Split Ends

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “You’re going to be gorgeous. Your cheekbones were made for short hair.”

  Another snip. Another wail. Another compliment. “Tis the cycle of these things.

  Dane has returned to get himself a new glass of water and meets my gaze. Must he walk around like this? Does Flora really need an audience at the moment? She doesn’t need to know he’s walking around with his haphazard haircut courtesy of me. Of course, he’s the one who walked off in a huff like a big baby.

  “I like it better short,” Dane tells Flora, looking directly at her with his dimples. My dimples!

  Flora looks up at him and smiles coyly. A surge of jealously rushes through my system, and I steady my hand to keep from chopping off the rest of it and giving the two of them matching haircuts.

  “Thanks, even if it isn’t the truth.” She runs her hand through her cropped hair. I hate that she looks darling without hair. Granted, that’s my job, but at the moment, I’m not feeling it. “Do you really like it?”

  Oh shut up. Really now. Why don’t you ask her about dead president, Dane? See if she knows he was our president, or if she just knows him from a five-dollar bill. I can hear her giggling now: “Oooh, it’s Abe Lincoln. I just love that he didn’t cut down the cherry tree.”

  And Dane with his dry laughter: “Now, honey, that was George Washington and there’s no proof he ever did that.”

  Gag.

  I keep snipping away, using my razor scissors to cut some jagged edges and give Flora a harder, more contemporary look.

  “You’re known for being the ‘girl next door’ in your movies?” I ask, and sure, I don’t exactly feel Christian asking it because she doesn’t exactly exude girl-next-door qualities. Although at the moment, I could say my life doesn’t look much different from someone who professes to be an atheist, so who I am I to talk?

  But why Dane? Why does she have to flirt with Dane? Why do I have to watch it? Ask me how generous I feel at the moment.

  There are, after all, two men in the room. So my cousin’s done his idle best to perpetuate the gay myth; he can’t act macho for a minute? But I suppose you want a man to be gay when he’s stuffing rubber cutlets in your bra.

  I’m sure when he and Alexa broke up, the Hollywood who knew Scott confirmed their suspicions. But I thought women liked the challenge of a gay man anyway. Didn’t Elizabeth Taylor pine after Montgomery Clift for years?

  “Would you like something to drink?” Dane asks her, lifting his glass of water.

  I smack my tongue a bit to show I myself am parched, but Dane doesn’t offer me anything.

  “I’d love a water. Do you have any Evian?”

  French water. They tell me the entire city of Paris smells like urine, and people want to import their water. Come to Wyoming, people! I’ll give you water.

  “I import French antiques. I spend a lot of time there, so no, we don’t have any Evian.” He laughs. “We some Pellingrino.”

  We have some Pellingrino, I mimic soundlessly.

  “Did you say something, Sarah?” Dane asks me.

  “Just humming.” This razor is feeling itchy. What was that about the Barber of Seville?

  Why I feel any ownership of a man I’ve known for a few short weeks is beyond me, but if I could brand him with a big “S” I probably would. It probably has something to do with the wild PDA on Rodeo Drive, but I’m thinking it was that first moment he came out of the elevator. I need an hour of confession just for the last five minutes alone. Out of fellowship. Out of resources.

  It takes me a long time to get the razor though all the strands and shape Flora’s hair. It’s thick and the straw consistency is not making the razor cut any easier. I've made scarecrows easier than this. After I clip my last piece and watch it flutter to the floor, I look at Flora to ensure the cut is even. This is the part Dane walked out on, and if he doesn’t let me get back to it, I doubt anyone is going to buy antiques from his crooked-headed self.

  Next up is the dye for Flora’s hair, and I paint it on generously and wrap her head up in plastic and foils. Not because she needs them, but it makes me feel better to see her looking not quite as perfect. She’s looking anything but the Hollywood starlet, and still Dane hasn’t noticed. He's milling about, bringing sparkling water and ignoring that dead president altogether.

