by Sarah Title
His hand on the small of her back distracted her as he maneuvered her around the big white tables. I can walk on my own, she almost told him. But she’d promised Dave that she would be nice, and even though Marcie thought that was not necessary, Bernie agreed that if she wanted to make this experiment work, she had to do her part. Not biting off Colin’s head, especially after he had already moved his hand, was a good step.
“Here’s Jeanaeane. She does beauty.”
Bernie could see why. She was stunning, with high cheekbones and long, sleek hair the color of dark chocolate. “Hi,” Bernie said, feeling like an ogre. She didn’t know why. She washed her face. She put on mascara, sometimes. There was no law that said a woman had to spend hours on her face to make it look porcelain-perfect—like Jeanaene’s.
Well, there was a law, but it was an unspoken law that everyone pretended didn’t exist, acting like it was just in a woman’s best interest to look as if “she took care of herself,” a.k.a. was thin and perfect like Jeanaeane.
“Jenny, this is Bernie, the librarian.”
Jeanaeane looked surprised and then, to Bernie’s surprise, relieved. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “Colin made it sound like you were a disaster.”
“That’s not what I said!” he sputtered.
“You have really good skin.” Jeanaeane came up and ran her hand over Bernie’s cheek. Bernie, who had been about to shoot Colin an offended look, froze. “Are you not even wearing any foundation?”
Bernie shook her head.
“Wow.”
“Clean living?” Colin suggested.
“And good genes,” Jeanaeane added. Bernie had the feeling that she didn’t really have to be here for this conversation. And yet, it was her love life.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “I’m standing right here.”
“The hair, though.” Jeanaeane pulled the clip out of Bernie’s hair. It fell around her face and shoulders and she immediately wanted to pull it back up again. “The hair needs some work.”
Colin stood back and put his finger up to his lips, assessing her with her hair down. “A lot of hair.”
“That’s why I keep it up,” Bernie said, stepping away from Jeanaeane’s gentle if probing hands and pulling her hair back into a messy topknot.
“Has Makeda seen her yet?”
“Not in person.”
“She’ll flip.”
“In a good way, I hope,” he said, looking mildly worried.
Jeanaeane pulled Bernie’s sweater tight across her hips. “Yeah. Let’s get to work, shall we?”
“Oh, are you talking to me?” Bernie asked. Her sarcasm was lost on Jeanaeane, though, and she was dragged through the office behind a curtain that looked like it had been thrown up pretty hastily. As Jeanaeane pulled it back, it came detached from the wall.
“Intern!” Jeanaeane called, and one of the waifs came out of nowhere, wielding a stapler. The room they entered was not, as Bernie had assumed, the bathroom. (She shuddered to think where the open-concept layout bathrooms really were. . . .) Or maybe it had been a bathroom at one point. Regardless of its origins, it now contained a salon chair and a sink and shelving with all kinds of brightly colored bottles and jars and things Bernie was pretty sure she had never even considered putting in her hair. It also contained a wiry man with a big belt buckle, wielding a pair of scissors.
“You must be the librarian,” he said, and Bernie could have kissed his Southern accent since he was the first person to address her directly since she’d walked into the building.
“Hi,” she said, shaking his hand. “Call me Bernie.”
“Jack. My stars, what a head of hair you’ve got,” he said, pulling out her clip (again!) and fluffing her frizz around her face. Jack whistled. “Lots to work with.”
“Can you do something with it?” Jeanaeane asked. Jack raised his eyebrow so high, Bernie thought it would touch the converted-warehouse ceiling. Jeanaeane put her hands up in deference to Jack’s superior skill and started to leave the room, pulling Colin with her.
“Wait a second,” Bernie said. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to let Jack work his magic.”
“On what?”
“On your head.”
“But I don’t . . . but . . . but you said,” she sputtered, turning to Colin. “Nobody said anything about a haircut.”
