The door to his office is open, but his back is turned to us. I knock softly on the frame.
“Barretts,” Dan says, turning. He covers the speaker on his cell phone and waves us in distractedly, pointing to the two chairs at his desk. “Have a seat.”
No hug, no handshake, no smile.
He heard it; he hated it.
As we settle into the two chairs at his desk, he paces the sitting area and finishes his phone call. My knees bob up and down involuntarily. I’d really like to know what this meeting is about.
“Fine, tomorrow, bye,” he says, ending the call. Instead of greeting us as usual, he walks behind his desk and checks something on his computer, his brow furrowed like he’s got something on his mind. He looms above us but doesn’t sit down, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “There,” he says to himself, and then he looks up and points a sleek black remote toward a bookshelf to his left. “What do you hear?”
“Notice Me” starts to play in surround sound. Unsure what to say, I look at him hesitantly. “My song?”
Dan cocks his head and nods thoughtfully. “Sure,” he says. “Know what I hear?”
As the song plays, I can’t help but think that the quality of my voice has never sounded better, that the beat is catchy and the lyrics are perfect, and that if he doesn’t like this song, then he won’t like any.
I gulp hard and shake my head.
“I hear your first single,” he says, grinning broadly.
“Really?” I ask, hardly able to believe it.
“Really!” he says, his eyes sparkling. He reaches out his hand to me and, letting his words sink in, I stand slowly on weak legs. He shakes my hand vigorously, then my dad’s. Anita walks in wearing a black skirt suit, carrying what looks like a bottle of champagne and four glasses.
“Congratulations, Bird!” she says. She hands the bottle off to Dan and passes around the glasses. “Don’t worry, Judd. It’s sparkling cider.”
My dad grins and puts his arm around me. In fact, he surprises me by kissing me at my hairline and whispering, “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”
Dan shoots the cork across the room. We all cheer, and Anita actually winks at me. Dan deftly steps back so that the sparkling cider doesn’t drench his slacks, making it clear to everyone that he’s done this before, that this single isn’t his first by far, and that he’s making good on his promises to me. I’m really on my way.
“I still can’t believe I’m a recording artist,” I say, my smile wide and my eyes wet. “People will hear this song. They’ll know it; they’ll know me.” A cold chill shakes me from head to toe.
“Bird, this will be the first toast of many,” Dan declares.
While he pours, Anita turns to me. “Bird, I need to talk to you about some next steps. For one, I’ve put together a team of stylists.” She squints and holds one hand in front of her, as if blocking out half of my face. “I met with them this week to nail down your look for your first promo shoot this Saturday.”
“My look?”
Dan grins at me as he sets down the bottle. “Are you ready for your close-up?”
I start to answer, but Anita gets there first. “She will be when I’m done with her.”
He smiles.
“To Bird Barrett,” Dan says, lifting his glass.
“To Bird Barrett,” my dad and Anita repeat, holding theirs up as well.
I face their smiles, see my future in their eyes, and laugh out loud as I toast a dream come true.
I’ve never been one for tennis, but as I sit in a salon chair in the stylists’ area of a large studio, facing a giant mirror ringed with bright lights, I’m mesmerized by the back-and-forth between Anita and my new hairstylist, Tammy.
“So, you think red?” Anita asks.
“I think red, but you think blond?” Tammy returns, smacking her gum. These two women couldn’t be more different if they tried. As usual, Anita looks chic and put-together, wearing a designer color-blocked dress, her dark brown hair shiny at shoulder length. Tammy is wearing a flowery peasant top with teal skinny jeans and wedge sandals, her blond hair pulled back in intricate braiding.
“Well, we discussed blond resonating more with Middle America,” Anita says, frowning at the two color samples in her hands. One is straw yellow, and the other is coppery red. They’ve been talking about my hair for the past ten minutes, and truly, it’s captivating. Their accents even make them sound like they’re speaking two totally different languages. While Anita is snappy and her Long Island background is hard to miss, Tammy has a strong Smoky Mountains drawl. I’m surprised they don’t need me to translate.
