My Very Best Friend (31 page)

“Ah yes. I like my cats, too. Adios and Hola, killer of mice. But you no want to look like mouse to love the cats, no? I am right, I know this. Come. Come,” she said. “I fix you. Don’t worry. You won’t be no mouse when Louisa done with you.”

Her scissors started clipping.

“Here. I turn you. You no watch. I see you be nervous. No nervous. I fix this”—she swirled her hand in the air around my face—“bad problemo.”

Based on the
click click click
of her scissors and her “This not right.... I cut this here. . . .”
click, click, click
and “You never cut hair, no?” I would probably be bald when she was done with me.

A bald cat lady.

But we did have a stimulating conversation as I learned about Louisa’s life, including that she makes the best Chinese food, reads constantly about World War II, adores her “rebel teenagers, ah. They so rebel,” and loves gardening. “When mad, me, I get out the clippers and snip, snip, like that. Everything I cut. Husband get out of way.”

Like I said, a stimulating conversation.

“Louisa,” Louisa announced, hands on her hips, black hair thrown back, an hour later. “She work miracle. I work the miracle on you. Not a mouse no more. Now you are va-va-voomimg.” She fluffed my hair. She took off my glasses and held them with two fingers, as if holding a wiggly mouse.

“Not these. No more. Tape? You tape glasses? You see.” She pointed down the street. “Go to doctor of eyes. He fix you.” She dropped my glasses in the same trash can as my hair and my “clippy thing.”

“Good-bye tape glasses. Not pretty, Charlotte. No.” She waved a finger in my face. “Now you sexy. Go get sexy eyes.”

I agreed to go get sexy eyes. As I’d heard one of the lenses break when it hit the bottom of the trash can, I had no choice.

“I do makeup on you, Charlotte. You see. Those green eyes. Bright. Love the eye! But I make brighter.” She took some sort of pencil out of a container. “And see? No, no, you no back away. No scared! This mascara. You hold still.” I was too afraid to move as she kept waving that black stick near my eyes. “See cheekbones, here. I like yours.” She put powdered blush on them. “And you mouth. See? Fat lips. I like the fat lip on you. Lipstick. So easy. Four makeups, Charlotte. Liner. Mascara. Lipstick. Blush for the cheekies. Mucho better. You take these with you, as gift. I turn you now. You ready, Charlotte? Now you are a Charlotte. Not a mouse. Here we go, señorita! I spin you now to mirror!”

Whew.

Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

“See?” Louisa laughed in triumph. “I turn you beautiful. I so good. I so good at this. I the best. Now you the best.” She put her cheek to mine. “And I like you, too, Charlotte.”

Couldn’t speak.

“You no speak, right? I know. I talent.”

I shook my head, mesmerized. Was that me?

“New life for you, Charlotte. New and happy love life. Better in the bed now. You feel va-va-vooming, in the bed, va-va-vooming.”

Although things were somewhat blurry without my glasses, I hardly recognized myself. My long brown hair, relegated to a bun, was often tangly and fried on the ends and hard to brush through. Periodically I would take it upon myself to cut it. Now it dropped in soft brown waves to right below my shoulder blades. It was thicker and shiny. Louisa cut bangs, straight across, which made my overly long forehead appear . . . normal. The waves cupped my face so my face didn’t resemble a skeleton.

My eyes were brighter and seemed much wider, not so googly. I had cheekbones. I leaned forward. Fat lips. She was right. That lipstick did it.

“Yes, see? You have the fat lips. Not from fist. I have that before. No like. But these fat lips are your fat lips. For kissing and for . . .” She nodded down. “For the lower on the man, if you want. He like. That what I think. On the down low for the man only if you love him. You love him? You do with those fat lip of yours. What you think?”

“I think I’m surprised you’re talking about that, but I like the lipstick.”

She hugged me. “You lovely lady. That truth. Now, you go swing around that man of yours. And what I know now, I have new friend, Charlotte.”

I stood up and she hugged me.

“Oh no, Charlotte. No crying! You mess up all the makeup! No cry. See. Oh no. You make Louisa cry, too. Bad girl.” She thumped me on the buttocks this time. “No cry, ah, you sensitive lady.”

I couldn’t believe it.

I was . . . maybe . . . a tad . . . pretty.

I smiled. Braces had done the trick, and I did have white teeth.