“You didn’t?” Jeanaeane said to him. She looked like she wanted to kill him. It almost made Bernie feel better about being in a closet-turned-hair salon against her will.
Almost.
“It’s just a haircut,” Colin said. At least he had the decency to look sheepish, Bernie thought. “And a little makeup.”
“I don’t know about this. I should be dating these people as me, not as some hyped-up version of me.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Because that would defeat the whole purpose of the experiment, right? If you want to prove that I’m not undateable as I am, how can you do that when you change how I am?”
“Well, I’m not giving you a lobotomy. A little trim isn’t going to make you less argumentative.”
“Yes, but I’ll be argumentative with good hair. If I need a haircut to get a date, I don’t want it.”
“Everyone needs a little zhuzhing to catch a man,” Jeanaeane added.
“I’m not trying to catch a man,” Bernie said. “I’m just trying to go out on some dates.”
“What do you think catching a man is?”
“I don’t need a man,” Bernie continued, soldiering on over poor, thin Jeanaeane’s protests. “So I don’t have to catch one. I can take care of myself. And if I have to make myself up like some precious doll—no offense—to get some human companionship, then what’s the point?”
Bernie realized she was yelling. And breathing hard. And everyone was staring at her. Jeanaeane looked like she might cry.
She took a deep breath, reminded herself why this was a good idea. You’re just trying Colin’s way, she reminded herself. It’s just a haircut. Even though she totally didn’t need a haircut because she’d just had it cut.... Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had her hair cut. And the date with Pete, though not painful, was not actually good. So if all she had to do was sit in this well-lit closet and let these nice professional people take care of her . . .
She could use a haircut. And the salon chair looked luxurious. And, despite her disinclination to use multiple hair products every day, she was a little curious about what they all did.
It was just a haircut. And maybe a little makeup. It was just an experiment. That she’d already agreed to. Because it was a good idea. Because Starr had told her that she didn’t want to be alone.
Ugh.
“Fine,” she said, and she sat in the chair. Barely missing a beat, Jack whipped a cape over her while shooing the others out of the room.
“Call me when you’re done and we’ll do the eyebrows,” said Jeanaeane over her shoulder.
“Eyebrows?” Bernie panicked.
“Don’t you worry ’bout a thing, honey,” said Jack. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
Chapter Fifteen
Dear Maria,
It’s not fair. When I get ready to go out, I have to straighten my hair, shave my legs, and try on at least eight outfits. When my boyfriend gets ready, he just pulls on the nearest clean shirt. Then he’s always complaining that I take forever. How can I convince him that perfection takes time? He just doesn’t get it!
Boyfriend with Blinders in Laurel Heights
Dear Blinders,
It’s not fair. You’re right. But is your boyfriend doing all he can to look his best? Does he shave his face so it’s smooth and doesn’t leave a rug burn? Or if he has a beard, is it clipped and trimmed so it looks artfully hip? I have male friends who spend just as much time on their appearance as you do. I’d offer to set you up, but I wouldn’t inflict that on my worst enemy.
Kisses,
Maria
> COLIN WAS CLICKING THROUGH Pia’s choices for Bernie’s next few dates when Jeanaeane’s badly hung curtain opened with a flourish, then fell to the floor.
“Oh, just leave it,” Jack said, coming up behind Jeanaeane and pushing her gently through the doorway. She looked annoyed, but her face lit up when she saw Colin.
“Are you ready?” she squealed, clapping her hands with glee. Colin wasn’t sure Bernie would be into a big reveal like this, but she’d been back there for a few hours. Maybe the blow dryer had lulled her into submission.
Ha.
Then out stepped Bernie, or a person who was wearing the same unfortunate clothes Bernie had worn into the makeshift salon. She was smiling, but she didn’t look happy.
Still, he couldn’t deny that she looked good.
