• by René Saldaña, Jr.
NOT MUCH TO IT
Becky had only last week graduated from the McAllen College of Beauty Arts and Sciences and immediately found work at Cuts and More. Today she was at the bookstore picking up a how-to manual on manicures and fingernail polishing. She walked up to the customer-service counter and saw it was Chela working. They’d been kind of friends all through high school. Kind of. More like Chela and her group of girlfriends let Becky hang out with them because she was enrolled in the School-Within-a-School program and studying hairstyling. They were part of the A group and getting asked out all the time, so they had Becky do their hair, for free. “Practice,” they called it. “We’re actually helping you improve.”
She knew better. They were taking advantage of her, plain and simple. Sure, the girls were nice enough to her; while she worked on their hair, they talked about their dates (who was the good kisser, who wasn’t, who left the bigger tips at restaurants, who had the best manners, etc.) and let her into their circle in that way. But Becky knew she was only partway in. She heard the condescension in their casual chatting with her; she saw it in their turning to whisper the real juicy secrets to one another; she felt it in their too-tight hugs after their hair was cut and styled. Becky put up with it, though, because there was always the chance that they’d receive her into their midst. It was a long shot certainly, but a shot nevertheless.
It wasn’t until close to finishing school that she began to realize she could never be one of them, no matter what. She wasn’t a cheerleader or band member or an honors student; she was never pulled out of classes to meet with college recruiters; she wasn’t being asked out by the captain of the football team, the first-chair sax player who performed a solo to a standing ovation at last year’s Pigskin competition, not even by the guy who scored a near perfect on the SATs. Oftentimes, especially there toward the end, she had to remind herself of the sad reality: They all loved the work she did with their hair, and that’s how she got to hang out with them. She’d be done with school in no time at all, she’d think, and with them. They’ll be out of my hair soon enough, she liked saying to herself.
Then they’d throw her a curve, and she’d be back to imagining how great it would be if they thought she was cool enough for them. It had been Chela, for example, who’d put the idea into Becky’s head to keep studying after high school: “You’ve got a knack for this, Beck. Not just anyone can do hair. You need to share your gift with the world.” That’s how these girls talked, always big, always grand. But Becky appreciated Chela’s words of encouragement, and three weeks before high school graduation, she called up MCBAS and asked for an application packet. They told her that finishing her program at the high school would be enough. She’d be licensed. But she wanted more, not just a high school diploma like everyone else. She insisted, and after talking to several people there, she’d been accepted. Now, after an intensive three-month-long stint in salon management, she’d gotten a second diploma. It said she was board certified like her high school one did, but this one said “college,” and now she felt prepared to work in the beauty industry.
“Hey, Beck,” said Chela. “What you up to?” She was absently turning the pages of a magazine, a stack of books for reshelving beside her on the counter.
“Oh, hi, Chela,” Becky said. She hadn’t seen Chela or the others since graduation night. They’d gone to their parties, and she’d sat at home. “I’m here for a book I ordered. Can you check if it’s in?”
Chela typed Becky’s name into the computer, and a window popped open. She said, “Be back in a sec, Beck,” and in a few moments was walking to the counter with the book. She was flipping through it, smiling.
Becky remembered that patronizing smirk from back in high school. She thought, I can’t believe this. She’s laughing at me. How dare she? I mean, look who’s got a career—me—and who’s got a summer job—her. And what’s with the hair?
“This it?” Chela said, showing Becky the cover.
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Becky thought, And there’s that ugly tone in her voice to go with the look.
“Anything else I can help you with? A book on pedicures, or hair coloring?” Chela smiled.
There it is again, Becky thought. She was sure of it. Chela poking fun at her chosen vocation. Like being a beauty technician was beneath her, but schlepping to the back of the store to get a book for someone else wasn’t servile? Standing behind a desk and answering phones wasn’t menial? Whatever, Becky thought. I’m going somewhere. I’ve got my five-, ten-, and twenty-year plans already charted out. She’s hawking books.
It disturbed her, though, that try as she might, she’d never impress these girls. Her being in the workforce, not just passing the time at a temporary job until Daddy started paying for college, but busy in legitimate, lifelong employment—it amounted to nothing with them. She hoped that after school, things would’ve been different. They’d all be grown-ups and behave like it, but it was apparent today nothing had changed. And this bothered her. Becky was even more upset because caring what Chela thought still today made her stomach get all in knots. She figured she’d gotten over her insecurities after graduation. Obviously not.
