Split Ends

by Kristin Billerbeck

  We look at each other and giggle like we’re in fifth grade as Dane approaches us. I pull them both into a shampoo room before Yoshi comes out and accuses me of having a social gathering on his time. “What are you doing here?”

  He holds up a paper bag. “You forgot your lunch. I thought you might get hungry.”

  “Oh my gosh, that is so cute,” Kate says. “He brought you your little lunch. Is it peanut butter and jelly?”

  “Shut up, Kate. Dane, this is my best friend, Kate Halligan.”

  “From Wyoming?” Dane asks.

  She nods and they shake hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you and your hat.” She clears her throat as I slap her gently. “Don’t hit me, Sarah Claire. It’s rude.”

  Dane laughs.

  “You have to ignore her.”

  “So how did you two cuties meet?” Kate asks, knowing full well how we met.

  “I’m living temporarily with Scott,” Dane says, his lips curving.

  “Because you’re unemployed?”

  “I am gainfully employed, but I’m getting my house renovated. I graduated summa cum laude from Missouri State in classical studies with a major in antiquities. I have a clean credit report. I’m up to date on all my vaccinations, and I plan to take Sarah Claire to church with me at Mosaic in downtown Los Angeles. I don’t have a dog because I travel too much, but I have excellent dental hygiene and I floss daily. Anything else I can clear up for you, Kate?”

  She shakes her head. It’s the most hilarious stunned silence I’ve ever witnessed.

  “Thank you for bringing my lunch.” I take the bag from him and he pauses for a moment before kissing me on the cheek.

  “See you later. Bye, Kate, it was a pleasure.”

  “No one flosses daily,” Kate says as Dane walks out. “He kissed you. That was not the look of a man playing around.”

  “You sound disappointed. Did you think he would be?”

  “Just be careful.” Kate’s eyes thin as she watches him exit the door. “You haven’t known him very long, and he looks at you like he knows who you are inside. I don’t like it. It’s too much, too fast. No one knows you that well except me.”

  “You better get on the road to Newport Beach. I have to locate my mother this morning, and there are toilet seats to be managed.” I start to line up the shampoo shelves then realize what’s made me angry about Kate coming here and noticing what she perceives as a character flaw in Dane. “You know, Kate, you’re not the only one who doesn’t want to be pigeonholed. Maybe Dane sees who I really am, not Jane Winowski’s daughter.”

  Kate rolls her eyes. “I gotta go. See you tonight after work . . . maybe.”

  She brushes out as casually as she walked in here while I stand there with teeth clenched. But then it occurs to me: Kate Halligan is jealous of me. As ridiculous as it seems, I’d know that emotion anywhere. I’ve lived with it my entire life.

  chapter 23

  Almost every girl falls in love with the

  wrong man, I suppose it’s part of growing up.

  ~ Natalie Wood

  The screening is a pre-premiere, without most of the glitz and glamour. The purpose being to quietly screen the film for investors and pray they’re happy with the outcome. It’s about starting film buzz, and it’s when Hollywood tends to get religious (because there are a lot of prayers said before a screening). I say this as though I’m thoroughly unimpressed with the event. Blasé even. But I’ve never witnessed such a sparkling event where the people all seem beautiful and confident. They walk like everyone is watching them, and the fact is everyone can’t be watching everyone, so it’s interesting to see who they do watch. I’m watching Flora. Her hairstyle will be the talk of the town tomorrow, and what they say will have a distinct effect on my career. No pressure or anything.

  “Oh, my gosh. Rob Thomas!” I squeal.

  “He wrote the soundtrack. Sarah, you have to maintain,” Scott says calmly.

  “I love Rob Thomas!” I scream this a little too loud because he turns around and waves. “That.” I point to Rob. “That right there was the highlight of my life.”

  “Which is beyond sad.”

  “And yet so realistic,” I say. “This would have been so much more fun with Kate.” I harrumph. “She would have stargazed with me and acted appropriately. You act like they don’t love it. They’re here, aren’t they? They’re posing for the cameras. Look at Rob Thomas’s wife—you’re going to tell me he’s not proud as heck to have her on his arm? They look like a wedding-cake couple.”