Gone was the big frizzy hair tied up in a messy knot. Now her brown hair was long and sleek and cascaded like a river over her shoulders. It made her look totally different. But it wasn’t just the hair. She didn’t look like she was wearing a lot of makeup, but the more he looked at her, the more her brown eyes popped and her lips—had her lips always looked that kissable? Or was that some kind of Jeanaeane wonder product?
“Whoa,” he said, picking his jaw up off the floor.
“It’s not too weird?” Bernie started to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, but Jack slapped her hand away.
“No touching,” he said. “You’ll ruin the blowout.”
She shook her hands and held them at her sides.
“Yeah,” Colin said, taking a step closer. “You look good.” Who knew the librarian was a knockout?
“I feel weird.” She rubbed her lips together. “I don’t usually wear lipstick.”
“It looks good,” Colin said, like a broken record. He couldn’t help it. He was awestruck. It was Bernie, but, like, more.
“Also, I’m never plucking my eyebrows again.”
His gaze traveled from her lips to her eyebrows. They looked the same to him. Then it registered what she’d said. Ouch. Plucking eyebrows.
“You have to admit, you look good,” Jeanaeane said.
“I look different,” Bernie said.
“Different good,” Colin said.
“Are you saying I didn’t look good before?”
Colin rolled his eyes. He needed to distract her. Also, he wanted to be near her. That really was some magical lipstick.
Then, while taking a moment to admire the brightness of her brown eyes, he noticed her blinking. She was blinking a lot.
“Bernie, stop,” Jeanaeane hissed.
“I’m sorry, it feels weird!”
“God, you’re acting like you’ve never worn fake lashes before.”
“I haven’t!”
“You look good,” Colin offered, again. She did, aside from the blinking. And the scrunching her lips together.
“I feel weird,” she said again.
“Do you think she’s having an allergic reaction?” Colin asked Jeanaeane.
“No, she’s just being a baby.”
“I could be dying!”
“Nobody dies from makeup!”
“You don’t know that!”
Jeanaeane threw up her hands. “Fine. No more lash extensions. Lots of girls would kill for those, you know.”
“She’s not lots of girls,” Colin said, and Bernie smiled—for real—for the first time since her transformation.
Wow, that smile. Yeah, that looked really good.
“Remember, don’t touch your hair,” Jack warned her.
“Ugh, why did you say that? Now I can’t stop thinking about touching my hair.”
“Why can’t she touch her hair?” Colin asked.
“I gave her a keratin treatment. It’ll smooth her out, but no more hair clips,” Jack warned Bernie.
Bernie flopped her hands toward her head, then shoved them in the pockets of her shirt.
Good grief, that ugly shirt had pockets?
“How do you feel, really?” Colin asked her. She looked good, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good if she went on a date acting like she was having a seizure.
“I feel . . . heavy,” she said, gesturing toward her face. “I’m not used to stuff on my face. And I have no idea how I’m going to replicate this tomorrow.”
“I’ll send videos,” Jeanaeane said. “See? Good thing I made all those makeup tutorials,” she said to Colin, as if Colin had an opinion about them. Oh, he did tease her for spending so much time in front of the mirror.
“It’ll stay for tonight,” Jeanaeane continued, “as long as you don’t touch it.”
“God, I forgot I have a date tonight,” Bernie said.
“Don’t touch your hair!” Jack exclaimed as Bernie’s hand went to her head in what was obviously an unconscious gesture.
“What is she going to wear?” Jeanaeane asked.
* * *
Makeda Tiye was a force to be reckoned with.
Bernie almost hated to disappoint her.
But she also did not wear heels.
Or dresses that short.
Or colors that wild.
“I brought a whole bunch of everything so we can get an idea of what kind of styles look best on you,” Makeda was saying as she pulled short, wild-colored garments out of the bags that had been piled on her shoulders when she burst into the office soon after Jeanaeane was done scolding Bernie about her makeup. Bernie was just starting to get into a Zen place where she could accept the changes being wrought to her head as part of a larger experiment that would bear fruit, good or bad. Then Makeda had burst into the office, declared Bernie not as bad as everyone had told her she was, but pronounced the clothes tragic. Colin was no help at all, and his silence seemed to indicate that it was better just to let Makeda do what she was going to do.
