Mrs. Perfect

Today at Z Design is easier than yesterday because I know where everything is and know whom I’ll be working with. Fridays are also usually half days, but because it’s Susan’s last day and everyone has so much to do, we all stay until four, when Allie surprises Susan with a going-away cake and Robert whisks a bottle of champagne from an ugly paper bag in the back of the fridge. Everyone’s talking and toasting Susan when the door opens and Marta walks in with a travel bag and briefcase.

“Fantastic. Cake and champagne, my favorites,” she says, shutting the door and leaving her luggage in the corner.

“You’re back early,” Susan answers, licking purple-and-white icing from her fingers even as she stands up.

“Sit down, sit down,” Marta insists, and as she gestures for Susan to sit, she spots me hovering in the background. “Taylor.” Her eyes rest on me a moment, her expression serious.

I hadn’t expected to see Marta until Monday, and I’m thrown for a loop. “Hello,” I say stiffly, feeling awkward here all over again.

This isn’t going to work, I think, this isn’t something I can do.

But Marta’s turned her attention to Susan. “Did you open your gifts yet?” she asks, taking a seat at the conference table, too.

“No,” Susan answers, yet she looks delighted.

“We were waiting,” Mel explains as Allie cuts Marta a piece of cake and Robert pours her some champagne. “We knew you were trying to get back early, so we were holding off in case you showed up.”

Marta smiles, dark hair loose, white teeth flashing. “I showed up.”

Susan cheers, and I feel even more alien. This is Marta’s place. She’s in her element here. These are her people. Her family.

I can feel myself tense yet again. I want to go home now, want to go back to my world, the one I understand, but Marta looks up and catches my eye. “Sit, Taylor. Relax. You’re part of the team.”

Hard to walk out when your boss tells you to stay.

Saturday morning, I wake up with a raging headache brought on by the two glasses of champagne I had yesterday at the office, which I chased with another glass or two of red wine once I arrived home.

I shouldn’t have had that much to drink. I don’t normally drink like that. I ordered pizza for the girls last night, the disgusting cheap pizza that I hate to eat—which I ate, accompanied by the red wine.

Now, heading for the stairs, I wince as I hear Brooke and Jemma screaming at each other in the bonus room at the end of the hall.

“I hate you!”

“I hate you!”

“You are the worst sister in the world!”

“You are.”

“No, you are.”

“Stop copying me!”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Time to play referee. I hate being referee. I open the door and stand there as they continue screaming at each other.

“I hate you for the rest of your life!”

“I’ll hate you longer! I’ll hate you even when you’re dead!”

“That’s it. Enough!” I shout, but they don’t hear me. They’re too busy hating each other’s guts for the rest of their lives.

“Jemma! Brooke!” I roar their names to be heard.

They straighten abruptly, both falling silent. They most definitely heard me this time.

I feel a grim satisfaction in my capacity to stun and frighten. I haven’t stunned and frightened anybody in a long time.

“Both of you, to your rooms. Twenty minutes. Do not come out. Do not speak to each other. Do not speak to me. Do not make a sound. Twenty minutes. I will come get you when time’s up.”

They march past me, giving each other cutting looks. “Where’s Tori?” I ask as they reach their rooms.

Jemma turns around, points to her mouth. Right, she can’t talk. Smart-ass.

“Brooke?” I ask politely.

Brooke flashes her older sister a triumphant look. “She’s still sleeping.”

“Thank you.” I gesture toward their doors. “Twenty minutes. Starting now.”

Downstairs as the coffee brews, I open the front door to get the paper before I remember it got canceled since we were late on payments.

I feel a momentary letdown, then remind myself the paper was depressing. It was just a daily dose of bombings, carjackings, murders, robberies, terrorist attacks, global warming threats, and growing world debt. And that’s just here in America.

I drink a glass of water as I wait for my coffee. I’m going to need some serious Advil today. Passing the powder bathroom, I see that the light is on, and I reach in to click it off and close the door but stop when I catch sight of my reflection.

Good Lord. I’m tragic. And old.

I move toward the mirror, tip my head, check my roots and then my hairline near my ear.

Dark roots and—fantastic—gray hair.

Not a lot of gray, but enough that I know it’s time for overall color. I pride myself on my hair. It’s gorgeous hair. I want to keep it that way.

But $180 on hair color and finishing isn’t really part of my budget anymore.

I check my roots again. They’re definitely darker than they’ve been in a while. If I fluff my hair back and avoid a part line, you can’t see the roots too badly, but I never let them go this long. I guess I kept waiting for the cash flow to improve.

The cash flow might never improve.

The dark roots and gray aren’t going to wait, either.

I pour my coffee and sit on one of the bar stools. The Salon uses a L’Oréal product. I can buy a L’Oréal product at Bartel’s Drugstore. How hard can it be to do my own color?

I’ve had my light brown hair lightened for years. I could explain the process in my sleep. Mix up the cream, apply it with a stiff brush to the scalp, putting color only on the roots, let it sit, and then rinse it out.

The hardest part will be matching my hair shade, and honestly, all I have to do is put a chunk of my hair against the picture on the box. The box that matches wins.

After the girls are out of time-out, and after they’ve all been served hot breakfast, we head to Bartel’s together. I’ve explained to the girls what I’m going to do, and I’ve enlisted their help.

“We’ve got to find my hair color. Now, there are going to be a lot of boxes and a lot of different shades, but we want the one that’s closest to mine.”

The girls are excited. We’ve never done anything like this before. Home manicure and pedicure parties, sure. Play facials, too, where we make our own hair conditioners and facial scrubs using fruits, vegetables, and oatmeal. But hair color? Never. That’s always been the Salon’s job.

I knew there’d be a lot of hair color boxes. I thought that would be to my advantage, since many boxes means more hair color choices. But suddenly confronted by twelve shades of blond and eight light brown, I’m no longer sure of myself.

Neither is Jemma. “Mom, what’s the difference between Natural Medium Ash Blonde and Natural Medium Golden Blonde?”

“Good question.” I bend down to look at the two boxes in her hands and then back on the shelves. “Maybe Natural Neutral Dark Blonde is the way to go.”

“But what is ash?” Jemma persists.

Brooke turns around with another box. “This one’s for gray, Mom. Do you have gray hair yet?”

I put a finger to my lips. Her voice is a little too loud. “Not enough to worry about,” I stage-whisper in a cheerful voice just in case anyone from another aisle is eavesdropping.

Brooke puts back the box and finds another. “How about highlights, Mom? You get highlights.”

Tori takes a box off the shelf and holds it in both hands, smiling at the picture. “He looks like Daddy.”

Brooke snorts in disgust. “He does not!” she says, grabbing the box out of Tori’s hands. Her expression changes, and she tips the box back and forth, as if studying the male model from different angles. “Actually he does. A little bit.”

Tori ge

ts another box with the same picture and kisses the model on the lips. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Okay, that’s just weird,” Jemma says before turning to me. “So, Mom, what do you think they mean by ash? And why do they call some colors Natural Light Blonde and others just Light Blonde? Why are some of the colors ‘Natural’ and some aren’t?”