More Than One Way to Be a Girl

by Dyan Sheldon

  It hadn’t taken me long after our conversation about the bet – approximately one hour and twelve minutes – to realize that the “one of the guys” she was talking about doing a film with had to be Dillon Blackstock. There was no way in the universe that she would agree to the bet if she was spending time with him. She had never said so in so many words, but I knew she had a serious crush on him. Not only did she talk about him a lot – Dillon said this and Dillon said that – but she was always asking me questions about the sorts of films she never used to watch, as well. This was the first time ZiZi had been interested in a boy who was actually worthy of her, but, so far, he’d shown a lot less interest in her than in Japanese samurai movies. The serious but unrequited crush was something I could identify with completely. Ever since he fell into the cat food, Gabriel Schwartz hadn’t been quite as friendly as he’d been before – as if I’d seen him in his underwear or something equally embarrassing. Which put ZiZi and me in the same black hole of despair. She’d thought the movie would bring her and Dillon together; I’d thought the stars would do the same for me and Gabriel. So far, we both were wrong.

  “He’s not doing it,” said ZiZi. “Apparently, he’s had a better idea.” Dillon was going to the wilderness to make a documentary about living without money. “So, to be honest…? There’s nothing to stop me going for the minimal effort, unisex look.”

  I felt bad for her – I could tell she was really disappointed and I, for definite, know what that’s like. On the other hand, I couldn’t help feeling pretty pleased that the bet was going ahead after all. I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which I didn’t win. Unlucky in love, lucky in personal contests of will.

  I said, “We’ll have to have some ground rules.”

  ZiZi made a face as if we’d been through this a dozen times before. “I know. No make-up. No girly clothes. No flashy femininity.”

  I was mulling. I’m probably the only non-family member who has ever seen ZiZi before she gets ready to leave the house; I wasn’t sure she looked that radically different. “You need to make a fundamental change.”

  “I’m not binding my breasts, Loretta. That’s two hundred per cent not happening.”

  “I was thinking more of cutting your hair. That should do it.”

  She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, possibly weighing up the pros and cons of short hair versus a flat chest. “Okay, but then you have to make a fundamental change, too. I think you should colour your hair. At least put in highlights or streaks. It’ll make a real difference.”

  “Okay, I can live with that.” I was pretty certain I could get something that would wash out. “However, I am not going to flirt or act useless.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to flirt, you’d only mess it up and it’d be totally counterproductive. But you have to listen better to guys. And even if they say something really dumb, don’t get that look on your face like the emperor doesn’t have any clothes on. Just try to remember that you get more flies with honey than you do by whacking them with the nearest heavy object.”

  “No fear. I can do that.” I held out my hand. “Then I guess we have a deal.”

  “I think it’s only fair to warn you, Lo,” said ZiZi as she took my hand. “You are so going to wish you never started this, because there’s no way I’m not going to win.”

  Which is an example of the optimism of someone who thinks that if she uses moisturizer every day she’ll never get old.

  We agreed to begin our transformations as soon as school ended. ZiZi lent me some things that fit me despite the slight difference in our heights and builds, and the more than slight difference in our bra size. There was an awful lot of pink: pink jeans, pink skirt, pink dress, pink tops. I said I felt like I was drowning in Pepto Bismol.

  “Pink is feminine,” said ZiZi. “It’s gentle and warm.”

  No it isn’t; it’s insipid and indecisive.

  “You know there isn’t any scientific connection between girls and pink, don’t you? It’s not as if you have a gene for pink the way you have a gene for blue eyes.”

  ZiZi said that was my opinion. “Some things are just naturally feminine, Loretta. And the colour pink is one of them.”

  I said she was too old not to know the difference between opinion and fact. Opinions being what she has, and facts being on my team.

  “And that’s another matter of opinion,” said ZiZi.

  In return for the glut of pinkness, I lent her some things for her new persona – ZiZi Lite. T-shirts mainly, my favourite dungarees, a hooded sweatshirt – she does have one hoody but you’ll never guess what colour it is – and a long black skirt for special occasions.

  “You mean special occasions like a funeral,” said ZiZi.

