Finding the Forger (3 page)

“I stopped by the drugstore on the way home,” she said, leading me upstairs. “And I got something for you.”

The “something” turned out to be a permanent wave kit. You see, Kerrie had done my hair in some wavy style for her Halloween party, when I’d come as a flapper (costume provided by her, of course). Normally, my hair is straight as a stick and just as boring, but she had managed, through the skillful use of pin-curls and hair-spray, to turn it into a waving, curling mass of seduction.

“I don’t know, Ker,” I said, looking at the box on her bed and removing my backpack. “That’s a perm.”

“No, it’s not,” she said huffily. She grabbed the box and read the label. “It’s a hair curling and wave set.”

“Same thing. Chemicals. Frizz. Smell.”

“It says it has a green apple scent.”

“Well, yeah, but what about the other stuff? The last time I had a perm was when I was seven and my mom took me to the beauty parlor that my Aunt Rosa’s sister-in-law owns. Mom wanted me to get a cut for my First Communion, but they convinced her to let me have a perm.”

“And?”

“And . . . have I ever shown you pictures taken at my First Communion?”

“No.”

“Well, there you have it. We destroyed them all so no one could blackmail me when I was older.”

“Aw, c’mon, Bianca. That was probably some Old World kind of thing. They have new kits now that aren’t nearly as strong.”

(“Old World perm”? Was that the kind immigrants brought with them to the “new perm” country?)

“Look,” Kerrie added. “We’ll do a little test and if you don’t like the result, we won’t go ahead.”

I took a look at the smiling model on the box, her coiled locks as inviting as the Sirens’ songs, remembered how Doug had looked at me when he saw me in my festive ‘do, and decided, what the heck? If the test failed, we’d cancel the procedure, right?

Do I even need to tell you how this all turned out? Aren’t you filling in the blanks yourself about now?

Okay, okay, here are your choices:

a) the perm test frizzed Bianca’s hair, thus warning her not to proceed;

b) the perm test curled some hairs and frizzed others, and another test was conducted;

c) the perm test went fine because the whole concoction was a
wicked prank the manufacturers devised to sucker unsuspecting beauty wannabes into their cackling clutches.

If you chose “c,” you’ve entered the dark recesses of a heart broken by bad hair.

No, my friends, “bad hair” doesn’t begin to describe this experience. It doesn’t even come close.

At the end of an hour and a half of chemicals soaking into my head—chemicals that smelled like green apples all right, just green apples left to ripen for a month in a well-used litter box—after having my hair pulled and squeezed and tangled around little plastic rollers whose rubber band closures were modeled after tools used by the monks of the Inquisition, after looking at Kerrie’s troubled face and saying “what’s that burning smell?” only to realize it was the odor of my hair being singed by the strong “new world” perm compounds—after all this, my friends, I had the pleasure of looking in the mirror and realizing my life as a girlfriend had come to a screeching halt. I had the tire tracks on my head to prove it.

Think white girl Afro. Think Annie. Think Brillo.

My permed hair stood out from my head almost a foot in every direction, except for one lock on the side that dangled straight out. That was the test lock.

“I’m sure it will loosen up overnight,” Kerrie said uncomfortably as I stared in the mirror, trying hard not to put my hands around her neck and throttle her. Why, oh why, did I let her talk me into this? So what if she had been feeling a little mopey lately? That didn’t give her the right to commit hair homicide on her best friend.

“Yeah,” I said, “maybe.” Was there a patron saint of hair—St. Pantene, perhaps? Someone to whom I could offer prayers? Burn incense in front of? Sacrifice older brothers to?

“In fact, I bet if you brush it out again really hard, it’ll relax a little right away.” She tentatively touched my hair but visibly recoiled. Who wouldn’t? This wasn’t hair any longer. It was a hundred slinkies attached to my head—a head that smelled like scorched fruit.

“Umm, it’s getting dark. Maybe my dad can take you home,” she said. We both had heard him come in a half hour ago.

Kerrie rarely asked her dad to drive her or her friends anywhere. The fact that she was going to ask him to take me home told me precisely what she thought of my hairstyle—a total disaster. It was like a polygraph scratching out the truth—my hair was unsuitable for public consumption.

While I fought back tears of self-pity, Kerrie rushed downstairs and returned a few seconds later to say it was okay, he’d take me home. When I went downstairs with her, Mr. Daniels stood by the front door with his keys in hand, but his gaze said more than I wanted to know. He looked at my hair more than at me and seemed confused. Finally, he said, “Are you in a play or something, Bianca?”

I refrained from bursting out sobbing and just shook my head, “no.” Kerrie accompanied me on the ride and made a noble attempt to keep a conversation going. But all I could think of was how I’d fix my hair, or even
if
I could fix it. And if I couldn’t, I wondered if there was some sort of leave of absence I could take from school until the perm grew out.

The first sign that I was right was when I got home and my mother didn’t yell at me for being late. I was supposed to fix dinner
that night—we take turns since Mom works—so being late wasn’t just being late. It was “no dinner when dinner was supposed to be ready” late.

But Mom took one look at my hair, her mouth dropped open, maybe her eyes watered, too, and she sucked in her lips. I could smell the meatloaf already baking, which meant she’d put it on herself. Yet, she said not one word about my cooking duties. Instead, she merely told me when dinner would be ready and asked me how my day was.

