Split Ends (6 page)

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. “I liked Toughskins, you know? They lasted forever and they were different from the Lee's that everybody wore. They made me unique.”

“They really didn't. They made you look like you couldn't afford Lee's, which was, in fact, the case. First rule of thumb: we do not pick our clothes based on their half-life.” Scott continues to stare at me, even though he's driving about eighty miles an hour a mere five feet behind the car in front of him. I grip the armrest, digging my nails into the leather. “Listen, if you think Yoshi is going to hire some girl from Wyoming—worse yet, the Hideway Bar & Grill slash Hair Salon—you've had too much happy punch on the plane.”

“The bar was next door; it wasn't part of the salon.”

“Was it in the same building?”

“Well, yeah, but a totally different space.”

“Did you share the same parking lot?”

“Yeah, but we weren't open at night. So technically, no, we didn't.”

“Sarah Claire.”

“Yes,” I answer, crossing my arms.

“It doesn't really matter that the bar and dart house were only open at night, all right? You're missing my point.”

“Oh, I've got your point, Scott. You want to beat my past out of me.”

“With a ball-peen hammer, if necessary.”

“Lovely. I thought you were on my side. You wouldn't have recommended me if you didn't think I could do this, right?”

He looks toward the traffic.

“Right, Scott?”

He exhales savagely, like he used to do when I was about to tattle. “Sarah Claire, this job is not about talent. I'm not saying you don't have any, I'm just saying it's important to know the truth going in.”

I laugh. “What do you mean it's not about talent? I'm on my way to Beverly Hills to learn from one of the very best.”

“This job is about image, Sarah Claire.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying you got hired because you're hot, Sarah Claire. You look like Angelina Jolie, you're a size 4, and you're hot, all right? Yoshi can teach a monkey to cut hair, but he can't make a monkey something people want to emulate. People want to look like you.”

This silences me. “I sent him videos of the cuts, photographs, and all the awards I won at the hair shows.”

“I sent him an eight-by-ten glossy. That's why you have the job.”

“I got this job because of the way I look?” I don't know why this gives me chills, but it does.

“The way you look after Photoshop in good clothes with an elegant salon in the background, yes.”

All the fire has left me. I wish I could go right back where I came from and none of this had ever happened. But then I think about Cary.
“‘I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be until finally I became that person. Or he became me.'”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Let's get this over with.” Cary Grant could look like Angelina Jolie with Photoshop, if I'm honest. I've got dark hair and dark eyes, but as far as lips go definitely not Angelina. As far as my bust goes, definitely not Angelina. But with a little practice—and maybe some wadded-up toilet paper—who knows? If my cousin can do it, then so can I, right?

My cousin gives the impression of being effeminate. On purpose. He walks with swaying, long strides in expensive slacks, and his hair is flat-ironed into the latest style while his wrist boasts an expensive European watch. In Sable, Wyoming, his manhood would be completely questioned by his amount of time spent on grooming alone.

He's not, in fact, gay. He simply works hard to create an aura of the unattainable. In Sable, he was known for being quite the womanizer. Apparently, that's not a good thing for a male stylist.

But if he were back in Sable, he wouldn't act or look like he does now. Scott's a chameleon who can easily shift into whatever persona he needs for the moment. If came home, I'm sure he'd appear more rugged than even the toughest member of the professional bull-riding circuit. But we'll never know, since he hasn't been back home in the six years he left.

“I'm jet-lagged. I hope this goes well. Fifth Avenue. New York City.”

“Is it possible to be jet-lagged from just Wyoming to California? Anyway, you know I think you're gorgeous, Sarah Claire. If you weren't my cousin, I might even date you.”

“Be still my heart.”

“I am like an artist.” Again he moves his hands with no regard for the steering wheel. “I see the rough marble and the beauty within. You just need a little refining, that's all. It's what I do.”

