindly. “Can’t say I relate. I was a baller in high school… basketball. Almost got a scholarship too, but tore my ACL something fierce in my senior year.”
Of course he was. He’s easily six foot-two, and has the lean strong body of an athlete. “Sorry to hear that.” Actually, not sorry at all. If he were playing for the Bulls, he wouldn’t be doing my hair right now.
Star basketball player turned hairdresser — this guy is certainly interesting.
He spiders his long fingers over my head and shakes my hair up. “My dad was devastated. I was his only shot. I’m his only boy, you see. I have three older sisters.”
My eyes grow wide. “Three sisters!”
He grins. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
I laugh. “It does.” I really like this guy.
That explains the photo in front of me, the one with the three women. “Which one owns the yoga studio?”
“The la
st one on the left.” His fingers dance around my face as he sets the strands of my wet hair just so. “So what do we think? You like the length?”
“I do.”
“Great,” he says, seemingly pleased. “Seriously though, you should check out my sister’s studio,” he says. “I’m there all the time.”
I’m thrilled to be invited, and I get giddy at the idea.
“I just might.”
He pulls out a blow dryer, and as he works his magic, I’m amazed by the transformation, something akin to a wet rat morphs into Jackie Kennedy’s doppelganger right before my eyes. This guy really is a magician.
He turns off the dryer and settles it back in its place. He reaches for some product. As he works his fingers through my hair, he stares at my reflection. Of course he does — it’s his job. He studies women’s reflections all day long. I wonder how many of them fantasize about him at night when they’re in bed.
“You have amazing hair,” he tells me. “Thick and smooth… a rare combination.”
“Thank you,” I say, bashful. “It’s so dark though. Sometimes I wish it were lighter, a few highlights maybe.”
“You don’t need them,” he tells me. “The color suits you.”
I smile, at a loss for words. I’m not great with compliments.
“My daughter has amazing dark hair like you,” he says. “That’s her… in the pictures.”
“She’s beautiful.”
He smiles. “Yes, she is, just like her mom. But I don’t know where she gets the dark hair. Renee and I are both blond. Her little sister, Madison, looks more like us.”
I stare at the photo, and as I study it carefully, everything else disappears; the people next to us, the chatter and buzz of the salon, the music in the background. I stare at the graduation photo, and I finally know what’s so familiar about it… the eyes, the dark hair etched in a widow’s peak, the chin dimple, and that smile; coy and playful.
She is the spitting image of Brian at that age.
There are two photos of us, up high on a shelf in our office — our high school graduating photos. My hair was long and my smile was forced. He looked more natural, happier, smiling that same coy playful grin.
He looked exactly like Ava does in this photo.
My pulse races. My body suddenly feels stiff, my breathing shallow. I want to escape this chair. I don’t want to see that photo anymore. I want out of this story. It can’t be. I suddenly feel nauseated… too hot.
I’ve been so focused on Brian possibly having an extra-marital affair, so consumed with images of him and her, tangled in each other’s arms, I never even took a second to consider other possibilities.
To consider this possibility.
12
“So what do we think?” Joel asks, all smiles.
“Uh… nice.” Unfortunately the expression on my face is still one of terror and shock.
“You hate it,” he says.
I shake my head furiously. “No, I love it. It’s perfect. I just…” My heart is pounding so hard, I worry I might have a heart attack. “It’s… I just remembered something urgent I need to do… I completely forgot.”
He flicks the smock off me. “Oh, I hate it when that happens.” He sighs. “But you like the hair, right?”
“I do. I do. I do.”
God, make this end.
I shuffle out of the chair awkwardly. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I follow him to the register, still in shock, and fish my wallet from my purse. He cashes me out, and when he hands me the credit card payment gadget, he smiles and his soft gaze lingers on me for the longest time. “So, will I see you at my sister’s studio?”
I’m completely taken aback by his inquiry. I was sure he was just making conversation, being polite. But he really seems to want me there. Perhaps he’s just trying to drum up business for his sister.
I smile up at him. “I’ll definitely check it out.”
I’m completely numb as I head back home. A million thoughts whirl around in my head. If Ava is Brian’s, that means she must have been conceived about nineteen years ago. Her birthday is April 7th, which means she was conceived in July, the year before. I travel back to that time — thankfully, my mind is a great time-traveller since I have an excellent memory.
Brian and I had been together for about a year. I distinctly remember that summer because it was the summer Brian’s dad died, and also when I lost my part-time job at the Gap. Our relationship hit a rough patch that summer.