Bernie was starting to get used to the fake lashes. She could handle some new clothes. Probably.
Colin followed behind them, his arms laden with short, wild-colored garments Makeda had already pulled.
It was a train of clothes that Bernie would never wear. And, judging by the width of them, that she would never fit into. “So I’ll just squeeze into them?”
“Don’t you worry about it.” Makeda held an animal-print minidress up to Bernie’s chest, then shook her head. She tossed it into the arms of a waiting intern. Where were all of these interns coming from? Then Makeda stretched a pair of wide-leg striped pants against Bernie’s waist and pursed her lips. “I’m just getting some ideas.”
“From clothes that won’t fit.”
“Is she always this positive?” Makeda asked Colin. “I’ll order the right size for you.”
Colin just smiled. Makeda pulled more clothes from Colin’s arms and tossed them to the interns. Then she went back and plucked a few others from the interns and gave them back to Colin. He continued to smile.
“Okay, now shoes.” Makeda led the clothes train over to a corner that was laid out with rows and rows and rows of wild-colored, very high-heeled shoes.
“Um, I don’t wear heels,” Bernie said.
“You do now,” Makeda said.
“No, I mean, I can’t walk in them. I’ll break my ankle.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Bernie was sure that Makeda heard her, but the way she was grabbing from the shoe-rows indicated that she did not care.
“Just try them,” Colin muttered.
“Says the man wearing sneakers.”
“Hey, these are classics.”
“They’re not heels.”
“Heels will elongate your legs,” Makeda said. “Make you feel powerful.”
“Until I break my ankle and have to be carried out on a stretcher.”
“Think of the stretcher as your sedan chair.”
“Heels are just a way to get women to walk slower and be more dependent on men to help them cross the street,” Bernie said.
“Is she serious?” Makeda asked Colin.
“Heels are the new corset,” Bernie said. “Breaking women’s bones so thei
r bodies can please the male gaze.”
“I can’t wait until we get to foundation garments,” Makeda muttered.
“No way,” said Bernie. “I’m not doing Spanx.”
“You need a new bra.”
“I don’t need a girdle.”
“You’re too young to have your boobs hanging down at your ankles.”
“They don’t hang down at my ankles!”
“Girl, if you were wearing heels, you’d trip over them. None of this is working. We gotta go shopping. Dali!” A woman with blue and pink striped hair scuttled out from behind a laptop at one of the shiny desks and handed a credit card to Makeda.
Wow. Bernie wondered if she could convince Makeda to come to her next budget meeting. For that, she might even wear heels.
“Thank you, doll. This poor girl needs some new underthings.”
“You’re so lucky,” Dali said.
“You want to go in my place?” Bernie asked, trying very hard not to blush at how much Makeda was mentioning her underwear. Bernie was a strong, sexually empowered woman. There was no need to be embarrassed at talk of her unmentionables.
“Hush,” Makeda said. “We’re going shopping. Colin, call us a car.”
“Um,” Colin said, his arms full of clothes.
“Never mind. We’ve got an intern for that. Intern!”
A rail-thin man with wild blue hair and the tightest jeans Bernie’d ever seen appeared out of nowhere and took the bundle from Colin. Bernie thought the poor kid was going to collapse under the weight of all those clothes, but he surprised her by zipping along the racks, throwing things back into place. Makeda would kill him, Bernie thought. He’s going to leave a mess everywhere. But as Makeda steered Bernie out of the office, she saw that the clothes were all hung neatly, color-coordinated, and the intern had disappeared.
“Wow. I need an intern,” she muttered.
“You got your stuff?” Makeda asked. Bernie held up her shoddy purse, which, until a few minutes ago, she’d thought had vintage charm. Colin followed.