All the same, she did have plans. One day she’d manage Cuts and More. Later, she’d open her own place, call it Becky’s Beauty Boutique. She’d even printed out business cards on her computer: All the Bs in bold and in pink, then under that her name, also in pink, followed by Proprietor, and under that, Board Certified. No address or phone on them yet.
But right now she took her manual; pictured on the cover was a thin hand with long, painted fingernails. She said, “Thanks,” turned to leave, then spun back around and said, “Chela.”
Chela looked up from her magazine and smiled.
Becky took a deep breath, then said, “Chela, you might think about coming to see me at work soon. You really need to stop doing whatever you’re doing to your hair. I’ll put you on my Preferred Client list, give you a free shampoo.”
Chela’s smile cracked almost imperceptibly, but enough for Becky to notice. “Really—a free shampoo? How nice of you! I had no idea salons charged for a squirt of Pert and rinse water. But as you know, I haven’t been to a real salon in at least four years.”
“Do stop by. You’ll be glad you did.” Becky swung around and headed to the register.
In her car, her book on her lap, Becky couldn’t believe she’d said what she’d said to Chela. In high school, she’d never’ve dared. She would’ve been ostracized, a leper to everyone.
But what had possessed her to do it today? She was in a kind of shock, confused because she’d always been hurt when someone had humiliated her like she’d just done to Chela, but as lousy as she felt about doing it, she was also proud for having stood up to the likes of her. I mean, to offer to put her on my list, she thought, not the other way around. Never mind there was no list, really. She looked at herself in the mirror, smiled, and wondered, The new me?
Becky put the car in gear, turned up the volume on the radio, and drove home. The rest of the night she tried reading through her manual. There were all kinds of helpful hints on how to prepare hands for manicures, what soaps and creams to use or not depending on skin type, how to strengthen fingernails, and a chapter devoted to the myriad ways of applying fingernail-polish designs for different occasions. But Becky couldn’t concentrate. She was still shaken by how she’d behaved with Chela. She couldn’t get the look on Chela’s face out of her head: discomposed for once, unsure of herself; her eyebrows raised, the shaky smile, and the shade of pink on her cheeks. At which point, Becky’d spun and left.
What bothered her more than how Chela had looked was that, even now, a few hours later, she still felt good about how she’d acted. She knew from back in high school these girls were all about the latest fashion; they’d told her about how new dresses or hairstyles had gone largely unnoticed by dates and how ungrateful guys were: “We go to all this trouble for them, and what thanks do we get? Not even an honorable mention!” Becky thought, And what thanks did I get? They’d whimper on that way for a good while until Becky told them the same thing every time: “Listen, you’re beautiful. This is how guys are programmed. They’re genetically engineered to skip over such details. They just don’t get it.” The girls always seemed to agree and smiled. She thought they were such big crybabies, though. So she knew earlier today that she’d crossed a line with Chela. For better or worse? She didn’t know.
But so what? Chela’d never introduced her to the popular guys. Not once did the group invite her to a party where she could meet them on her own. She was never on equal footing with them. Sure, they’d invited her to sleepovers, but that just meant she’d have to haul her makeup kit and her styling tools and spend the night attending to them. Giving them the works. Why had she ever wanted to be part of them? Even tonight she couldn’t figure that one out. And she couldn’t fall asleep for thinking about it all.
In the end, she told herself, all she’d done today was to behave a little like them. No harm done, really. She turned out the light and fell into a rocky sleep.
At Cuts and More the following morning, she was tidying up after her previous client. She bent to sweep all the hair into the oversize dustpan, then she looked up and saw Chela signing her name to the list at the counter. She scooted back a bit, stayed bent that way, out of sight behind her chair.
What’s she doing here? Becky wondered. She waddled backward, saw Chela was making a call on her cell, and shot for the employee lounge at the back of the shop. Really, what is she doing here?
She considered the possibilities: maybe to complain to Monique, the manager, about how one of her techs had had the gall to criticize her hair in public; maybe to get her hair done, then make a stink about how Beck got it all wrong and demand to get it for free (like in the old days); or maybe, just maybe, she’d agreed with Becky’s assessment and was here for a fix-up? The split ends really were too noticeable, too readily seen. Monique had probably immediately noticed them, too. So that must be it, then, she hoped.