I love my cousin. I appreciate all he's doing for me. But he clearly has some seriously narcissistic tendencies that might need to be molded themselves. “Considering how rough I am, isn't that reason enough for a complete overhaul before seeing the infamous man himself?” I ask.

“No, you need an immediate peek before your interview tomorrow. You need to get a sense of the place. I want you to feel his vibe. He'll understand you've been traveling. He travels all the time himself. And he has to know I won't let you show up in knockoffs for work. He knows my work at least that well.” He sneaks another look at my jeans. “But let's run by my place and get you a pair of jeans out of my client stuff. I'll lend you my credit card tomorrow.”

I suck in a deep breath, hearing the words of little Cindy Simmons (aka Spawn) taunting me about my tattered clothes in school. Remembering the day she stood in sparkly jeans and perfect pigtails with matching hairclips and told everyone I wore the clothes she used to wear after her mommy donated them to the Salvation Army. I can recall that day as if it were yesterday: “
If I could have one thing in my life, God, besides my mom not drinking, I would want to look like someone cared enough to dress me in matching clothes and hair ornaments.”

Now, here Scott is, ready and willing with a credit card, and I don't want a thing to do with it. It makes me feel as cheap as wearing Cindy's castoffs did, if you want to know the truth.

As if she's in the car with me, I hear Cindy's screechy voice taunting me:
“Who's yer daddy tonight, Sarah Claire?
Can't he buy you some new clothes?”

Back then, I used to stick my tongue out, jamming two fingers in my ears
. “Nyah, nyah. Sticks and stones will break my bones . . .”
(Although I never finished the taunt, everyone knows that adage isn't true.) But what I wouldn't have given to tell her my daddy was hers.

I decided to be a hairdresser because of Cindy. I wanted
everyone
to feel beautiful, no matter what kind of clothes they wore. I never wanted to make any woman feel the way she made me feel.
Like I was nothing.

“Tell me about the two-hundred-dollar haircut.” I close my eyes, thinking about being that good. About a day when I will be able share my expertise and command some financial attention for it. “What kind of people pay that for a haircut?”

Given the notion that it's seeing through my dream or going back to the Hideaway Salon, I'll dress any way I have to, even if it means donning a clown getup each morning to cut celebrity kids' hair. Heck, I'll even dress like a pork chop and cut their dog's hair if it keeps me from going home and admitting defeat to my mother or Cindy.

Scott pulls a credit card out of his shirt pocket.

“Here. Use this for whatever you need, but don't buy anything you can't take back, in case it's wrong.”

No pressure there.

“So tell me, what's with the single names? The eyebrow lady named Anastasia you gushed about over the phone, now Yoshi. Is this supposed to be like Cher?”

“You earn the right of the single name. If I didn't have such a simplistic, backwoods name like Scott, I wouldn't have to use my last name either. By the way, your new last name is Winston.”

My eyes widen. “You want me to lie about my name too?”

“There's no ethnicity in a name here unless it's Asian or something exotic. Winowski is not exotic; it makes me want to pop open a can of Schlitz.”

I, who never drink, currently want to pop open a can of Schlitz. “So I'm basically lying that I'm from New York, lying about my name, lying about my résumé—”

“Look at it this way: at least you don't have to lie about your weight.”

“Scott . . .” I shake my head. “I don't think I can do this. Remember that time I tried to lie to Mrs. Eagleston about my dog eating the homework?”

“Well, that was just stupid. Everyone in town knew you didn't have a dog. You can lie about a dog here.”

“I don't want to lie.”

“It's not lying. Think of it as morphing your image to the Yoshi standards.”

Cary Grant did it
, I tell myself.

My mouth is bone dry just thinking about how I'm going to get away with so many untruths and not get struck by a bolt of lightning in the process. I can practically hear Mrs. Gentry's sweet voice as my conscience.

“People come here every day and create the persona they want to be, fulfill their childhood dreams. That's all I'm asking you to do. You want a better life? This is part of it. Become the part. Think of it as method acting.”

