Fool's Gold

by Melody Carlson

  “Time to check your hair,” says Celia.

  “Let those nails air dry,” instructs Lan. “Very pretty, yes?”

  I look down at my unexpectedly natural-looking nails. They are soft pink and glossy with white tips. “Yes,” I tell her. “Very pretty. Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” she calls as Celia leads me back to her station.

  Now seems to be the moment of truth, and despite my earlier bravado, I no longer feel at ease. “I can’t bear to look,” I admit as Celia removes a piece of foil.

  “Just right,” she says. Then she quickly removes the other pieces of foil, and the next thing I know we are back at the washing station again. My hair will be really clean by the time we leave this place.

  Finally she is finished rinsing and conditioning and towel drying and whatnot, so she leads me back to her station where I stare at my image in the mirror.

  “What do you think?”

  “I — uh — I don’t quite know.”

  Aunt Lori is standing behind me now. I can see her smile in the mirror. “I think it’s going to be just perfect.”

  I notice my expression in the mirror, and I try not to seem so stunned. But I just sit there staring, not knowing what to think. The color isn’t as shocking as I had prepared myself for. But the cut makes it look like my hair is sticking up all over, and I’m certain it will never go into a ponytail again.

  “Let’s get it dried,” says Celia.

  I decide to shut my eyes again as the blow dryer begins buzzing about like a giant pesky insect. I will pretend that none of this is actually happening, that it’s just a dream. A very weird dream.

  “There now,” says Celia. “How’s that?”

  I cautiously open my eyes again, and now the color is actually brighter than before, but at least my hair isn’t sticking out in every direction. I study it carefully and finally decide that it’s not too bad.

  “What do you think?” asks Aunt Lori.

  I kind of shrug. “It’s okay.”

  “Okay?” repeats Celia with disappointment. “It’s fantastic.”

  “She’s just not used to it,” says my aunt. “Give her time.”

  “Speaking of time . . .”

  “Yes,” says Aunt Lori. “I know you’re closing now. Put this on my bill, and of course, add the standard tips . . . and an extra 10 percent for squeezing us in like this.”

  Celia smiles. “Thanks, Lori. Glad we could be of help. If it wasn’t after five, I’d run Hannah over to Gina and let her play with some makeup.”

  Aunt Lori waves her hand. “I’ve got that covered. Vanessa and I are going to have her try some things at home.”

  Well, that’s news to me. As we go back out to Aunt Lori’s car, I give my head a shake in the sunshine. To my surprise it feels pretty good. Then I run my fingers through my hair and realize that my hair feels pretty good too. Kind of light and free. “Maybe this won’t be so bad,” I say to Aunt Lori once we’re in the car.

  She turns and looks at me, then smiles. “You look beautiful, Hannah.”

  I think it’s the first time anyone has ever told me that. I mutter a thank you, then turn and pretend to look at something out the window. Beautiful? Is that even possible? Or is she just being nice? Not that I ever worried about my looks before. I reckon I could’ve had it far worse. Like Grace Lemke back at the mission. She’s the same age as me and a nice girl, but she’s quite heavy, and her hair is so thin that you can see her scalp. And then there’s Amy Stevens, whose skin is always covered with severe acne, even on her back and chest. I feel sorry for those girls and have just been thankful that I don’t have worries like that. Even so, I’ve never considered myself beautiful. Now, I reckon Sophie is quite pretty with her dark, curly hair and fair skin and blue eyes. I might even think she’s beautiful sometimes, like when she’s all scrubbed up. But not me. Those two words — beautiful and Hannah — just do not belong together.

  eight

  IS IT POSSIBLE THAT I AM BECOMING VAIN? I’VE ALWAYS DISLIKED VANITY in people. It seems such a weakness of character to me. I remember one girl in particular who was in our group home when I was fifteen. Her name was Nicole Flynn, and she was a year older than me and, according to her, far more sophisticated than the rest of us. I’ll admit she was rather pretty with her pale blonde hair and icy blue eyes — a very delicate kind of pretty. Like a fragile butterfly wing that I found in the bush one day. I wrapped it in a tissue and put it in my shirt pocket, but it was crushed by the time I got back to my room. Unfortunately, her beauty was also only skin-deep because she wasn’t very nice — not to anyone. She seemed to think she was royalty and we were all just little peasant girls sent by the angels to serve her. She always hogged the bathroom, spreading her things all over the bench and taking the best mirror for herself, and she was rude to the other girls.