“Now you are naughty lady,” Louisa said, winking. “Go be naughty.”

I did have to spend a few minutes thinking about my makeover and how that intersected with feminism, woman power, the role of women in society, and how I reject what society says a woman has to be and do and look like.

I thought about my own individualism. I had to make sure that it was me, Charlotte, wanting this, liking this, and that I wasn’t metamorphosing myself so that I could please Toran.

Was I insecure, down deep, and wanted to be prettier to hold on to him, to make sure no other woman would sweep his tight butt away from me? Was I catering to a man? Was I buying into the shallowness of relationships based on outer expressions of beauty and vanity? Was I allowing myself to be dragged into valuing my external physical relationship with myself over the qualities of my personality and character?

I stared into my mirror that afternoon, hung beneath the wood beam my mother loved. I was wearing a red lacy shirt with a V neckline and a white skirt. My clothes were cooler, more airy.

I had on earrings shaped like gold leaves and a matching gold necklace.

I loved my new contacts. I kept trying to push my glasses up on my nose, but there were no glasses to push, no tape to fight with, no weight.

I loved my hair, too. It wasn’t limp or tangled, but silky, smooth. My head felt lighter. My nose didn’t stick out like a long toe, emphasized by my heavy-framed glasses. I liked that when I peered at the mirror I didn’t see a mix of a brown-haired Cruella de Vil, a spaniel, and genetic material gone awry.

I have never bought into the notion of a woman parading around like an in-heat peacock to lasso a man.

But, no kidding, I looked better. So much better.

I liked seeing my face. I had cheekbones. My eyes weren’t hidden by my glasses. I didn’t appear so blah and tired, like solidified lab experiments. I felt . . . happier.

I am still a liberal feminist, but I decided that improving my appearance wasn’t against my ideals, as the ideal for a woman is to feel strong and proud and happy and to be doing what she damn well wants to be doing.

That would be me. I am doing what I damn well want to do, except for the writer’s block.

I smiled. What would Toran think?

I took a peek at my brassiere.

Red.

I bet he’d like it.

I called Toran and invited him to dinner.

“You’re calling me and asking me for a date, luv?”

“Yes, I am.” I was nervous about what he would think of the new Charlotte. Was that anti-feminist? I should be proud of the new Charlotte and not need a man’s approval. I decided I didn’t need a man’s approval unless he was my Scottish Warrior.

“This makes my day.”

“So, will you come?” Will you like what you see? Too much? Too soon? Too much makeup? Fluffy hair?

“It will be my pleasure, luv. What time?”

No one talked about being gay when I was growing up. I didn’t even think about it. It didn’t occur to me that Drew was gay when we were dating. I respected his decision to wait to have sex.

Drew told me, tearfully one night, the truth. I had begged for sex, for the umpteenth time, thrown a lamp, and burst into a snivelly round of tears because I felt so rejected, my self-esteem swirling around a swamp. It had been over a year of near abstinence.

I told him how I felt, crying, furious, frustrated. “If I had known I was going to live like a nun, I would not have married you, Drew.”

His face crumpled and he said, “I am so sorry, Charlotte. I love you, I do. But I’m not . . .” He waved a hand. “I can’t . . .” He bent his head, shoulders shaking, “I think I’m . . . I think I’m . . . gay.”

It had been in front of my face all that time. I was in denial. I didn’t want to see it. I was still in shock, though, as if he’d tossed me a bomb and yelled, “Here, Charlotte, catch this! Don’t drop it!”

When I could move my mouth again I said, “You should have figured this out before we were married, you asshole.”

“I know, I know!” Drew threw his hands in the air and broke down. “Please forgive me, Charlotte.”

I’d rarely seen anyone that upset. He apologized endlessly.

I thought I would lose my mind. I loved Drew. He was the best husband, except for the sex. He paid attention to me. He listened. We talked all the time and did things together. That part, I knew, was going to leave a huge hole in my life.

But the marriage was over, my husband gay. He loved men, not me. Not Charlotte. It was like getting hit in the teeth with a hundred science beakers, each filled with rock-hard reality. I threw a lamp, then I threw all of his research papers out the window. He didn’t even try to stop me.

The divorce was simple. Drew insisted I take the nicer car, his, which had seventy thousand fewer miles on it than mine. I moved out; the apartment had been his. He offered to move, but I told him I didn’t want to stay there. He helped me move and bought me a new beige couch, a two-person denim chair, and a bed, which arrived the day I moved in. We shared an account. He closed the account and came home with a check for me. He gave me sixty percent of what we had. He insisted.