She snuck a peek out the door and saw Monique talking with and smiling at Chela. Monique pointed at Becky’s station, then she looked puzzled. Where could Becky be? She was just there, Becky imagined her saying.
Then she actually heard Monique: “She may have stepped into the back room. Lemme go check. Sit right here, hon,” she said, and pointed at one of the recliners in the shampoo station. She was smiling. “If she said it’s free, then it’s free.”
But when she headed to the lounge, she was shaking her head.
What could that mean? Becky jumped back and dumped the hair she’d swept up earlier.
“Becky,” Monique whispered, “nothing in life’s free. Well, almost nothing. One thing that is, though, is a shampoo.” She raised her eyebrows at Becky. “Why’d you tell that girlfriend of yours you have a Preferred Client list and that she’s on it, and that she gets a free shampoo? I don’t approve. That’s misrepresentation, you understand?”
“Yes, Monique. It won’t happen again. It’s just . . . I read in a book at school it’s a way to entice potential clientele. Make them feel special, and—”
“Sure, get them in the door, and you got a customer for life. I didn’t have to read that in no book. Nor go to school. But it’s plain falsehoods you’re telling this girl. We on the same page? Now get out there and wash that girl’s hair, style it, and be done with it. Take your lunch early, why don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, and her heart was beating hard.
“Well, get out there already. Your friend’s waiting on you.”
Becky took a breath and wiped at her sleeves, where she could see tiny, almost unnoticeable bits of black clippings from her last customer. Her forearms’d already begun to itch. She checked her face and hair in the mirror by the door and stepped out.
“Hello, Chela. I didn’t think you’d come.” She wondered if she should apologize. “Glad you did. Hey, about yesterday . . .”
“Think nothing of it, Beck. Really, once you left, well, out of sight, out of mind, right? But after my shower this morning, I looked in the mirror and had to agree with you. My hair’s dreadful. I just hadn’t noticed, but to a trained eye like your own . . . ? I mean, what with your degree in beauty and stuff, you mustn’t be able to walk down the street without picking out bad and good hair. That’s some serious talent. You must think we’re all slobs.”
Becky wanted to say, You mean my two degrees, then point to where they both leaned against the mirror, but instead said, “No, it’s not like that at all.” But why was she backpedaling, balking, caving in? “Shall we?” was all she could muster. She wished she were quicker, wittier. More sarcastic. She so wanted to cut Chela down, but couldn’t. She grabbed a bottle of shampoo.
Chela said, “Do with me what you will. Make me into something I’m not, if you think you can. I put my hair into your care.”
Becky smiled. That was good, what Chela’d just said: Put your hair in my care. Nice. Maybe she’d type it up as her slogan on her business card, make posters of it to put up when she owned her own store: Real nice.
“I’m meeting Jimmy after, and I want to look good. So we need to hurry. Let’s do it to it.”
“Sure, let’s start. Just lie back.”
“You did say this part of it was free, right? What with going out of state for college, I’ve got to save every penny.”
“Sure. You’re on my Preferred Client list, like I said. Free shampoo, every time.”
“Good. Ah, that warm water feels so good. You seeing anyone, or are you still on the market? Don’t wait too long, Beck—nothing uglier than a wilted flower. But don’t worry, Mr. Right’ll come along, someday.”
When Becky didn’t answer, Chela asked, “Why didn’t you ever shampoo us when we were in high school? That would’ve been the cherry on top, you know.”
Becky shook her head—“I don’t know”—and rinsed the last of the lather from Chela’s hair. She began to massage the nape of her neck like she did for all her clients, but she noticed how Chela stiffened. She didn’t open her eyes, and she didn’t say anything, but Becky knew to pull back her fingers. She grabbed for a towel to dry her hands. She remembered working on Chela’s hair one sleepover, the others looking on, a running commentary of oohs and aahs. When she had tried gathering her hair in a bunch and lifting it over her head, Chela had gone rigid the way she’d done today.
“I like my hair loose and bouncy,” Chela’d said.
“Loose and bouncy, just like you,” said one of the other girls, and they all giggled, Chela included.
Later, she’d asked Becky to come into the restroom to help with some eyeliner.
