“I hope all that gibberish is your way of saying you’ll do my hair on Saturday.”
“Ask nicely.”
I sigh. “Please.”
“Please will get you on my schedule in two months.”
“Pretty please.”
“One month, twenty-nine days …”
Another sigh. “You’re amazing.”
“One month … keep going.”
“I need some help here, Gemmie—”
“Gemmie, you’re a goddess … an artist, and true creator of miracles. I need you like my next breath and—”
“You name the price and I’ll pay it.” She’s going to break me.
“I’ll see you at one o’clock. Who’s doing your makeup?”
“Me.”
She gasps. “Oh hell no!”
“Why not?” I lean closer to the mirror and look at my skin. It’s porcelain … ish. There may be a few minor flaws but nothing like the rutted surface I feared when I was going through the most torturous puberty ever. A little rouge, lip gloss, and mascara to accent my blue eyes should be all that’s needed. I’m not into the gaudy, caked-on look.
“If you have to ask, then that’s your answer. I’ve got a guy. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Gem—”
“Goodnight, honey.”
*
My emerald dress was delivered yesterday. Thankfully it fits. I’m not the runway giraffe Rachel is used to sheathing in the world’s finest textiles. With good posture I’m five-six, and my hip region, while somewhat slim and toned, suggests I come from a line of women built for child bearing. Some things you just can’t change.
“Is Dr. Drab accompanying you tonight?”
I peek out from under the foil because apparently I need just a dash of highlight around my face. “He’s not drab.”
“He is. That’s why he drives that hideous banana on wheels. He’s overcompensating.”
“Gemmie, you’ve seen him once, and it was just a quick introduction. How can you conclude from ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ that he’s drab?”
She raises her penciled brows at me. “I don’t trust him.”
I laugh. “My stylist with half her head buzzed and the other half dyed blue doesn’t trust my date because he drives a yellow sports car. Please tell me you see the irony in this.”
She leads me to the sink and leans me back to wash out my hair. “You refer to him as Steven or your date, but never your boyfriend. Yet you don’t date anyone else, and he hasn’t put a ring on your finger. Please tell me you see the irony in that?”
“Steven’s nice and an excellent doctor.” He’s self-absorbed and a mediocre doctor, if I’m completely honest.
Gemmie massages my scalp with her nails; I release a shameless moan. I love having my hair done. What girl doesn’t? It ranks up there with facials and pedicures. If Steven could work a nice scalp massage into foreplay, I think I could overlook his unusual habit of talking in the third person during sex.
“He’s convenient, and you’re too lazy to find a better guy.”
“I’m busy, not lazy. I don’t need a guy, and I sure as hell don’t need a ring on my finger. You may not trust Steven, but I don’t trust any guys.”
She wraps a towel around my head. “I hear ya, sister. I’m the youngest of four girls. All my sisters have drained my parents’ wedding fund and showered them with grandchildren. I can’t make it past a third date let alone find a guy worthy of meeting my family.”
“Maybe your standards are too high.”
Pursing her lips, she rolls her head like letting a fine wine breath before tasting it. “Nah, men just aren’t made the same as they used to be—too much inbreeding.”
A snort hijacks my ladylike laugh, sending us both into a fit of giggles.
I sigh after the silliness settles into a simmering smile. “So where am I going for this unnecessary makeup application?”
Gemmie spins me around so I’m facing the mirror and jerks her head toward the front window. “Across the street. You can thank me later. The only place that’s possibly more difficult to get into on short notice than the chair you’re sitting in right now. They’re not as easily persuaded by the name-your-price offer.”
I glance out the window. “Rogue Seduction?”
“Yep. They’re not exactly listed in the phone book. In fact, you need a prominent referral to get an appointment.”
I look at Gemmie’s reflection. “You’re my referral?”
She laughs with a wide-eyed duh look. “Yes, and I only get to make a few a year, so you should feel special.”
My shoulders bob up and down once, unable to muster anymore enthusiasm. “It’s just makeup.”
“It’s ‘just makeup’ and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is ‘just a painting.’”
I don’t argue. As much as it disappoints my father and Rachel, fashion and glamour, money and influence, are not my things. My father is “politician rich” meaning he does okay, but he lives like the rich and famous because of Rachel.
“So does this makeup guy know I’m attending a political fundraiser? I don’t want to look like a street-walking cake face.”