Drew made me a welcome home basket with honey, cheeses, jams, crackers, wine, and a pink bow. He cried more. Apologized again. I drank the wine pretty quick. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done, for what he’d put me through. The lies he told to himself that ended up affecting me.

I couldn’t hate him.

I still liked him. There was still love left over.

We cried together. I was an emotional, mangled mess, my brain a tangled trap of despair and depression.

Eventually, I moved on.

What else was there to do? It was what it was.

A year later I met his boyfriend, Joey. Joey was as sweet as Drew and as handsome.

It sounds ridiculous to say it, but after I recovered from my hurt and fury, we all became friends. They come and see me on the island and stay for several days. Drew and Joey and my mother are the only ones I allow. They’re funny and fun, and we play chess and backgammon, watch crime shows and romance movies, listen to Tina Turner, practice the foxtrot, and hike around the island.

Drew and I talk genes and gene therapy. He still buys me clothes. When he’s on the island, I wear them. When he’s gone, it’s back to my comfy clothes.

In fact, Drew and Joey are taking care of my cats in their home in Seattle, where Joey works for some start-up computer company. They’ll take warm care of Teddy J, Daffodil, Dr. Jekyll, and Princess Marie. I know this because they are cat lovers, like me. They have already bought each of the cats their Halloween costumes and have agreed with me that Dr. Jekyll has some sort of mood disorder, to which they are sympathetic.

Toran, for sure, is not gay.

Always a plus in a husband if you are a woman.

Toran didn’t notice my metamorphosis.

I couldn’t believe it.

I waited. He headed into the kitchen with a raspberry pie. “I made a pie for us. Had to take a break from work. Brought vanilla ice cream, too.”

“That is a work of pie art, Toran.” A pie-making man. Romantic! Seductive! Burn my tidbit panties now so I can show him nude flips on my bed!

“Thank you.” He dropped a kiss on my lips, gave me a hug. “Want to eat it in bed?”

I smiled. “Sure do.”

Toran started talking while I put our dinner on plates. I had made Mexican food. Enchiladas, chips, guacamole, salsa, fruit salad, and strawberry margaritas in honor of Louisa, miracle worker. I put candles and daisies in vases on the table.

We talked about a science article he read about further space exploration and shuttles. Then we talked about his potatoes, which he expected to reach the twenty-five-foot-tall roof of his tunnels this year. “I think it will be an excellent year for us, Charlotte.”

“Have you noticed anything different about me, Toran?” The candles on the table flickered between us.

His brow furrowed, worried. “Uh. Well. Uh. Yes.” He was perplexed, I could tell, poor man. “You . . . oh!” His face lit up. He had gotten it! He had not failed! “Did you . . . did you cut your hair?”

“I didn’t. Louisa did.”

“Louisa?” He was befuddled once again. Surely he couldn’t be. Louisa was one of those hip-swinging, leggy, eyeball-attracting, bosom-bouncing women whom no man missed.

“Yes. Louisa. She owns Louisa’s Hair and Curl, the hair salon?”

“Does she have blond hair?”

“No. Black. It’s longish. Brown eyes. Mexican.”

His face was clouded, then cleared. Recognition! “Oh yes. That lady. She’s nice.”

“Yes, she is.”

“She cut your hair?”

“Yes, do you like it?”

“I do.” He leaned closer and wrapped a lock around his fingers. “It’s all wavy. Soft. Did she make it thicker somehow? I liked it the other way, I like it this way. However you wear it, sweet Charlotte, I like it.” He dropped the curl and his head suddenly drew back as if I’d hit him. “Wait.” He leaned forward again and examined my face. “There’s something else.” He snapped his fingers. He was passing the test I’d thrown at him! “Where are your glasses?”

“I have contacts now.”

“Oh. No glasses? How do your eyes feel?”

“Relaxed.”

“I love your eyes, Charlotte.”

“Thank you. Yours too. Anything else?”

“You’re wearing something on your lips.” He peered at my mouth. I could tell he was searching for the word. “Lipostick.”

“Not lipostick.” I laughed. “Lipstick. Yep. Anything else?”

“Earrings!” He smiled, proud of himself. He was on a roll!