  “You’re here for Flora’s hair; would you pay attention to her? Isn’t it bad enough you had to bring your date along?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” I say, looking at Nick Harper handing out business cards. At least he’s wearing a shirt.

  “Where did you find that loser?”

  “He sort of found me, crying on Cary Grant’s star.”

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  “No, you don’t, but if you hadn’t said Dane was off-limits, I’d have a decent date for tonight, and he’s really very nice.”

  “Dane is off-limits for your own good. I can’t imagine why you don’t trust me on things.”

  “Because your room is a torture chamber of undergarments, perhaps?”

  “I know you both well. Don’t you think if I thought you’d be right for each other, I would have said something. I’d like you to break the family curse, Sarah. I think you’re the perfect candidate to do so, but not with Dane.”

  “I’m just appalled that you think your opinion matters that much, that’s all.”

  “You both can do better.”

  I smirk at Scott and turn my attention back to the stars milling for attention. Man, it’s like a high school prom gone awry. There are familiar faces and some unfamiliar, walking up a red carpet, all dressed to the nines, and they pause, in obviously well-practiced poses, when they reach the white tack paper with sponsors’ names written on them.

  A collective gasp is heard through the crowd, and I see Flora approach. As I look around the crowd, I see she has everyone’s attention, but I’m still unsure if it’s good attention or if the hair is a complete flop. I hear the words blonde and brunette shouted with surprise, and I wait to hear their assessment as I stand behind the press. Please let them love it. Please let them love it.

  “Flora! Flora!” A blonde nestled snugly into a creamy mermaid-shaped gown waddles toward Flora. “Sydney Carlson, Hollywood Tonight. The hair! We love the hair!”

  Flora runs her fingers through her short crop, and all I can think is Please, color, stay on. Please, what’s left, stay there. Isn’t that how we are? One prayer is answered and we immediately go to the next.

  “Isn’t it great?” She throws a hand like she’s talking to her best girlfriend. “I’m telling you, Sarah Winston at Yoshi’s is, like, a total genius.” She points to the camera. “And don’t you all be calling at once. She’s so mine. Get in line!” She runs her hands through her hair again.

  I could kiss her.

  Immediately, there is press by my side, and I turn and see why. Scott is pointing at me. “Yes, yes, this is her. The creator of the new look.”

  Whatever happens in my lifetime from here on out, Flora Fawn made me a success today. (Well, her and Rob Thomas.) I will always be able to say my hair was recognized on Hollywood Tonight. It’s the Oscars for me right now, and I’m ready to thank everyone who made it possible, but then I look over and see my date unbuttoning his shirt and flexing his pecs and all joy drains from my face. He’s not doing that! He’s not. He seemed so normal.

  Flora walks toward me and the reporters get their pens ready. “You did more for me than my hair, Sarah. You gave me my confidence back. This is your moment, and I will not shrink from saying your name at every possible opportunity tonight.” She winks at me and heads into the awards ceremony. I turn away from my date, who is preening in front of the one journalist who will listen. Probably
community television.

  “Miss Winston,” all the reporters say in unison. I feel the tears falling down my cheeks, and I try to take a hint from Flora and pull it together and field their questions like I’m Mike McCurry.

  “We understand from Flora’s stylist, Scott Baker, that this is the creator of Flora’s hair. How many people will be heading into their salons tomorrow for this cut, Scott?” Sydney thrusts a microphone in front of me.

  “I—uh—” I panic. It’s my moment in the sun and I blow it.

  Once again Scott rescues me. “As Hollywood’s leading stylist, I should warn the women of America not everyone has the confidence to pull this style off. Flora is confidence personified. She’s like Rambo in an evening gown.” He laughs and Sydney joins him.

  Sydney pulls me closer toward her, and I see the red light on the camera. It feels like all the blood in my body has drained away, and I know Sydney is talking to me. Again. She’s giving me another chance to make an idiot out of myself. She’s asking me something, but my heartbeat drowns out any sound.

