Sarah
“My goodness, that was horrible,” I said to Kat as we left my sound check. I continued, my voice filled with meek desperation, “Seriously, I sounded like junk up there. Is it too late to find a replacement?”
“Oh no, hun. It was perfect,” Kat replied as she led me down the long corridor toward the dressing rooms.
“Are you kidding? I sounded like dog doo-doo.”
“I know, but that’s a good sign. A bad rehearsal means you’ll have a great show. It’s one of those things, trust me.” She signaled down the hall, pointing. “Let’s get you to flow and glow before the show.”
“Jeez Louise, I hope you’re right. Wait, where are you taking me?”
“Hair and makeup, the clock is ticking,” Kat said with her eyebrows contorted.
“Sorry, I’m still figuring this stuff out. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Umm… you’ll figure it out as we go. It’s one of those showbiz superstitions, like it’s bad luck to whistle on stage. Horse will fill you in about that kinda stuff.”
My jaw clenched and my heart skipped a beat at the sound of Horse’s name. That jerk gave me such a hard time earlier. His whole ball-busting vibe really did a number on me. I was tempted to say something to Kat about it, but I didn’t want to be the kid who told on the bully to her teacher. I had to change the subject.
“I cannot believe that you and Bill got engaged today,” I gushed. “You have to tell me everything; how did it happen?”
“Well, you know… umm… it was sorta impromptu. We just got talking about… things and it just happened. He got down on his knee, asked, and I said yes.”
“Really? Wow,” I said with a snarky tone. “That’s the most underwhelming engagement story I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah, well, you know. All he had to do was ask and I would have said yes under any circumstance. I guess flowers or something would have been nice. Did anyone talk to you about accepting flowers before a show?”
Kat was coming off a little odd. I wondered if she regretted her engagement, although that would be a real shocker. Back home, most girls who got engaged couldn’t stop gabbing about how it happened. I got the sense there was something she wasn’t telling me. “There are rules about the flowers?” I asked with confusion.
“Not exactly. It’s bad luck to accept flowers before you’ve performed if you don’t want to jinx your set. I don’t know who made it up, but it’s universally known. Reba and Shania have both told me horror stories about it, so you better watch out.”
With her two cents, she gave me a wink and a grin. I think she took comfort in taking me under her wing and showing me the ropes.
“I cannot thank you enough for inviting me to open on your tour. I don’t know if I would have even picked up a guitar without you and now this… it’s such a big deal.” She literally taught me everything I knew about music, and now she had me playing The Garden.
“Come on, you played a huge role in this. I didn’t write those songs. ‘Ginger Snap’ and ‘The Belly Ache Blues’ have been tearing up the charts since the moment you released them. You did that. I’m so proud of you.”
Kat busted out in tears in an instant. Her waterworks were on full blast. I grabbed the navy-blue bandana I had in my back pocket and handed it to her.
“My, oh my, you are so emotional today. That brother of mine threw you for a whirl, huh?” I hugged her. “I love you. I mean it, I’m so thankful.” I tried to relay the words from deep within my heart.
Kat was still wiping away tears as we arrived at what must have been the door to the makeup room. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure because, instead of a sign saying hair and makeup on the door, there was a white sheet of paper covered in dozens of different-colored lipstick kisses. The vibrant colors created a vivid landscape of puckered lips. Whoever created something so beautiful should be considered an artist.
Kat opened the door and let me enter. She shuffled in behind me while I took in the room. I was standing before one of those vanity mirrors lit up by at least a dozen little round light bulbs. The kind that you see in old Hollywood movies and behind the scenes footage. The radiance of the vanity mirror captured my eye upon entry, so it took a moment to take in everything else. There was an oversized red director’s chair in front of the mirror with “HOT SEAT” embroidered in yellow. A vintage maroon tufted leather couch sat against the wall a few feet from the mirror and there were a few chairs on the wall opposite the couch. The chairs were so utterly different from one another that it was as if someone placed them together because they were so awkwardly mismatched. There was a retro mustard-yellow vinyl swivel chair next to a purple velvet chair, both of which were complemented by what looked like an actual zebra-skinned wingback. The room had a seventies era smoking den vibe, but without the stench.
I stood there stunned because, for the first time, the fantasy of being on a concert tour and the reality of actually getting ready to perform gripped me like a vise. I was going to be seen as a star and because I was a woman, that meant I had to get dolled up and look beautiful, something which was so completely foreign to me. I mostly wore jeans and rarely, if ever, put lipstick on. I could carry a six-month-old calf over my shoulders uphill, but never took three steps in high heels. I grew up in a small town and got used to an uncomplicated and sorta wholesome experience.
Most of the girls in high school were trend chasers, meaning they sought out the latest in fashion and beauty. They became pop culture chameleons, always changing their looks to suit whatever was cool in the moment. I didn’t grow up with any of that on my radar. Cliques of girls trading makeup tips and gossiping about everyone turned me off. I kept my hands full with either reins or a guitar. No makeup necessary.
The sound of a toilet flushing distracted me from my fear of all things girly, and I turned to see a tall, slender man with short chestnut-brown hair come out from behind the closed door to what I assumed was the bathroom.
His face lit up with elation when he said, “Bitterroot!”
“Shamrock!” Kat shot back without a moment’s pause.
My eyebrows furrowed with confusion. Heck, why not. I’ll play.
“Ummm… Tulip?” I said goofily.
“Oh, honey, are you Dutch?” the man turned and asked.
More confused than ever, I said, “Should I be?”
“Well, if you’re playing by our rules, you ought to be, sweetie.”
“She’s a bitterroot too, Rocky,” Kat said flatly.
“Ahhh,” he said with understanding. “That would make you the superb Sarah. I’m Sean, your resident glamour guide.” He did a little flip with his hand from his forehead like he was tipping an imaginary hat toward me as he bowed slightly.
“Charmed to make your acquaintance,” I said as I offered my hand to shake. His head quirked to the side at the offering of my hand.
“Oh, sugar, we’re not going to be handshake friends. We’re destined to be hugging buddies,” he exclaimed as he went to wrap his arms around me and squeezed.
“Wait,” I said with some exasperation. “Why am I a non-Dutch bitterroot? Why’d she call you Rocky?”
With grins as wide as Bighorn Canyon, they both opened up their mouths to speak but Kat kicked off first.
“On my last tour, I read in a memo that they hired a new makeup artist with some Irish name. On the first day of the tour, I was flustered, and I was in full diva mode. I don’t know why but I assumed my makeup artist would be a woman. Before Sean had a chance to explain who he was, I threatened to shove a shamrock up his butt if he didn’t get the Irish makeup lady for me immediately. Without blinking, he complied and rushed out the door. I swear not one minute later, he was back wearing this huge red mane of hair and a green sequin miniskirt. He looked at me and said…”
Sean stepped in to finish the story, “Hi, I’m Sean, but you can call me Shamrock.” Sean sat up a little, looking prideful. “We both broke up in laughter and Kat explained how she associated my very Irish Catholic name with our state flower.” He used air quotes around the words state flower. “So, on that day, I became Shamrock and she became…”
“Bitterroot, the state flower of Montana,” I said with a sense of understanding. “And Rocky is short for Shamrock, I’m guessing?”
“Exactly. Smart cookie.” He smiled at me appreciatively.