  “Don’t you have a little history to bone up on, Dane?”

  “Me?” he asks. “No, why?”

  I shrug. “Just thought you had some reading to do.”

  “I can read it on the plane.”

  Yes, I’m sure you can, but I really wasn’t concerned about you finishing your biography.

  He’s leaning over the counter, with Flora carrying on a conversation as though I’m merely the hired help, not anyone to include in the discussion. I try to avoid eye contact with either of them and just focus on the work, but I’m afraid he’s going to ask her out right in front of me, and I just don’t think I can take that. I’ve withstood a lot in my day, but my prayer is God won’t make me endure that. Not today.

  Twenty minutes later it’s time to rinse Flora and see how this all turned out, but I don’t want Dane to witness the “after”—not that the “before” wasn’t pretty good to start with—so I keep waiting for him to leave.

  “What time do you have to be to the office, Dane?” My voice is perky and yet uninterested. “Early tomorrow with your trip coming up and all?”

  “I can go in anytime. That’s the beauty of owning your own shop.”

  “Oh, you have your own shop?” Flora coos.

  “It was his parents’,” I interrupt.

  Dane gives me the hint of a smile. He knows exactly what I’m up to, and I hate being so transparent and small.

  “Well, I’ll leave you girls to your beauty. I’ve got a biography to get to.”

  “I read a biography once,” Flora claims.

  Dane stammers at this. Yes, Dane, she did say “once.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Who was it about?”

  “I can’t remember. It was for a script, but it was clear I wasn’t going to get the part, so I didn’t finish it.”

  As she says this, I suddenly feel bad for her. This poor girl has had her beauty all her life, so her wits were hardly an issue. Who am I to judge? I’m Cindy Simmons for the cerebral set.

  “Did the movie get made?” Scott asks.

  “Yeah, it was Capote. He was a writer, I guess. I read for a small part, but it was clear I wasn’t right for it. She was a country girl who walked in on murder victims. Anyhoo, the piece has to go and get nominated for an Academy Award. I would have tried harder had I known it would be famous, but it was about a writer. Writers are boring, So I never thought . . . no one’s going to take me seriously until after this movie comes out.”

  “I think your new hairstyle is going to help that along. It's hard to take a confident woman with short hair for granted,” Scott says.

  Dane is not leaving, so I rinse Flora’s hair out, grateful that the nonporous strands are accepting the color—even if it’s just for a time. I condition it well and wrap her head in a towel. Back in the chair, I blow-dry her hair with a cool dryer and diffuser. And I finish with a curl-enhancing serum.

  “I’m going to dry cut the rest. You need a little more texture in the cut, and I can’t see how it’s going to lay until it's dry.”

  She sniffles her answer, though it seems more for Dane’s attention than her own emotion. She’s still acting, as long as someone’s in the audience. I pull out my texturing scissors. They have six shears and this wakes up our princess. “What are you doing with those?” She reaches for the back of her head.

  “You need to thin it out a little to have it set right. These just thin the hair lengthwise instead of across. Your hair won’t poof out this way. You have to trust me.”

  “I don’t have enough hair to poof,” she wails.

  I finish the cut while she moans and then add some shine products. Dane watches the entire event as if he’s a
t the premiere. Normally, at this time Yoshi would add finishing makeup to make sure the client was at her best. Like that’s going to happen.

  I smile at her and nod my head. She looks great. Oh sure, she looked great before, but now she’s going to make a statement, and it won’t be Step away from the henna.

  She pats her head again. “It looks great.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I just have to go home and act like I planned this.”

  “That’s where those acting skills come in. You’re going to be great,” Scott says.

  Flora stands up and wraps me up in a bone-crushing hug. “Thank you so much, Sarah. I won’t ever forget this.” She releases me and looks at Dane. “Would you date a woman with hair this short?”

  “Short hair is hot,” he says uncomfortably. I don’t think Dane is the type of person to use the word hot. He must have picked it up from Scott. “But everything Sarah does is hot.” He winks at me from across the room.