  Scott nods. “She is a genius with shears. Yoshi brought her to Beverly Hills because he knows how to find talent.”

  “Well, Sarah, a pleasure to meet you, and I’ll have to get your number when my hairstylist isn’t listening,” she jokes.

  I said nothing.

  I did nothing.

  I dreamed of that moment for a lifetime, and when it came, I did nothing.

  I am a Winowski forever.

  At this point I’m thrust in front of the paparazzi and my picture is snapped about a bajillion times. At least there are no microphones. As a deer in the headlights, this works for me. It’s all surreal, so it feels like a dream when I suddenly see Nick, my date on the red carpet, coming toward me. His shirt is buttoned, thank heavens. Isn’t it my luck to have a date who makes me want to flee? I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go; Spielberg is coming, and as the throng of photographers rapidly loses interest in us, we’re pushed toward the back. A screening is supposed to be a quiet affair. I think this is what buzz looks like. My hairstyle is going to be seen everywhere!

  Nick comes up beside me and puts his arm around me while the photographers take pictures. I could die. Go away. What is Dane going to say tomorrow?

  This can’t be happening. But somehow it is. At least it can’t get any worse.

  I look over and see Alexa. She’s standing at the edge of the crowd with a hot young model-type on her arm. It’s worse. “Scott.”

  “Just a minute, Sarah.”

  “Scott, I think you should look at something.”

  “Busy, Sarah,” he says through his clenched smile.

  “Alexa’s here.” Somehow she managed to finagle an invitation tonight.

  Scott’s eyes narrow as he sees Alexa, and his eyes flash at the sight of her date. “Stay here, Sarah. Go and check Flora’s hair.”

  “Nick Harper, trainer to the stars. That’s H-A-R-P-E-R. Smile pretty, darling.” Nick leans his cheek in next to mine and flashes his toothy grin.

  “Excuse me, Nick.”

  The press somehow takes this as me wanting to talk. “Miss Winston, can you tell us the styling products used on Miss Fawn’s hair?”

  “The color?” Another reporter asks.

  “What were you trying to accomplish with this look?”

  I see Alexa tug at her ring and my cousin pulling her away from her date. They’re definitely having words and I’m hopeful. I pray he might see what he stands to lose. Or at least that she’ll get her answer.

  I watch my cousin beleaguer Alexa and her date walks away. Scott is very aware of the press around him and is trying to make it look like the friendliest of exchanges, but I can feel the tension from here. And in that instant I vow I won’t let that happen to me. I won’t let misunderstanding and pride come between me and my true love. Right or wrong, appropriate timing or no, I’m in love with Dane Weston. He was meant to be my husband, and I don’t care if he’s a have or if he has nothing. He’s the one God meant for me. I know it. As surely as Flora is not the next Marilyn Monroe, I am the next—the only—Mrs. Dane Weston.

  “Flora’s hair is fabulous. She wanted to try something different, not be pigeonholed. She’s an adventuress, willing to take risks. That’s why Spielberg believed in her for this role. All Flora’s products will be Yoshi of Beverly Hills.” Of course, I used cheap, chemical product on Flora, but all upkeep will be Yoshi, and I’ll be a person of my word.

  I have no idea where that little surge of publicist came, but all I can think of is getting home to Dane before my cousin ruins everything and I lose my nerve.

  Scott’s face is now red, and I watch as Alexa sashays away with her gorgeous date on her arm. The ring is still on her finger as she moves toward the theater, and Scott looks as though he might explode. But he catches himself and breaks into a huge smile for a nearby camera. At the same moment I feel an arm slip around me. Nick Harper is looking for his moment. My wretched date talks to Sydney as the Hollywood Tonight camera’s red light comes on.

  “Funniest story. She was sobbing on Cary Grant’s star. How could I have known she was a hair genius? She has no shoes on because her heels were bothering her, and she’d just passed by my gym! ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world—’”

  “No,” I stammer, shaking my head, but I see from Nick’s expression he’s been in the background long enough. He wants his opportunity to shine.

  I look straight at Sydney. “Nick is too humble. He was running near Hollywood and Vine, and he works his clients hard. He didn’t get this body sitting still.”

