“Sidecars are never served in a TUMBLER, Amelia. WATER is served in a tumbler. A Sidecar is ALWAYS served in a stemmed cocktail glass. MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR???”
Grandmère was suddenly sitting up very straight in her slippery black leather chair.
“Calm down,” I said. “I just got a little trim—”
“A LITTLE TRIM??? You look like a cotton swab.”
“It’ll grow back,” I said lamely. Because the truth is, I’m not planning on growing it back. I really like having short hair. You don’t have to do ANYTHING to it. And when you look in the mirror, your head always looks the same. There’s something comforting about that. I mean, it’s TIRING seeing some new disaster erupting on your scalp every time you happen to glance at your reflection.
“How do you intend to keep your tiaras on with nothing for the combs to dig into?” Grandmère wanted to know.
Which is actually a good point. And certainly not one anyone had thought to bring up at Astor Place Hairstylists, least of all my mom, who’d said my new short hair reminded her of Demi Moore’s in G.I. Jane which, at the time, I’d taken to be a compliment.
“Velcro?” I asked carefully.
But Grandmère didn’t think my joke was all that funny.
“There’s not even any point in summoning Paolo,” she said, “because it’s not as if there’s even anything left for him to work with.”
“It’s not THAT short,” I said, lifting a hand to my head and feeling spikes. Well, on second thought, maybe it is. Oh, well. “Whatever. It’s just HAIR. It will grow back. Don’t we have more important things to worry about, Grandmère? I mean, in Iran, fundamentalist religious courts still routinely sentence women to death by being buried up to their necks in sand and then stoned, for crimes like adultery. Now! Things like this are happening RIGHT NOW!!!! And you’re worried about my HAIR???”
Grandmère just shook her head. You never can distract her with current events. If it doesn’t have to do with royalty, she just doesn’t care.
“This could not have come at a worse time,” she went on, like I hadn’t said anything. “Vogue just contacted the royal publicist, wanting an interview and photo shoot for their winter getaway issue. The article would bring Genovia to the attention of hundreds of women looking to schedule their winter vacations somewhere warm. Not to mention the fact that your father is in town for the general assembly meeting at the UN.”
“Good!” I yelled. “Maybe he can bring up the Iran thing at it! Do you know they’ve outlawed western music there, too? And, while claiming their only interest in nuclear development is for civilian energy, and not military use, actually hid atomic research that proves otherwise from the International Atomic Energy Agency for twenty years? Who cares about winter getaways when we could all be blown up at any moment?”
“I suppose we could have you fitted for a wig,” Grandmère said. “Though how we’ll ever find one identical to your old haircut, I don’t know. They don’t make wigs shaped like sailboats. Perhaps we could find a longer wig, and then have Paolo cut it….”
“Are you even listening to me?” I wanted to know. “There are more important things to worry about right now than my hair. Do you know how much trouble we’ll all be in if Iran gets a nuclear weapon? They BURY WOMEN UP TO THEIR NECKS AND STONE THEM FOR SLEEPING WITH GUYS THEY AREN’T MARRIED TO. How discriminating do you think they’re going to be about who deserves to have a bomb dropped on them?”
“Maybe,” Grandmère said thoughtfully, “we should turn you into a redhead. Oh, no, that will never work. With that haircut, you look exactly like that boy from the cover of those Mad comic books your father used to read all the time when he was your age.”
Seriously. It’s useless even to talk to her. Did I really think a woman with so unreasonable a prejudice against Gerbera daisies was going to listen to me?
Sometimes I feel like burying HER up to her neck in sand and throwing rocks at her head.
Tuesday, September 7, 7 p.m., the loft
Michael is here!!!!! To take me to Number One Noodle Son for dinner. Right now he’s chatting with Mom and Mr. G while I’m “getting ready.” He hasn’t seen me yet.
Or my haircut.
I know I’m being a complete baby about it. I know it looks fine. Mom keeps telling me it looks fine. Even Mr. G, when I asked him, said he doesn’t think I look like Peter Pan OR Anakin Skywalker.
Still. What if Michael hates it? In Sixteen magazine they’re always going on about how boys like girls with long hair. At least, whenever they do those “guy on the street” interviews. They show pictures of Keira Knightley with short hair and Keira Knightley with long hair to random high school boys standing around outside of convenience marts or whatever, and ask them which they prefer.
And nine times out of ten they pick Keira with the long hair.
Of course, none of those boys is ever Michael. But still.
Well, whatever. Michael is just going to have to deal.
Okay, maybe a little more mousse—
I can hear him talking to Rocky now. Not that anyone can understand a word Rocky says, except “truck” and “kitty” and “cookie” and “more” and “no” and “MINE,” the total extent of his vocabulary. Apparently this is normal for a child his age, and Rocky is not suffering from any sort of developmental retardation.
Still, it’s not easy having a conversation with him. I find it endlessly fascinating, of course. But he’s MY brother. Listen to how patient Michael is being! Rocky is just saying “truck,” over and over again, and Michael is going, “Yes. That’s a very nice truck,” in the sweetest way. He’d make such a good dad! Not that I have any intention of having children until I’ve finished college and joined the Peace Corps and put an end to global warming, of course.