  “You’ll be there tomorrow, when Scott comes to dress me?” She grabs her handbag and pushes the elevator button, looking at me over her shoulder.

  “My best friend is in town—”

  “And she’ll be there. No problem,” Scott finishes.

  She rakes her hair with her free hand and nods her head. “This is going to be good, Sarah. It’s going to be good.” When she looks at me, I can see there are tears spilling over her long lashes, the liquid only making her blue eyes bigger and more brilliant. She actually glistens under the halogen lights in the entry hall.

  She reaches out and pulls me aside to the elevator. “Listen, I’ve never had anything like this. It might all end tomorrow. But Sarah, I won’t forget you doing this—even if it was only a favor to your cousin.”

  “You’re going to be wonderful tomorrow night.” As I say it, I realize Flora is really a sweet, young woman. She wants to be told she’s beautiful and worthy, just like every one of us. I could just do without her being beautiful and worthy in my house. In front of Dane.

  Before the elevator doors envelop her, Flora pushes the button to hold them open. “Are you interested in coming tomorrow night, Dane? To the screening, I mean. It’s not a premiere, just a casual screening for the studio execs and the cast.”

  It’s worse than him asking her out. See, I shouldn’t have ever prayed for something negative. God’s only going to show me my wicked heart and make me watch her ask him out.

  Dane shakes his head and grabs his book again. “Thanks for the offer, Flora, but it’s your night, and I haven’t seen a movie since I saw Return of the Jedi in my jammies at the drive-in for Stephen Sweat’s birthday party.”

  “You did not just say ‘jammies.’” I’m stunned.

  “Yes, Sarah, I did wear jammies back in the day and always at sleepovers. They had Darth Vadar on them, and I carried a very big flashlight in the shape of a light saber. It was the proper thing to do, you know.”

  “You haven’t been to the movies since 1983? What planet do you live on?” Flora is incredulous. “This is Hollywood.”

  Dane just laughs. “Oddly enough, I don’t feel I've missed a thing. No offense, of course.”

  “You missed Kate & Leopold.” I look at Flora for support. “Isn’t there something so romantic about a guy traveling outside of time for you? Oh, sure, it’s impossibly ridiculous, but still overwhelmingly romantic.”

  “I’m still getting over the fact that Dane hasn’t been to the movies,” Flora says. “So I take it that’s a no for tomorrow night? I can get your date a ticket if you’re worried about that.”

  Ouch. I don’t care what era you’re from, that’s gotta hurt.

  The world just drifts away when I look at Dane’s brown eyes. I can hear Flora and Scott conversing, but I have no idea what they’re saying. Nor do I care.

  Flora looks incredible, as though her mistake was a gift from above. She is more mesmerizing than ever, and at the moment, I wish I was her.

  “Sarah, you have to come tomorrow night. I want you to handle any questions about how this was planned.”

  Meaning: lie.

  “Flora, it’s your night and as I said, my best friend—” I don’t want to mention I have a date. I don’t want to have a date, but I have a date with a man who has trouble putting his arms down by his side. Meanwhile, I turned down an offer of Paris from Dane. Something is not right with me. This can’t all be bad luck; at some point, my stupidity and blatant disregard for what I’m thinking has to come into play.

  Scott practically falls over himself getting to the elevator to push the button again. “She’ll be there.”

  I exhale as I watch Dane make his way to his room without saying good night. An hour ago I had the opportunity for France with a man I desperately want to believe can save me from a life of unrequited love. Now I have little more than I had in Sable a few weeks ago. So close and yet so very far away.

  chapter 21

  I wish I were supernaturally strong so I

  could put right everything that is wrong.

  ~ Greta Garbo

  As soon as Flora’s gone, the realization of what I’ve done to my mother comes back to haunt me, and it feels like the blood at Carrie’s prom. (One of my mother’s boyfriends was fascinated with this cult classic—I can’t ever get that image from my mind!)