  I decided then that if being pretty meant being mean, I wanted no part of it. But I did feel sorry for Nicole toward the end of her stay with us. She hadn’t made a single friend among the girls. In fact, she had many enemies. And one of her enemies, a girl named Rena, got into Nicole’s diary and read it out loud to the rest of us. Everyone laughed, including me, but in truth I thought it was pitiful. You could tell that Nicole was miserable and lonely and perhaps even on the edge. Then it all came to a swift end when she tried to kill herself. Her parents were called out of the bush, and they all went back home to Australia to sort things out. I remember feeling guilty at the time, thinking that if I’d been a bit more friendly to Nicole . . . But most of all, I think I was glad she was gone and that things could return to normal. And I promised myself that I would never become vain like that.

  Now as I stand here in front of my mirror in the privacy of my room, with my fancy new haircut and hair color, sporting these expensive designer clothes and shoes and accessories, and even wearing a bit of makeup provided by Vanessa and Aunt Lori, well, I reckon I look pretty “hot,” as Vanessa puts it. As I strut around my room, putting on airs just for the fun of it, I think I look like someone altogether different than the Hannah who arrived in the States a few weeks ago. It’s actually quite amazing. Even Vanessa and Aunt Lori were amazed. And I can tell they won’t be embarrassed to be seen with me now. I’ve already delegated my old bathers to the back of my closet. I did take the time to pack them in my port and zip it up, zipping away the old Hannah with them.

  Not that I have changed on the inside. And I certainly won’t become like Nicole Flynn. But a little exterior change couldn’t hurt anything. In fact, I think it could improve me in many ways. Like Aunt Lori says, “How you look reflects how you see yourself, and others will see it too.” Or as Vanessa puts it, “Dress for the life you want to have.” Although I’m not sure what that means.

  Finally, after I’ve tried on every possible outfit, mixing and matching pieces and changing accessories the way Aunt Lori has shown me, I carefully hang everything up in my closet. I stand there for a moment, amazed at the wardrobe I’ve amassed in just two days. It’s far more clothes than I usually have at one time — at least new. The funny thing is that Vanessa was feeling sorry for me. “Your closet is so bare,” she said after we played with makeup tonight. “You really need to do some more shopping.” Naturally, I just laughed and told her that I’ve done more shopping in the past three days than I have in my entire lifetime. Of course, she didn’t think that was possible, but I honestly don’t think it was too much of an exaggeration.

  I decide to pick out my work outfit for the morning since I have to be up so early. Despite Aunt Lori’s and Vanessa’s opinions of the clothes I bought at Ross, I’m hoping I can integrate them with some of the nicer items. That way I’ll look stylish at work but still have more clothes to choose from. Finally I decide on the khaki skirt from Ross and the pale green Versace jacket that Aunt Lori insisted was a “must.” I choose a white T-shirt (one of the cheapies) to go underneath the costly jacket, then select a bright, multicolored belt by Prada “to accent,” as Aunt Lor
i says. And I think it works. To be practical, I decide to go with my inexpensive sandals. Then, just for fun, I try the mules instead, and although I don’t really understand fashion, I think they work just fine. If not, I’m sure I’ll hear about it, although it’s a relief to know that neither Aunt Lori nor Vanessa will be up when I go to work early in the morning.

  Uncle Ron has given me a map marked with several routes for getting to work. “But you can follow me tomorrow,” he told me tonight. “Just to be safe. I’ll take you on what’s normally the quickest route. The traffic’s not too bad that early in the morning, but just thirty minutes later it can be all locked up.” Then he looked up from his desk and seemed to notice something. “Did you change your hair, Hannah?”

