(Literally) in Her Shoes
“What are you doing here, Geri?” Stylist and manager Miranda glances down at her bling-covered watch.
“Don’t I work today?” I assume I have Geri’s current schedule. What if I pulled the wrong one? “Thought I was supposed to be here at noon.”
Both Miranda and her client eye me. “But it’s eleven forty-five. Your appointment isn’t even here yet.”
“Don’t I need time to set up?” Although I can’t imagine I have to do much other than locate some scissors, right?
Miranda, who’s dressed more for a rave than a day combing clients’ hair, steps away from her station and speaks to me in a whisper. “I’ve never seen you early before. Never once. I’m really glad you took our talk to heart. I hate having to write you up, but the owner’s been up my ass about your perpetual tardiness. Thank you for not putting me in this position.”
“Of course,” I reply. “What are friends for?”
I can barely hear myself think in here with all the thumping techno music. If I really worked here, I’m sure I’d file a complaint with HR saying this was a hostile work environment. There’s an actual DJ in here spinning tunes. A DJ! In a hair salon! Way to take yourselves superseriously, ladies.
I quickly figure out that Geri’s station is the only unmanned chair, so I head over there and begin to open and close drawers. A young woman with a ton of sparkly eye shadow hands me a sheet of paper. “Your list, my lady.”
I glance at her name tag. Allison.
Taking into account Geri’s tendency for doing things the easy way, even when it comes to saying someone’s name, I reply, “Thanks, Ali.”
“No probs, G-spot.”
I scan the appointment list and notice that I’m supposed to color someone’s hair at four p.m. The cut I can handle because of body memory, but the color will take a working knowledge of times and formulas. It’s best to not draw attention to what I can’t do, so I say, “My eczema’s being a beyotch today. Can I do swapsies with someone else? I need to not, like, touch chemicals.”
“Sure, G! I’ll give her to Catelyn and you can handle any walk-in cuts.”
Crisis avoided!
“Sweet.”
As I scan the salon, I notice that all the girls without clients are fooling with their own hair. I’d simply drawn Geri’s into a ponytail this morning, which was all I could handle after the trauma of having to wash her generous ass.
Huh.
I really do mention Geri’s weight a lot, don’t I?
That’s not cool.
But now, the frizzy red pony seems out of place in the club-like salon, so I use a round brush to unkink the curls and smooth the whole thing into Rita Hayworth–style waves. I admire my work in the mirror. Not bad!
I mean, not bad considering what I had to work with.
Allison agrees. “Superglammy, G!”
“Thanks!”
My first client arrives and I’m delighted that she’s new to the salon, so we don’t have a previous relationship. I pieced together what I could from Geri’s social media footprint, but clearly there will be portions I’ve missed.
I do my best to channel Geri. “So what are we doing today?” I ask, running my hands through the client’s long, dark, straight hair, which is pretty similar to my own. “I have my own ideas, but let’s hear what you’re thinking.”
Lydia, the client, replies, “I’m sooo bored with this all-one-length bullshit. I want something new and fun.”
“Like . . . layers?” I probably should have studied up on actual hairdressing terms, but at least my hands know what to do. I’ll whack off some of the stuff around her face, like Geri’s always claiming I should do.
I keep running my hands through her hair and holding up little bits, and apparently this seems enough like what a real stylist would do that Lydia doesn’t question me.
A staffer named Margarita leads Lydia over to the shampoo bowls, which is oddly disappointing. I thought doing the shampoo would be fun, kind of like washing a dog.
When Lydia returns, I comb out her hair. She sits there quietly, but expectantly. Oh, I’m supposed to initiate conversation. On it.
“What do you want to talk about today?”
Lydia glances up at me under her veil of wet hair. “I’m sorry?”
Shit, therapist mode. Try it again. WWGD—What Would Geri Discuss?
“You see The Bachelor last night?”