  We figured we could get anything else we needed in the way of clothes from a charity shop.

  I thought I’d be able to use ZiZi’s make-up but apparently that was a hilarious example of how uneducated I am in the feminine arts.

  “No way,” said ZiZi. “I’m basically a blonde.”

  God help me, and all this time I’d thought she was a redhead.

  “And?”

  “And our skin tones are totally different. We need different palettes.”

  “It’s not like it’s a big deal. I just need a lipstick and some eyeliner.”

  “No, you don’t.” The Oracle of Howards Walk had spoken. “There’s more to this than you think. You need the whole package, not just a swipe of lipstick and a smear of liner, or the bet’s off. I’ll go with you to the store or you’ll get all the wrong stuff. We can get the highlighter for your hair at the same time.”

  It truly is an ill wind that blows no good.

  On Friday we went to buy my make-up, and what I think of as my make-up enablers – all the things that aren’t cosmetics per se but without which, it seems, the glosses and liners are next to useless. ZiZi was right, there was a Hell of a lot more to it than I’d thought – which is like saying there’s more to cosmology than “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”. There were tweezers, lash curlers, cuticle nippers, cotton pads, brushes, fixing spray, moisturizer, primer, concealer, foundation, bronzer, blush, shadow base, eyeshadow, liner, mascara, lip pencil, gloss, nail varnish, cuticle softener, cuticle cream… It was like the magician’s handkerchief trick where it keeps on coming and coming and coming – only, in reverse. We were putting things into the basket and they kept on coming. Every time I thought we must be done, ZiZi reached for something else. And to think I’d spent so many years being happy with soap and water.

  Obviously, I knew ZiZi’s morning routine was more complicated than just slapping on some lipstick and eye shadow – and that her evening routine was more complicated than just washing it off – but I hadn’t really appreciated how much more complicated. It gave me a new respect for both her discipline and her intelligence; the workings of the universe pale into insignificance beside her beauty routine.

  “Are you really sure I need all this junk?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. And it’s not junk. These are the essentials.” ZiZi tossed another bottle into my basket. “There’s no point in doing this unless you do it right. You want the whole experience, don’t you?”

  Did I? I stared at the laden basket; it looked like we were emptying the store. She seemed to think I wanted my whole experience and someone else’s, too.

  We lugged it all back to my house, and ZiZi laid everything out and explained how to use each item. This is for this; that is for that. Do this first; do that last. Don’t ever…; don’t forget…; don’t do them together. The more she explained, the more I understood that the wonder wasn’t that she was late so often; the wonder was that she ever showed up at all.

  Then we locked ourselves in the bathroom while she did my hair.

  I’d wanted to get henna or something gentle like that, but ZiZi insisted that wouldn’t work for what we wanted. What we wanted was to make my hair almost sparkle; an effect that required a form of medieval torture to bring it abo
ut – and that wasn’t going to wash out in any hurry. She put a plastic cap filled with tiny holes on my head and pulled hair through the holes with a hook.

  “Are you sure you’ve done this before? You’re digging into my scalp.”

  “It isn’t brain surgery, Loretta.” Although it definitely felt like it. “I just have to follow the directions.”

  She mixed a chemical potion that could probably double as weedkiller; the smell alone would do the trick.

  I kept my eyes shut tight until she finally finished and tried to think of something pleasant. The pleasant thing I focused on was Gabriel Schwartz. Maybe the problem wasn’t him, maybe the problem was me. Maybe, because we shared so many interests, he could only think of me as another future physicist. I know it went against all my principles – and I know Gabriel is intelligent and evolved and isn’t one of those guys who only cares about looks – but I started wondering if the make-up and the hair and the clothes might make him see me differently. See me not simply as someone he could discuss quantum physics with but as a girl, as well. Do the trick the top I bought for the Astronomy Club dinner failed to do.