“Right, but red is more memorable,” Tammy says. She runs her hands through my long hair for the hundredth time, tossing it this way and that, her touch nearly putting me to sleep. My hair is naturally strawberry blond, so I’ve already got the best of both worlds in my opinion, but I keep quiet. What do I know about hair? My mom trims mine.
Anita holds each hair swatch up to my cheeks once more, closing one eye as she always does when examining me.
“So you think red,” she says again.
“Red,” Tammy says decidedly. “I think we should go red.”
Anita’s phone rings, pulling away her focus. “Wilson, I do not have time for excuses,” she says harshly into the phone. “Do it,” she tells Tammy before click-clacking away in her pumps, like a woman on a mission.
“I would not want to be the guy on the other end of that phone call,” Tammy says, grinning mischievously.
I giggle, and she winks at me in the mirror.
“So we’re going red?” my makeup artist, Sam, asks as he saunters over with a couple of sponges soaked in foundation. “I’ll obviously do her face once she’s dyed and dried, but I need to go ahead and match her skin tone.”
“No problem,” Tammy says, scooting over. Fascinated, I watch her prep a small rolling table next to me with perfectly squared pieces of aluminum foil as Sam dabs the sponges at my jawline.
“Hmmm…” he says, rubbing it in and pondering the two. “Okay, this one.”
I tilt my head and look in the mirror to see the side of my face he’s tested with foundation and, honestly, I cannot tell the difference.
“I’m going to mix the color,” Tammy says. She yawns as she walks across the studio. “And grab a cup of coffee from craft services.”
“Grab me one, too?” Sam calls after her. Then he turns to me and starts to speak but is cut off by an enormous yawn.
I grin. “Tell me about it. It should be illegal to work before six AM.”
Sam holds up his hand for a high five in agreement. I hadn’t known what to expect at this promo shoot, but so far, I’m having a blast. Across the large open room, I see Anita and Dan talking to the photographer as the crew sets up a white backdrop and big lights. Tammy is hitting up craft services, which is basically a table full of food and drinks that everybody can help themselves to throughout the day. And Sam has tubes and brushes and case after case of shadows and powders lined up neatly in front of the mirror. Like a surgeon, he studies his instruments and then picks up a pair of tweezers.
“The color will take Tammy a while,” he says, “so let’s treat your skin while she’s at it.”
I hadn’t expected pain to be part of the pampering, but Sam starts his treatment by plucking my eyebrows. I thought they looked okay, but he’s still hard at work when Tammy comes back. I study Sam through my now-blurry eyes as he works, inches from my face. He is a pretty man, perfectly fit. He has smooth brown skin, bleached-white hair, and baby-soft hands.
But then his eyes suddenly narrow and he leans even closer to my face, so close that I can smell his tropical-fruit-scented shampoo.
“I know.” I groan, closing my eyes and letting him tilt my chin up. “I know. Today of all days I get a major zit on my chin. My mom told me it’s barely noticeable, but I—”
“Oh no,” Sam says, cutting me off. “That sucker’s noticeable, but it’s nothing I ca
n’t make disappear.”
Tammy snorts as she sections off my hair.
“What?” Sam challenges.
“The only thing you make disappear is eligible bachelors every time you open your mouth to speak,” Tammy says. “Like last night with—”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Sam says, slightly blushing as he shushes Tammy. “Don’t corrupt the talent.”
Tammy winks at me in the mirror again, and I laugh as I close my eyes.
“Now the other foot,” my stylist, Amanda, commands. This girl is only a couple of years older than Dylan, but you wouldn’t know it the way she bosses people around.
While Sam and Tammy finished my look from the neck up, Amanda unpacked more than twenty dresses from garment bags, arranging them by color on two rolling racks. Once I was passed off to her, she zipped me up and zipped me out as I modeled gown after gown for Anita, Dan, and the photographer. With my new coppery-red hair and dramatic smoky eyes, I think I would look good in a burlap sack, but finding the perfect outfit and accessories for these pictures has been like putting together an intricate puzzle. By the time lunch rolled around, the choice had been narrowed down to two dresses, and it was decided that everyone would “think it over” during break. Personally, I like Amanda’s favorite, the flowy green dress I’m in now, but then again, my entire experience with fashion comes from the sale rack at T.J.Maxx.