Lydia sadly shakes her head. “Had to TiVo it—my boyfriend was being a pain. He was at my apartment and he insisted we watch the game. I was all, ‘But I was looking forward to The Bachelor,’ and he didn’t care. I had this whole night planned for myself with wine and snacks, and Kirk came over uninvited and totally bogarted my plans.”
I’m about to inquire about her feelings on the issue when I realize that I’m not encumbered by APA rules. Not only can I ask whatever I want, but I can also offer my unvarnished opinion.
“What an asshole!”
That felt fantastic. I’ve never been allowed to actually tell a patient in no uncertain terms what I really thought. Maybe if I didn’t have to mince words so much, they’d be able to change their behavior more quickly?
“Right? Then he had the nerve to try to send me out for beer because he didn’t like the wine I bought!”
I’m a little in awe as Geri’s hands deftly move through Lydia’s locks, almost as though they have a mind of their own. A ton of long strands fall to the floor, which starts to make me feel panicky. But I have to keep my composure, lest Lydia panic as well.
I smooth and comb and snip. “Is this in character? I mean, does Kirk always pull stunts like this?” I ask over the sound of clicking scissors.
“At first I thought he was really into me, being a gentleman and making all the decisions.”
“Such a red flag,” I say.
Whoops, was that out loud?
Wait, I’m allowed to say this stuff out loud! Yes! I remember when I was treating this woman who had a borderline abusive fiancé and all I wanted to do was say, “Honey? Run.”
She replies, “I hear ya, but I didn’t see it. I just thought, ‘Wow, he’s so into me.’”
“But then it eventually occurred to you that he wasn’t being a nice guy so much as he was being controlling?”
Lydia eyes me in the mirror. “Bingo.”
“What’s your game plan? Are you at the point where you can talk about this, or is it better to end it?”
She bites her lip. “I’m not sure, honestly.”
“Has he ever been aggressive toward you?”
“Nothing like that, no, never!” Lydia quickly exclaims. Then, rather sheepishly she adds, “Well, except that he pushed me over the weekend.”
I stop cutting. “He pushed you? Like out of the way of an oncoming car?”
“No . . . he’d had a lot to drink and he wanted to drive and I tried to take his keys and we had a little scuffle.”
Alarm bells are dinging so loudly in my head that I’m surprised the rest of the salon can’t hear them. “So what happened?”
“I ended up letting him drive and I got into the passenger seat,” she softly admits.
I spin her around to look at me. “What you’re saying is that you not only allowed him to manhandle you, but then you risked your own life in riding with him?”
She hangs her head. “I never looked at it that way, but yeah. I kinda did.”
“Do you deserve better?” I ask.
“I do. My friend Scott is always saying so. He doesn’t understand why I’d be with someone like Kirk in the first place.”
“Then you need to drop him like a bad habit. Go home and change your locks if he has a key—does he have a key?” She nods and I continue, “Then you tell him it’s over and if he bothers you again, you’ll be filing a police report.”
“But what will happen if I’m there by myself and Kirk shows up?”
“Can someone stay with you?”
“I’m sure Scott would. He’s like a brother to me. He’s always been there for me and he’s a constant source of support. He’s such a good guy—I don’t know why he can’t find a nice girl already.”
“Then it’s settled.”
As I begin her blow-dry, conversation becomes impossible, but we communicate by smiling at each other in the mirror and I find myself gently swaying to the beats the DJ lays down.
When we finish, I realize three things: Geri’s job actually requires skill and has value, Scott’s about to exit the Friend Zone, and I really would look better with a few layers around my face.
• • •
I never see Geri without her platform stilettos, so that’s what I wore to the salon today. They were fine for the first hour, but after that, I felt like my feet were caught in two separate bear traps. They went from aching to throbbing to screaming to their current state of numb. I give her credit for wearing these with the frequency that she does.
Couple the aching feet with the stamina it takes to work on that many clients, plus the emotional toll of connecting with each person, and I suddenly feel like I have to revise my previous opinion of Geri being lazy. No lazy person would ever hold a job like this.