I loved my job at the Gap. I wasn’t so great with the customers, as good as required I suppose. But my love for fashion and order were both assets. My boss, Karen, said I was the best folder she’d ever seen. She even put me in charge of the displays — I was in heaven.
Life was perfect. I had a job I loved, my best friend Charlie, and a really cool rocker boyfriend. Brian had gotten a summer job in construction to save up for school — he was already in college by then. And at night, he still played with his band. I was there most every night, singing along and cheering him and his bandmates on. After his gigs, we’d all hang out and drink and smoke pot. I never smoked, and never consumed more than two drinks.
Was Renee there? I try to remember but for the life of me, I can’t. And if she had been there, I’d certainly remember her — she’s not the kind of woman you easily forget.
Then one day, everything changed. I learned that summer that all it takes is one day for your life to completely fall apart. I had a shift at the Gap, and I was dog-tired, having partied a little too hard the night before. It was a Saturday, my least favorite day to work because it was always the busiest. So many people were milling about, messing with my tables, unfolding shirts and pants, driving me up the wall. I’d draw in a breath and nip at their heels, undo their messes and restore the order.
We had a big sale going on, and a woman was perusing the clearance racks, feverishly pulling out skirts and shirts. I watched her intently as she did so, and wondered why she would bring her little boy along. He was about five or so, and seemed bored out of his skull. He whined and pulled at her skirt. Perhaps she didn’t have anyone to look after him, I thought to myself. The boy, unsupervised, started imitating his mother, flicking items of clothing off their hangers, pulling out shirts from the displays, letting everything fall to the floor. I followed him closely, and my pulse raced as I picked up after his mess. Unfortunately, he was such a little monster, I couldn’t keep up. With each item on the floor, my heart pulsed faster, my movements became jerky, my arms sweeping in all directions. I glared at him as I followed him around the store. “Please, stop playing with the clothes, little boy,” I asked him quietly at first, kneeled on the ground, picking up after his mess. “Please, stop,” I commanded a little louder. “You’re not allowed to do that,” I scolded. “Please stop,” I pleaded over and over. Meanwhile, his irresponsible mother was nowhere to be seen.
Finally, in a fraction of a second, I just lost it. I grabbed him by the arm. “Stop, playing with the clothes, please,” I said a little too loudly. “Just stop it, kid.” If looks could kill, he would have been dead on the floor.
He wailed and screamed murder. “Mommmmmmmmmy!”
Everyone turned their attention to us, all those people, who just a minute ago, didn’t seem to care that this boy was destroying the store. They all gawked, mouths agape. The mother sprinted toward us, and as soon as she reached us, the boy hugged her leg, seeking her protection. “The lady screamed at me and hurt my arm,” he cried to his mother.
I really wanted to throttle the kid — I had barely touched him. I guess the angry expression on my face was undeniable, because his mother was livid. “Shame on you,” she scoffed. “He’s just a boy.”
“A boy who was unsupervised,” I pointed out.
She glowered at me. “I turned away for just a minute. I can’t possibly watch him every second. You don’t have kids, do you?”
“God, no. And if they’re all l
ike your kid, I don’t ever want one either.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them instantly. I guess you could have called it a bad case of verbal diarrhea caused by extreme annoyance.
“I want to speak with your manager,” the flustered woman demanded, and I knew there was no way out of this, no talking her down. She looked like she wanted to murder me.
When Karen, my manager, came out, the woman introduced herself and her son, and recited the whole story, but it was quite embellished. In this version, I was truly a monster — I had almost ripped the boy’s arm off, and I had screamed at the top of my lungs, and I had been extremely rude. Never mind that the store was still a mess, clear evidence of what the boy had done, I was still guilty.
After a very long discussion with Karen, amid emotional turmoil and tears (mine), I was let go.
It hurt. It hurt so much because I thought I was important, but found out that day that I was easily replaceable, just another young girl excited to work at the Gap — I was a dime a dozen. And since I’d always been a perfectionist, always excelling at everything I undertook, failure was foreign to me and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
As soon as I got home, I buried my face in my pillow and cried for what must have been hours.
And unbeknownst to me, Brian’s dad also died that day. He was playing golf with his buddies, and apparently, he just keeled over with chest pain one second, and the next he was on the ground. His friend called 911, and someone else tried to revive him with a defribillator, but it was no use. Joseph Lombardi died at the age of sixty-three.
Despite being one of four kids, Brian had always been very close to his parents. They had him when they were older, his father was forty-three and his mother, thirty-seven, and he was the light of their life. And they were his. He did everything with his dad; guitar, golf, fishing, and hanging out at hardware stores the way women window shop at the mall.
