“Mrs. Brittany had her daughter committed to the Betty Ford Clinic in California, but she ran away from there and went off with some man she had met. If she’s still alive, she’s somewhere in Asia. So Mrs. Brittany took on the upbringing of her granddaughter.”
“What about the husband, Sheena’s father?”
“He remarried and has a new family. Mrs. Brittany blames him, too. Sheena is a very bright young woman and otherwise, as you saw, very attractive. She was basically home-schooled, however,” he said softly, “and I’m afraid she’s a bit socially retarded. She lives vicariously through the novels she reads and the movies she watches. Mrs. Brittany is overly protective of her. We rarely see her on this side of the mansion. She’s never at dinner here. She’s very shy and withdrawn. I’m practically the only one who has much to do with her.
“I’m telling you all this so you won’t make the mistake of trying to have any more contact with her. That could be . . . fatal.”
“Fatal?”
“To your ambitions,” he said. “Oh, look at the time. I don’t want to be blamed for causing you to be late. Enjoy your session with Madame Laffette.”
I watched him walk off quickly, and then I headed for the salon, thinking after I had heard all he had told me that no amount of money, no position of power, nothing guarantees happiness, but this wasn’t the time to become philosophical. I had things to do.
I was hesitant, even timid, about meeting Madame Laffette. I was afraid she would remind me too much of Mama, being that they were both Parisians. However, I had nothing to fear. Claudine was probably not more than ten years older than I was, if that much. She wore a turquoise cowgirl hat with sequins, a baggy white blouse, and a pair of very tight designer jeans. Spilling out from under her hat were slightly curled medium-length strands of blond hair. Her lips were too thin, but she had beautiful, even striking gray-blue eyes and a nose as small and perfect as mine. She shook her head the moment she saw me enter.
“Who has been doing your hair, ma chère?”
“No one,” I said.
“It shows.”
“I was already told that. What, is everyone given the same script?”
She laughed. “I know who told you. S’il vous plaît,” she said, indicating the chair. “We have a lot to do.” She looked at her watch. “Mon Dieu.”
She ran her fingers through my hair.
“Dry, dirty, split ends. You American girls,” she added, shaking her head.
“Not everyone has been through what I’ve been through these past days, and I haven’t had time to do much more than run a brush through it since I arrived here.”
I could have washed my hair the night before, but I was too lazy, exhausted, and overwhelmed. I didn’t tell her that.
“Whatever. We will work a miracle, will we not?” she said, and turned on the water in her sink. “So, your mother, she is Parisian?”
“Oui.”
She gave me a look of disapproval. “A Parisian, and she didn’t bring you up to take better care of your hair?”
“No, she did. She would never let me go out of the house looking like this. I always took better care of myself before I left home, mainly because of her, but I have been on my own and not under good circumstances, comprenez?” I surprised myself at how vehemently I defended my mother.
“Ah, mais oui. Well, then, we will fix you up, make you the daughter of a Parisian again.”
I didn’t want to say how good it felt to have my hair washed, but it brought back the memories of all the times Mama would do it and, while she did it, talk about her own youth and her mother and the way she had taken care of herself, too. Claudine talked while she worked, but I barely heard anything she said. My eyes were tearing over, but I fought it back, hoping she wouldn’t see. When she was finished, she stood back and looked at me a moment and then nodded to herself.
“You are perfect for this new hairstyle,” she said.
“What new hairstyle?”
“What I have in mind for you,” she said. I could see I had no choice in the matter. Mrs. Brittany obviously had full faith in her.
She began to cut, telling me she was cutting a foundation layer at the base of my neck, explaining as she went along. She cut it layer by layer, using a razor to provide texture and a softer modern edge. After that, she used a paddle brush with thick bristles to avoid a round, helmet look and instead make my hair look flat and shiny. She put in the mousse and brushed my hair down. When she finished blow-drying, she worked meticulously with her scissors to perfect the cut. She finished off by working some pomade into my hair. When I looked at myself from all sides, I was astounded by the change.
“You worked your miracle, Madame Laffette. Merci beaucoup.”
“I think Mrs. Brittany will approve,” she said. “Now, sit at the vanity table, and we’ll work on your makeup.”
Mrs. Pratt came in just when we were close to finishing.