  Sydney reaches out and clutches Nick’s bicep and I see a moment to escape to Alexa, but as I move she turns her attention back to me. “Well, I certainly see that your girlfriend is camera shy. She’s definitely content to be in the background. Back to you in the studio, Kim.” With a shake of her head, she and the cameraman move on.

  “I have to go, Nick. I have to make sure the hair is okay. I’m sorry to abandon you tonight.”

  “No, no. I’m thankful for it, actually. If it brings me even one client, maybe I can be on my way.”

  “I’m in love with someone.”

  He laughs. “Since last week?”

  I nod. “It’s a long story, but—”

  “It can’t be that long if it happened in the last week.”

  “I’m allowing myself to admit what I want even if I don’t get it, but please, pray I’ll get it.” Without a backward glance, I extricate myself from the crowds. Scott runs toward me.

  “Sarah, you’ve got to go into the ladies’ room. Flora’s losing color. Did you bring some temporary?”

  “I did, but—” I point back toward where Alexa was. “Did you talk to her?”

  “I can’t talk to her, Sarah.”

  “Why not? She just wants an answer.”

  “Because the answer hurts, all right? I want to be able to say I can forgive her.” He pushes me toward the wall to make sure no one sees our emotions high. “I want to forgive her. I love her, but I’m slime, all right? And every time I see her, she only reminds me of that. Now go find Flora! It’s why you’re here.” He shows his backstage pass, and I’m ushered into the ladies’ room, where Flora is conversing with the bathroom attendant and signing an autograph.

  “Sarah, thank goodness you’re here. My hair is losing color at the root. There’s that green tint back again.”

  I just nod. “Sit down.” She sits at the vanity stool, and I wrap her in a towel used for show in the bathroom and spray her hair until all the spots are covered. “You’ll have to come in as soon as the movie’s over. We’ll need to make sure the mineral oil doesn’t make you lose more color, but you need the moisture right now or it will show like straw in photographs.”

  “Sarah, are you all right?” Flora looks at me in the mirror, and I see my nose is red.

  “I’m fine.”

  I paint the color on and spray it with setting spray.

 
“How do you know if you’re in love, Flora?”

  Flora’s eyebrows raise. “You’re asking me? I can’t even get a date to my own screening.” She laughs. “You might want to look into that roommate of yours. He seemed interested enough in you last night.” She looks into the mirror and breathes in deep. “I’m ready.” She kisses my cheek and dashes out of the restroom. I hear the hush of excitement as she walks through the crowd.

  I have to reach Dane. I have to tell him, even if he turns me out flat on my ear. Whatever Scott told him, I need to tell him my truth.

  I call Dane on his cell phone. No answer, so I rush out of the restroom and meet Scott. “I’ve got to go home before intermission.”

  “You’re not leaving here. You’ll never get back. Do you know how many limousines are back there? This is as busy as any screening I’ve been to. I guess that’s what Spielberg will do for a movie. Besides, Dane’s packing for France.”

  “Dane’s going to France again already?”

  “He’ll be there when you get home. Chill.”

  But I can’t shake the feeling I have. The feeling that this night of success—the one night I’ve dreamed about my whole life, to make someone so beautiful that the world noticed—is like a blip in time compared to life without Dane. Sometimes you just know. There’s no proper time involved, and there’s no reason. There’s just this man I know was made for me.

  My cell phone trills for the first time. “Dane? Oh my gosh, I’m so glad you called. I was worried.”

  “Sarah Claire, it’s not Dane. It’s Mrs. Gentry, dear.”

  “Mrs. Gentry, I’m sorry, it’s just not a good time.”

  “Well, dear, what I’m calling about is very important. It needs to be said.”

  Exhaling deeply, I try to refocus, “What is it, Mrs. Gentry?”

  “I’m in the hospital, dear.”

  “What? Are you all right?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, but I needed to tell you something because I don’t want you to hear it from anyone else, should something happen to me.”

  “Just a minute, Mrs. Gentry. I need to get to a quiet place. Are you going to be all right? What’s happened to you? How can I pray?”