  I kind of grinned. “Yeah. It was Aunt Lori’s idea.”

  He nodded. “Looks nice.”

  “I’m getting used to it.”

  “You think your parents will mind?”

  I considered this. “They’ve always encouraged me to be independent,” I began. “But girls aren’t allowed to use hair dye at school. I reckon they’ll say it’s my hair and my worries to sort out later.”

  He laughed. “I guess that’s a pretty good attitude.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  “Bright and early.”

  And so I’ve got all my new clothes laid out, and I’ve washed my face the way Aunt Lori told me to. “You have to take better care of your skin,” she warned me. “Especially when you’re using makeup. You have to properly remove it and then apply a little nighttime moisturizer, and you should use UV protection during the day.” She gave me all sorts of things, and I’m afraid I won’t even remember what some of them are for, but I can go back for a refresher course later.

  I’m all ready for bed now, and I’m feeling excited about starting my new job tomorrow. The alarm is set, and I know I should turn off the light. But I’m not quite ready to sleep, and I can’t quite figure out why. I sit there for several minutes and finally it hits me. In the past when something new and exciting was going to occur the following day, I would spend a fair amount of time reading my Bible and then praying. I would ask God to help and guide me, and then I would peacefully go to sleep.

  I actually consider doing this tonight, but then I feel slightly hypocritical. As if I’ve been going off on my merry way and suddenly I’m getting nervous, so I come to God and expect him to just forget the fact that I’ve totally ignored him for so long. It seems wrong. Even selfish. Perhaps if I’d brought my Bible with me, I wouldn’t feel so bad opening it up and reading it. But since it’s not here, I really can’t do much about that. And so I turn off the light and lie down and try not to feel too anxious about how my new job will go in the morning.

  I reckon I tossed and turned half the night, and the next thing I know, my alarm is going off. Even so, it is a relief to get up. For some reason this day is looming before me like a huge history exam, and I just want to get through it and move on. I dress carefully, taking time to put on my makeup just the way Vanessa and Aunt Lori instructed. I’m sure it doesn’t look as good as when they did it, but perhaps it’ll improve with time. Finally I give myself one last glance in the mirror, and I reckon I look pretty good. I’m not entirely sure about my orange purse, but it does seem to make the belt pop out a bit. Then I remind myself that I’m only going to work, not to some fancy party with Vanessa’s fashion-conscious mates.

  Uncle Ron is just finishing his coffee when I come down. “Want some joe?” he asks, holding up a cup.

  “Joe?”

  “Coffee. There’s time if you want some, or breakfast — ”

  “No,” I tell him. “I’m too nervous to eat right now. Maybe I can grab something later. I assume I get a break or something.”

  He laughs. “Yes. We don’t chain you to the desk. And there’s a coffee shop just down the street, as well as several kiosks. You’ll be fine.”

  “Good.”

  “And you look very nice,” he says. “Just right for work.”

  I nod. “Good. I was hoping — ”

  “Okay, then, just keep your map handy and follow me.” He pauses as if just thinking of something. “You know, we’ll have to get you a cell phone, Hannah.”

  “Oh, no,” I say quickly. “I don’t really need — ”

  “No, you do need one. Just in case you have engine trouble or get lost. I’ll make sure that you have one by the end of the day.”

  So I thank him, and we go out; then I follow him as we head toward the freeway. It’s helpful having him lead like this since it reminds me to stay on the right side of the road. And I make mental notes of things we pass and signs and whatnot. It actually seems rather simple. And although the traffic moves fast on the freeway, I am surprised at how at ease I am while following Uncle Ron. We exit this freeway and get onto another, and after about fifteen minutes, we are downtown where the buildings loom high above us. I follow him down into what seems to be a dark hole but actually turns out to be underground parking. He parks in a spot marked with his name and indicates that I’m to park in the one next to it.