  My throat is tight; my stomach clenches imagining her in a dank cell somewhere in the bowels of Los Angeles. There are moments that I want to strangle her for her self-importance and blatant belief that she is above the rules. The law. But then the memories of her crying on the sofa when she’d get home from work flood my brain.I remember the messages on the answering machine every time some guy announced his abrupt departure from our lives . . . and I can’t do it. I can’t leave her there all alone or I’m just like them.

  I grab my tattered copy of Camille off the floor and my woefully expensive bag from a collection of years gone by that Scott gave me. Maybe Scott is right. Maybe I should leave this book behind and start reading something with more power in it. I’m a wimp. I push the button to elevator.

  “Where are you going at this hour?” Dane comes out of his room at the sound of the elevator bell. “It’s nearly one a.m.”

  “The day that never ends, yes, I know. I have to take care of something. If Kate, my best friend, comes by, tell her to make herself at home in my room, or I’ll see her at Yoshi’s.”

  He looks at his watch. “Sarah.”

  I drop my bag on the couch. “You want me to finish your haircut.”

  “No, I don’t care about that. You’re not going out in the middle of the night by yourself.”

  “Kate will probably just come to the salon; she’s trying to make a dramatic entrance.” I swallow hard as I admit the truth, which he probably knows in full anyway. “I’m going to get my mother because—” I pause. “Well, because that’s what children of alkies do.” I look at his big brown eyes across the room. “I left her there.” I let the tears fall. Why bother hiding what I am? “I left her there in jail so I could do a starlet’s hair.”

  “I’ll take you down there. Let me get my keys.”

  “No, Dane, it’s mine to do, and I should have done it hours ago.”

  He walks toward me and places his hand on the small of my back. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t.” I hate to see his sympathy, his pity. “This is my cross to bear, what God gave me in life, and I’m failing. I wanted to do what I wanted to do for a change, but you never really leave who you are anywhere.”

  “Who do you think you are exactly?” Dane looks at me with tender eyes. It’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other a short time with all I see in his eyes. He has a way of getting right to the heart of the matter when I don’t want to let him in there.

  His five o’clock shadow roughs my lips when I kiss his cheek. “Thank you. I’ll finish your hair in the morning. I want to do this myself.”

  “I’m sure you do. You have some sort of death wis
h, it seems.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know you’re from Wyoming, and I don’t mean to scare you, but you don’t walk in LA at night by yourself, and the only way you’re getting a cab is if you call one. This isn’t New York. If you don’t want me to come, at least take my car.”

  I stand at the elevator, my face flushed. I want to be a woman who can take control, who marches down to the jail and bails her mother out with what’s left on her measly Visa, but I can’t even get down the elevator without a myriad of obstacles. The latest being I do not want to drive these streets, where cars slingshot their way toward their destinations, pausing only momentarily at red lights before rocketing onward. It’s cosmic, I tell you.

  Dane’s still staring.

  “I don’t want to take your car. I’ll call a cab. Is there a phone book?”

  Dane grabs my wrist as the elevator opens. “We’ll go in the morning, Sarah. She’s probably sleeping now anyway. She needs to sleep it off, I’m assuming. You need some rest, and we’ll do it in the morning. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  I’m still sniffling. The elevator door closes again.

  “You know, not all men are pigs in a blanket, and you’re not the only one with a messed-up mother, all right? Some of them might hide behind a higher label of alcohol, but when they’re face down in their sheets, drool lapping over the mattress, they all look the same.” He shakes his head like someone who’s familiar with the scenario but doesn’t offer up more information. And since I’ve been asked too many similar questions, I don’t ask any.

  We drop onto the black leather sofa and he looks down at my book while I focus on his half-done hair and my book while I focus on his half-done hair and my unpleasant memories of him and Flora.

  “Are you’re going to let me fix your hair?”

  “It’s depressing, isn’t it?”

  “Your hair? I don’t know if I’d call it depressing, but—”