“Is green too obvious with red hair?” Anita muses, scrunching her brows.
“Look how it pops,” Amanda says. “Her skin is flawless. And this dress is conservative but flirty. It’ll look great on camera.”
The photographer nods slightly, then says, “Bird, give me some movement.”
I feel frozen. What does that even mean? I stiffly swish my skirt, twisting my hips slightly. Sam covers his mouth to suppress a laugh, and I make a face at him.
“I like that,” the photographer says. “And it will work with the fans.”
“Should we do contact lenses?” Anita asks Dan. “Red hair, green eyes, green dress?”
Sam’s smile drops faster than the ball on New Year’s Eve. “Absolutely not,” he says, stepping forward. “Too obvious, too matchy-matchy. Her blue eyes are gorgeous.”
“But isn’t it blue eyes, blond hair; green eyes, red hair?” Anita asks. Her question seems sincere, but Sam acts like she just insulted his grandmother.
“Yes, if you’re going for boring,” he snaps.
I gasp quietly, but Amanda and Tammy nod in agreement.
Anita narrows her eyes. “The whole purpose of today is to nail down her image, so these are big decisions and it’s certainly worth considering all our options.”
Everyone on set goes quiet. The tension is palpable.
I would never stand up to Anita or Dan about anything, but when it comes to their work, these stylists are fearless. It’s almost like there are two teams on set: the stylists and the industry people. Even when we broke for lunch after hair, makeup, and wardrobe, the stylists sat together and the label folks sat together. I didn’t want to choose a side, so I stuck with my dad.
“Fine. Red hair, blue eyes. Makes her even more special,” Anita finally says.
“And the green dress,” the photographer decides. Amanda smiles. Then the photographer turns to Anita and Dan and asks, almost as an afterthought, “Are we all in agreement? The green?”
Anita and Dan nod, then follow the photographer to set while Amanda leads me back over to wardrobe. “Of course the green,” she mumbles.
“Green contact lenses,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Can you imagine? She’d have to wear them all the time, nonstop, and the girl’s got twenty-twenty vision.” He looks at me. “Don’t you?”
“I do.”
He tsks. “How phony.”
“Amen,” Amanda grumbles. “I didn’t even ask them about her boots because I didn’t want to give them the chance to shoot them down, but look at these Justins.” We all look down at my feet. The tall cowboy boots she’s put me in are brown and trimmed with pink details up both legs and across the toes. They’re rustic but feminine. I am in love with them. “Custom embroidered,” she says, and we all take a moment to silently appreciate.
Amanda hands me a pair of long gold earrings, and I’m surprised that I actually get to put these on without help. She gave me a good scolding when I unzipped myself out of the first dress we tried.
But that’s how it’s been all morning. Sam rushed to me like he was putting out a fire when I took a can of Coke from the craft services table. “A straw!” he practically shouted, whipping one out from his waist pouch. “Your lips! Use a straw!” And I thought Tammy would have a stroke when I absentmindedly braided my hair over one shoulder. I’m wearing it down and loose for the shoot, apparently, so I didn’t even realize it was “styled.” I’ve learned a big lesson today: I’m only here to do one job and that’s being “the talent.” And although I’m used to setting up and breaking down the BFB equipment before and after every show and even though it feels totally lazy to not do anything for myself, I have to respect the fact that everybody else is here to do a job, too.
“We’re ready when you are,” the photographer calls over to us.
And now, five hours, two hair rinses, thirteen dresses, and four makeup touch-ups later, I am finally walking onto set.
“We moved her mark, James,” the photographer calls.
The guy leading me nods, looks around, and then escorts me to a small X in black tape on the floor. “Do you need anything?” he asks.
“No, I’m good,” I say. “Thank you.”