  “You get some special privileges being the niece of the owner,” he explains when I get out. “Plus, that’s my Jeep and I don’t want it getting dinged.”

  He leads me to a lift and talks as we go up. “I’ll introduce you to your manager first thing. She’s a nice lady by the name of Cynthia Archer.”

  “Do I call her Mrs. Archer?” I ask. “Or Ms. Archer?”

  “Just Cynthia.”

  I nod, taking this in. Yanks are so casual about some things and rather uptight about others. For instance, they call superiors by first names but items of clothing by last names. It’s all rather convoluted, if you ask me.

  But Cynthia turns out to be rather sweet. She shows me around and even lets me get a coffee before putting me to work at the desk that is situated at the main entrance.

  “It’s pretty simple,” she says as she shows me how to work the phone lines and the computer. “I know it might seem complicated at first, but trust me, it gets easier. Mostly you’re like traffic control. You just greet people and direct them along their way.”

  I take notes and ask questions. She walks me through a few phone calls, and I’m thinking maybe it’s not so complicated after all.

  “You ready to try it on your own?”

  “I reckon.” I smile what I hope looks like a confident smile. “But can I ring you if I need help?”

  She nods. “By all means.” And I assume that means yes.

  “Alright, then. I think I’m good to go.”

  And at first I’m doing just fine. But suddenly, too many things are happening at once. First I get a call that’s a complaint about one of our janitors who apparently left the water running and flooded a break room. And I’m not even sure what a break room is, but then another line lights up and then another, and I don’t quite know what to do. Cynthia said not to put anyone on hold if I can help it. But I can’t seem to help it. “Johnson’s Janitorial,” I say again and again. “May I put you on hold?” And without giving them a chance to respond, I hit the button. But I also accidentally cut someone off, and I have no idea how to get him back.

  “I want someone over here immediately,” the angry man is saying to me, and I remember this is the flood situation.

  “I will get someone right on it, sir,” I assure him. “I’m terribly sorry, and I know that we’ll do whatever is necessary to straighten this out.”

  “Are you from Australia?” he asks, his tone becoming friendlier.

  “Actually Papua New Guinea,” I tell him, knowing that I’m probably wasting precious time, but then this man is the one with the flooding dilemma.

  “Papua New Guinea? I’ve always wanted to go there. I spent some time in Australia and wanted to get up there but just couldn’t — ”

  “Sir?” I interrupt. “Wouldn’t you like me to get someone to come clean up your flooding situation?”

  “Yes,” he s
ays quickly. “Of course.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  And so I need to get Cynthia back to find out what needs to be done for the flood situation, as well as try to answer the ongoing calls and retrieve the ones who’ve been stuck on hold. And suddenly I’m worried that I might be sweating and spoiling my new Versace jacket. I wish I’d thought to use antiperspirant like Vanessa had suggested.

  “Just take it easy,” Cynthia is telling me.

  “Right,” I say as I stand up and remove my jacket and hang it on the back of my chair. “Take it easy.”

  “Nice jacket,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me walk you through this one more time.” Then she sits down next to me, and together we take calls and work things out, and I am so relieved to have her help. It reminds me of how I felt while following Uncle Ron through the maze of freeways this morning.

  By midmorning I am feeling a bit more confident. And I actually find some antiperspirant in the WC, which I really should call the ladies’ bathroom, along with hairspray and lotion and mouthwash, which I assume are for anyone to use. I’ve never seen anything like it before, but then these Yanks seem to think of everything.

  Cynthia gives me some employee paperwork to fill out and tells me that my lunch break starts at eleven and is one hour long. “We stagger the lunch breaks so that the phones are always managed. Some go at eleven and some at noon.”

  “Eleven’s good for me,” I say. “Especially since I get off at two.”

  “I noticed you didn’t bring a lunch.”

  “I never even thought about that,” I admit.

  “No problem. There are several places to choose from.” Then she writes down some names with fairly simple directions.