  While we waited for the dye to work, ZiZi kept busy on her phone, and I kept busy thinking of reasons to arrange a meeting with Gabriel so I could introduce him to the renovated me. The meteor showers were weeks away, but he might agree to going together to find the perfect spot to watch from. I was imagining us walking along the shore in moonlight, discussing which would be the best vantage point, when I finally realized that ZiZi was shouting, “Earth calling Loretta! Earth calling Loretta! Time’s up.” I opened my eyes, blinking; it took me a few seconds to realize what she was talking about.

  After ZiZi rinsed out the dye and washed my hair, she did my face.

  If the highlighting was torture, the making-up was like an operation – minus the blood, but not minus the pain.

  ZiZi wished we had a chair. She wished I were shorter. She wished the light were better. She wished the window weren’t so small.

  “Stop flinching,” ZiZi ordered. “This is hard enough without you moving around like you’re trying to get out of the way.”

  “I can’t help it. I am trying to get out of the way. I’m not used to having things mashed into my skin.”

  “I mean it, Loretta. If you don’t stop flinching, you’re going to wind up with mascara in your nostrils.”

  When she was done making my face feel like it was caked in mud and my eyelashes feel like they were glued together, she turned me towards the mirror. ZiZi stood behind me, head to one side, studying her work with professional scrutiny. “What do you think?” she finally asked.

  Think? I didn’t know what to think. Staring back at me was someone I’d never seen before; I hadn’t even been aware of her existence. I wasn’t even sure we were related. Forget that, I wasn’t even sure we belonged to the same species.

  “Loretta.” ZiZi gave me a poke. “What do you think?”

  “I look so different.”

  She clapped her hands together. “I know! Isn’t it awesome? Nobody’d ever guess you read non-fiction books for fun.”

  They might not even think I could read.

  I’d expected to look like me but with a lot of crap on my face. But I didn’t; I looked so different that if I’d met myself on the street, I would have thought I was someone else. I was girlier, yes, for definite – there was no mistaking me for anything but a girl. It was more than that, though. I’d have been girlier if I’d clipped a bow in my hair. I looked like a girl who went on dates and waxed her bikini line; the kind of girl who’d been planning her wedding, not her career, since she was twelve. I was sexy. Pretty. Hot. A babe. Even still wearing my old black jeans and a T-shirt. I, Loretta Reynolds, was a babe. I’d been a feminist since I was eight. How could I be a babe? A babe who was probably a fantastically good listener, too.

  “I think I may be having an allergic reaction.”

  “For God’s sake, Lo!” ZiZi made the same sigh she’s been making since we first became friends. As in, if she were a foot I’d be a blister. “Is that all you can say? You might be allergic? You don’t think you look absolutely amazing?”

  “I do. I look amazing.” Which I did. Only whether you were defining “amazing” as terrifying or wonderful was open to debate.

  “Thank you, ZiZi, for making me look so totally, spectacularly awesome.” She curtsied. There was no debate as far as she was concerned. Amazing could only be good. “Just call me any time you want to stop traffic.”

  What I wanted right then was to practise the part where I removed everything from my face, but ZiZi insisted that I show my parents the new me. “Unless you’re planning to come and go in a burka, they’re going to see you eventually,” she argued. “So why not now?”

  Because I hadn’t told my parents what we were planning to do, that’s why not now. My parents have always encouraged me to be a person. And they’ve always been very ambitious for me – academically and for my future. I did have a doll when I was little – I took her apart to see how her eyes worked – but I also had trains, a toolbox, a pedal car and a lot of non-gender-specific toys and games. I never had one of those just-like-mommy’s strollers – my mother didn’t have one either (she strapped me to her) – a princess dress, fairy wings or pretend high heels. My mother helped me build a tree house, she was the labourer; my grandfather was a tailor, so it was my dad who taught me how to sew. I was on a mixed softball team in elementary school. I got my first telescope when I was seven. They’d never given any indication that they felt I’d deprived them of the most interesting years of my adolescence because I never showed any interest in fashion, make-up or being a model. Too late, I realized that I should have warned them so they’d know what to expect. I didn’t want to bring on a stroke or anything like that because the shock of seeing me painted up like a chorus girl proved too much for them. They’re liberal, but everybody has limits.

  They were watching the news.

  “Ta-dah!” called out ZiZi.

  They both looked up.