Think of Cary.

“You can take the girl out of the country, but can you take the country out of the girl and make her look like she's worth a two-hundred-dollar haircut?” I can't fathom what makes any haircut worth that. Unless I give it naked— and I do believe that's illegal, besides being completely unpalatable.

“We'll borrow from the designers while we're getting you started on your wardrobe. I know the perfect pieces, and you'll be fabulous. Yoshi will make you worth two hundred bucks. You just have to dress the part and learn from our tutelage. That's all there is. For you, this is like paint-by-number.”

“
Borrow
doesn't work for me.
Borrow
in Winowski-speak usually means it fell off the back of the truck—or was 'removed,' ever so lightly, with help.”

“
Borrow
means to use something with permission and return it,” Scott clarifies. “In
Winston
speak.” He emphasizes the word to remind me of my new name. “It means to dress the part. You have to invest in any new business; this is your investment. You are the product, so shine it up like your mother polishes a shot glass.”

“Very funny.”

“Just one of the reasons you must think of yourself as Sarah Claire Winston from here on out. Besides, your mother's already used your name. The last thing people want to see on their hairdresser's credentials is a rap sheet.”

After an eternity on the freeway, we arrive at Scott's condo. He's letting me brush my teeth. I knew he still had heart. He pulls underground to the parking. It's an odd feeling—the garage is dark and eerie but filled with highly expensive cars. After entering, it goes into lockdown and a giant metal gate crashes down behind us as if we've been eaten by the great car monster.

“This is creepy.”

“It's no creepier than having your car not be here when
you come out in the morning.”

“Touché.”

Scott exits the car and presses a button, and his car chirps. He halts. “There's one more thing before we go up.”

“Don't worry, Scott. I'm finding an apartment as soon as I get the job. If you think I want to live with you and your revolving door of girlfriends, you're sorely mistaken.”

He shakes his head. “No, it's not that.”

“You aren't even going to try and deny it? Please have the decency to deny it. Those are someone's daughters, someone's sisters.”

“It's every guy's dream; why would I deny it? But that's not it anyway. I told a girl that you were coming from New York and moving in with me.”

“Without explaining that I'm your cousin and you're like my big brother, I'm assuming.”

“Correct.”

“Okay, so I've changed my name, I'll be changing my clothes, I'm living with my boyfriend, and I'm from New York City and not Wyoming. Am I forgetting anything?”
My faith
, I think to myself.
And my self respect
—
check it at the
door
.

“That's pretty much it.” He starts walking again and pushes the elevator button. “Oh, and I have a friend living with me while he gets his kitchen remodeled. He won't bother you, though. Think of him as Lurch on
The Addams
Family
. He creeps about quietly and doesn't offer much in the way of conversation. Always has his head in a big fat
book of no interest.”

“Great. Just the kind of man I want to live with.”

“He's harmless.”

“I want my pets to be ‘harmless,' not my roommates. That word makes me thing of the Bates Motel. Is he gay?”

“No, he's not gay! Why would you ask that? Why would I be living with a gay man?”

“I'm just asking. I wondered if ‘harmless' was LA speak for gay.”

“You know, you just might want to not talk for awhile. Your ignorance is showing.”

“My ignorance is all I have left.”

We walk into the elevator and Scott uses a key to push his floor at the top of the building.

“He'll be good practice. I told him you were from New York as well. But you're really my cousin with him. Your last name is still Winston, though, not Winowski. I have a pair of jeans that should fit you, and we'll be out of here to the salon. Brush your teeth and wash your face. Wear foundation, all right? Ready?”

“As if I have a choice.”

Step into the shoes of yet another persona and live to fight another day.

chapter 4

If a face like Ingrid Bergman's looks at you
as though you're adorable, everybody does.
You don't have to act very much.
~ Humphrey Bogart