He steps away, but before I can catch a breath, my styling team is on me again. Sam’s big brush full of powder attacks my T-zone. Amanda’s cold hands press the straps of my dress down flat over my shoulders, and she frees a few strands of hair from my earrings. And over us all is a foggy cloud from Tammy’s enormous can of hair spray.
“Clear set,” the photographer commands.
My team exits in a hurry, waiting in the wings with Dan and Anita, all of them watching a monitor. The photographer snaps a quick test shot and then consults with them. He directs a crew member to adjust a light to my right, and when I look over, I see another monitor—only this one is turned slightly toward me.
And I gasp. I was expecting to see myself: Bird Barrett, daughter, sister, fiddler extraordinaire. Who I was not expecting to see was a redheaded bombshell with perfect skin wearing a dress that fits like a glove around curves I didn’t even realize I had. I was not expecting to see a grown woman.
This is a new Bird Barrett. I smile into the camera, letting go of all self-consciousness as I mimic any pose I’ve ever seen on the red carpets in People magazine. The studio space is flooded with a Kellie Pickler song, the camera clicks away, and the lights pop.
The photographer shouts encouraging things like:
“Beautiful!”
“Yes, like that!”
“Gorgeous, Bird.”
And not that bluegrass fans care much about fashion, anyway, and not that my audiences ever critiqued my look before, but I can’t help but think that no one would recognize me now. I hardly recognize myself.
“WOW, YOU LOOK incredible!” Stella shouts from the front of the Expo Center. As excited as I was for my promo shoot this morning, I’ve been equally looking forward to my trip to the flea market with Stella this afternoon.
“Thanks!” I say.
We’ve been hanging out for almost a month, but usually it’s when I’m at her house to work with her mom. This is the first time it’s been just the two of us.
“Red, huh?” she asks, eyeing my hair as we enter the building. “I like it.”
“Me too,” I say. “I think…”
“Well, the leaves are going red, so why not you?”
“It’s going to take a little getting used to, but I’m glad they left it long at least.”
She nods in agreement and loops her arm through mine, moving us briskly toward the market.
&
nbsp; We are walking around booths stocked with vendors selling anything from antiques to artwork, from junk to jewelry, and although I get overwhelmed on such shopping excursions, Stella steams ahead like a woman on a mission.
“You read a lot?” I ask as she drags her fingers over the spines of several old books at one table.
“Some.” She shrugs. “But I was thinking of making little shelves out of them. Putting them on brackets, like a bookshelf.”
“Oh, wow.”
“You think it’s dumb?”
“I think it’s genius.”
She grins. “Yeah, I think it’ll look good. I saw it online.”
I help her look for thick books with pretty spines and marvel at her creativity. I never would’ve thought of something like that. When I find one of my mom’s and my all-time favorites, a gorgeous sixtieth anniversary edition of Gone With the Wind in a white jacket covered with red vines, I tell her it’s a must for her project. “Although maybe you should at least read the books before you doom them to a life of utility.”
“Ha.” She snorts. “Maybe a life of utility at Crossley palace beats a life of collecting dust at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds.” She takes the heavy book from me and wanders around the table.
I smile. “Touché.”
We make a pile of books, and she expertly chooses nine from our stack. But when it comes time to haggle a price, something that always makes me extremely uncomfortable, I leave her to it and continue perusing the vendor’s wares. Picking up an old book of Nashville trivia, I start thumbing through it. No, I did not know that Oprah Winfrey lived in Nashville as a teenager. Yes, I know about “the King” and those hips—who doesn’t?
“You ready?” Stella asks, stuffing the last of her books into a canvas tote.
I hold the book of trivia out to her, pointing to the man staring at us from the open page. “You know that guy Adam I was telling you about?”
“The ‘Notice Me’ guy?” she asks.
“Yeah. He sort of looks like him.” I point to a picture of Josh Turner at his Grand Ole Opry induction. “But with a little shaggier hair. And Adam’s a little more… I don’t know… rugged.” I feel my face start to turn red.
Wildflower Page 9