  There were a few seconds of the sort of silence you’d expect if you opened the front door and found an alien on the doorstep asking for directions to the mall.

  My dad recovered first. “Well, bless my soul, Mom,” said my dad. “It’s a girl!”

  ZiZi

  Like a sheep to the shearer

  Even if I have to say so myself (and I do, because Loretta’s not going to), I did a fabulously amazing job on her makeover. It was like one of those Before and After magazine features where a dowdy housewife is transformed into eye candy. I did such a fabulously amazing job that I’d consider being a make-up artist if the model/actor thing doesn’t work out. And that’s not all. I had this awesome revelation while I was doing it. For the first time in my life, I understood what it must feel like to be some kind of genius artist. There you are, with an empty canvas in front of you. You pick up your brush. You make a line here and a shape there. You splash on colours and dab on shades. You add shadows and highlights. And when you step back, you’ve created something totally mind-blowing out of nothing. Life from emptiness. Beauty from blank. Not that I expected Loretta to appreciate what I’d done. Grouse, groan, grump. Her face felt stiff. Her eyelashes felt like they’d been cemented together. What was that smell? What colour was that supposed to be? Was I trying to blind her? You can bet the Mona Lisa didn’t carry on like that when she was being painted. Can you imagine? What in Heaven’s name do you think you’re doing, Leonardo? Do you call that a smile?

  But if Loretta’s reaction could be described as underwhelmed, you should’ve seen Stew and Odelia when she walked into the room looking like that. You could’ve knocked both of them out of their chairs with a cotton ball. And I mean literally.

  You probably think that, since they’re the parents of an obsessive overachiever who thinks glamour is a dirty word, the Reynolds parents would find me a challenge. Not like some enormous mountain to climb; more like you went to
dinner expecting nut cutlets and quinoa (these are the Reynoldses we’re talking about) but what you got was steak and cake. And I admit, I was a little nervous the first time I met them. Loretta couldn’t understand why. She said, “Nervous about what? They’re just regular parents.” Which seemed pretty unlikely to me. You don’t get hats from a shoe store. I said I figured they wouldn’t be expecting someone like me – because Loretta and I are so different. Girl and geek. “They’re not judgmental,” said Loretta. I said, “So who is it you take after, then?”

  But here’s the thing. Mr and Mrs Reynolds liked me from day one. And they are pretty normal really. Way more normal than I’d thought they’d be. Stew’s some kind of therapist but he doesn’t have a beard or anything like that. And Mrs Reynolds teaches yoga but she wears lipstick, nail polish and dresses, and you can tell from her hair that she knows what the inside of a beauty salon looks like. Anyway, the first time I met them they were in the kitchen. Mr Reynolds was yelling at the radio and Mrs Reynolds was frowning at her computer. (I could totally relate to that. My dad does a lot of yelling at the TV and my mom frowns a lot.) They both seemed happy to meet me. Mr Reynolds even stood up and shook my hand. Mrs Reynolds wanted to know if my hair is naturally curly. I said no, I owe it all to chemicals. That made her laugh. Loretta wandered away to get a snack. (It was hours since lunch, God knows how she made it home.) So I was left standing by the table with her parents making the usual How’s school…? You have a nice house… What are the cats’ names…? small talk. Then Mr Reynolds went back to yelling at the radio. Mrs Reynolds said, “You look like a girl with an eye for design, ZiZi. You want to come over here and see what you think about these?” She was choosing the colour for the new living-room curtains. “Moonglow… Misty Dream… Summer Lace…” chanted Mrs Reynolds. “It all looks like white to me.” I said she should go for the Summer Lace. “It’s soft but not bland. It has a little yellow in it.” She beamed. “I knew you’d be helpful. It’s no use asking Loretta. She wouldn’t care if I hung sheets on the windows.” (She got the Summer Lace and has never stopped thanking me!) It was all smooth sailing after that. They told Loretta I’m refreshing, so I figured that, despite the yoga and the counselling, I gave them hope that, deep down, Loretta is a normal girl and not just a wannabe boy. When I saw their faces at the sight of their born-again daughter, I knew I was right.