Becky found her near tears. After several minutes of trying to comfort her, Becky put an arm around her shoulder.
“Okay,” Chela said, and wiped at her face. “This is just between friends, right? You can’t tell anyone else, promise?”
“Of course I promise,” Becky said. She’d never heard a single one of these girls use the word friend in reference to her. “It’ll be okay.”
Chela bunched up her hair and hesitantly pushed it up off her neck. “How embarrassing,” she said, and let Becky take a look, then confessed she didn’t know how to deal with all the acne. “Any idea how to get rid of it?”
Becky had recommended rubbing aloe straight onto it; she wasn’t sure, but aloe wouldn’t hurt.
The following Monday at school, Becky handed a bottle of aloe to Chela between classes, behind the lockers, where no one could see them.
Chela took the bottle, looked at it, then shoved it back, saying, “What’s this?”
“It’s for the—you know,” said Becky, pointing to the back of her own head.
“Don’t worry about that. I’m going to a dermatologist who’ll give me real medicine. Not this Farmer Brown, home-remedy stuff.”
Becky didn’t understand. At the sleepover, Chela had called her a friend, made her promise to keep a secret, cried, let Becky hug her in comfort. “But—but I was just trying to help a—”
Chela cut her off: “Help? Please, you’re studying to be a beautician. I swear, if you say anything about this—” and she stomped away.
Becky’d stood at the lockers holding out the bottle of aloe until the bell rang. She’d wanted to cry.
Today, Becky dried her hands and handed Chela a towel. “Done with the shampoo,” she said.
She led Chela to her chair, wrapped an apron around her, covering her lap, chest, and shoulders, and asked, “So, what shall we do with it?”
Chela answered, “I’m at your mercy, but not too short.”
In about half an hour, she was done with Chela’s hair. She’d cut it short, but made sure it was down past the neck. It was one thing to tell Chela her hair was horrible, quite another to hurt her that other way. “What do you think?” she asked, unwrapping the apron slowly. Then she let all the wet clippings drop to the floor at her feet.
Chela looked in the mirror, pursed her lips like prunes, looked this way and that, asked for a hand mirror, studied her hair from behind, and smiled. “This looks great,” she said. “I’m a new woman.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “What do I owe you? You’re such a good beautician I’ll even pay for the shampoo. Better than in high school.”
Becky couldn’t win. Not today, not ever, so she told her the price of the haircut and reminded Chela she was on Becky’s Preferred Client list, so not to worry over it. The least she could do was kill her with kindness.
“Well, in that case, I’ll tip you what it would’ve cost to get my hair washed. What do you say to that?”
“You don’t have to tip. After all, we’re friends, right?”
“Nonsense, Beck. You did great work for me today; Jimmy’ll love it; you deserve something. Think of this as a little token,” and she handed Becky a crumpled ten-dollar bill out of her back pocket. “Money’s money, right. We all can use it.” She looked at herself in the mirror again, then said, “I just figured out why you didn’t go all out like this back during our sleepovers—we never tipped you. I bet if we had, you would’ve done it all and more for us. Why didn’t we tip you back then?”
“Friends don’t have to tip friends,” Becky said. “So, here’s your money back.”
“Don’t be silly. How else do you girls make a living except for the thoughtfulness of your Preferred Clients?” She turned and started walking to the door.
When she reached it, she turned and said, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could go back to those times? All of us—you, too—and you could do wonders with our hair and nails, with your new book and all. We’d tip big. I’d make sure of that. It would all be different, if only . . .” She smiled, ran her fingers through her new hair again, pushed the door open, and said to no one in particular, “This girl deserves a raise; she’s an artist. I’m keeping you a secret all to myself, though,” then stepped out of Cuts and More.
Jimmy, her boyfriend from high school, was waiting for her in the parking lot. She jumped into his truck, leaned over the armrest, and kissed him on the cheek. Becky watched them as he backed out of his space, shifted gears, and drove away.
Go back? she thought. Not for ten bucks; not for a million. It would all be different, my big, fat toe. She walked back to her station and swept up all of Chela’s hair that had fallen there. She thought she’d cut a good deal of it off, but in the dustpan it looked flimsy, and there wasn’t much to it. So she dumped it in the back room with everybody else’s hair they’d cut today.