“I think you can see how it was!” I moaned, touching my hair. A few singed ends came off in my hand.

“Where did you get it done?” she asked. “Maybe you can get a refund.”

“Kerrie did it for me. No refund.”

“Why don’t you go take a shower? It might relax a little if you wash it.”

I tramped upstairs to my room, threw my backpack on the bed, and avoided looking at myself in the mirror above my dresser. My sister Connie’s door was closed, and music was wafting into the hallway. Tony was nowhere to be seen. At least I’d be able to zip into the bathroom without running smack into sibling cruelty. Call me crazy, but I don’t think I’d get the same kind of loving sympathy from them as I got from Mom.

This was borne out at dinner a little while later. I showed up at the table in my robe with a towel, arranged swami-style, around my head.

Connie looked at me with narrowed eyes and asked me if I was sick or something, but Mom cut her off by saying I took a shower after school. Tony sniffed the air and said something smelled funny. He was right. The perm’s odor had been intensified by warm water.
My head was surrounded by an aura of putrid foulness, like a garbage dump left in the sun. Boy, was I happy!

Or not. I was pretty bummed. But have you noticed how hunger can often mask other emotions—such as bummedness? Since Mom made the meatloaf, it was actually good, so we all dove in. Literally. When we’re all hungry, the Balducci table is not a place for the faint-hearted. Tony started jabbing at the meat while Connie piled her plate with potatoes and carrots (she’s into vegetables) and I snagged a couple of rolls for mine. Poor Mom had nothing on her plate until we were all done whooshing and zooming the dishes between us so fast our table could have qualified for federal funding for air traffic controllers.

Although we kids prefer to watch television during dinner, Mom has this pesky rule about actually talking to each other. She started the ball rolling by asking us each about our days.

“Fine,” Tony mumbled through a mouthful of meat. Tony was an unapologetic carnivore.

“Mmm . . . mmm . . . too,” Connie said, which I guess meant “me too have fine day, ugh.”

Since Mom was nice to me, I stepped up to the plate and recounted my afternoon in such detail she probably regretted asking the question. By the time I was done reciting my litany of woes about Kerrie and Sarah and Doug (leaving out the perm, of course—I have
some
pride), Tony was rolling his eyes.

“Flypaper for freaks,” he announced. “That’s what you are, Bianca—flypaper for freaks.” He edged the meatloaf his way and cut himself a third slice. The main course was nearly gone now.

“Tony, don’t talk about your sister that way,” said Mom.

At least part of my story was interesting enough to get Connie’s attention. Since she’s a private investigator, she wanted to
know about the police action at the museum. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything to tell her other than “cops-arrive-at-museum.” Oh . . . and one other thing.

“They might be looking for a private investigator,” I said smugly, knowing she’d love to land another assignment. “Don’t know why.”

“Hmm . . . that’s interesting,” she said, trying not to sound too interested so I wouldn’t think I’d done her a favor.

After dinner, I volunteered to clean up, but Mom was still being nice to me, so she helped. There weren’t many leftovers to put away, and after I’d loaded the dishwasher and she’d determined I didn’t have much homework, she told me I could get on the Internet if I wanted to.

I could have burst out crying.

Not only had she not yelled at me for being late and not fixing dinner, she had helped me clean up
and
told me I could have Internet privileges when we have dial-up service that ties up the phone. This perm was not just bad. To generate this kind of pity, it had to be atrociously awful.

I decided the best thing to do about it, though, was to use an avoidance strategy. So I kept the towel on my head all evening—through my hour of homework and through the two hours I spent on-line. Yup, I spent 120 minutes in cyberspace, and didn’t feel even a wee bit guilty for hogging the phone line all that time. I deserved it for the suffering inflicted on my head that afternoon.

Mostly I chatted with friends through instant messages and emails. In between, I did some research for a project due right before Christmas break.

Curiously, Kerrie wasn’t online and neither was Doug. Usually, I could count on Doug being online virtually any night of the week,
and I really wanted to chat with him. Even more curious was the fact that Sarah
was
online. Despite the fact that Kerrie and she were supposed to share Internet privileges, Kerrie got the lion’s share of time and I rarely saw Sarah online. When I popped her an IM, she came back quickly with “can’t talk. trying to get into college,” which meant she was doing research for college apps.

Although I had some fun talking with other friends, I was bothered enough by not seeing my boyfriend and best friend online that I got off the computer even before anyone asked me to. (Okay, even before they yelled at me to.)

Picking up the phone, expecting to hear the beep-beep-beep signaling the existence of voice mail messages (one would surely be from Doug), I was disappointed again. Just the drone of the dial tone greeted me. Should I call him? Heck no! I had too much pride. Besides, I was afraid I’d break down sobbing if I told him about my hair.

T
HAT NIGHT I HAD what I think is called a “wish fulfillment” dream. I dreamt I was laughing and running through a flowery meadow high in the hills where trees rustled in the late day sun, a waterfall gurgled cheerfully in the distance, cool breezes kissed my cheek, and multi-colored iridescent butterflies flitted around my flowing locks. You get the picture—I had normal hair. But when I woke up and touched my head, the dream evaporated faster than a morning fog.