This profession is draining and grueling and utterly, entirely soul satisfying. Who knew? People come in unhappy and they leave happy. Does a haircut solve deeply ingrained behavior problems? Of course not. Yet the world seems a tiny bit more fresh and hopeful when looking out from under a new fringe of bangs. I feel terrible for having discounted what Geri does for so long. She performs a valuable service and I realize that now.
Plus, I hardly have anyone’s hair in my underwear.
(I did learn rather quickly to put a lid on my drink, though.)
All I want to do is go home, slip into a hot bath, and then put my own damn feet back on, but Miranda and company have other ideas. Namely, Brando’s Speakeasy for karaoke.
I try to get out of the festivities. “I can’t, I’m too tired.”
“You say that every week,” Ali argues. “Get your shapely behind moving, because we’re leaving.”
A group of us pile in a cab, even though the bar’s less than six blocks away. Normally, I’d walk, but at the moment, I’d pay someone to carry me fireman-style, so the taxi is a welcome compromise.
We arrive at Brando’s and I’m pleased to note that it’s in a gorgeous old Chicago landmark building and not some hole-in-the-wall Bridgeport pub covered in neon beer signs. The walls are beautiful dark wood paneling with lots of vintage advertising art. There are velvet curtains and flattering lighting, too. If I went to bars, I suspect this is one I might frequent.
We settle in at what’s apparently our usual table and the waitress rushes us over a round of peach martinis. Miranda, who’s next to me, asks, “Are you surviving up there?”
“At Reagan’s?” I ask. The way everyone’s been questioning me/Geri about her accommodations, you’d think she was sent to a gulag and not a gorgeous graystone. I take a sip of my peach martini and I can feel the liquor stripping off a layer of flesh inside my mouth. Yikes. “’S’okay. Why?”
Miranda slicks on some sticky gloss and smacks her lips together. “It’s just a surprise, is all. You’re so nice to her and she’s always such a bitch back. I don’t even know why you try.” Newsflash? I’m pretty sure that’s a lie. “I was curious if she’s any less intense when she’s on her own turf.”
“I’m gaining a whole new understanding,” I admit.
Catelyn chimes in, “Remember when your client brought you that amazing shirt back from France and you posted it on Facebook and Reagan was all, ‘Stripes? No.’ Damn, I wish there were an ‘Unlike’ button for those kind of comments. Who does that?”
“Y’know, I actually watched one of her old episodes on WeWIN—she was with some girl named Dina? From New Jersey? The whole time they were talking, I was like, ‘She’s so not listening to that girl. She’s smiling and nodding, but she’s not processing anything this poor kid’s saying.’ It’s like she was mentally composing her grocery list or something.”
I’d argue, but she’s not wrong.
Miranda brushes a stray fuchsia-colored feather out of her face. (Did you know there are feather-based hair extensions now? I sort of don’t hate them.) “Then, when they’re walking down the beach, I saw your sister’s backside. I don’t care how skinny that bitch is, she has cellulite.”
Noo! That wasn’t mine! That was from sitting on the slatted bench! Cellulite isn’t striped, for crying out loud!
Before I can answer her, Ali yanks me out of my seat. “They have your song cued up! Everyone’s waiting!”
“For what?” I ask.
She hands me a microphone. “For this.” Then she shoves me onstage and I stare out at the crowd, who are watching me expectantly.
Um . . . help?
What do I do here?
And why is this so scary? I’ve given plenty of speeches and lectures in my day, but that’s always been talk based and scripted. I don’t sing. I’ve never sung. I have a terrible voice! I don’t even hum in the shower!
The song begins and my hands begin to sweat. I’m so anxious that I’m actually manifesting Geri’s physical responses. Words begin to scroll by on the screen and the audience begins to grow restless when I blow the entire first verse.
I feel like not singing is the only fate worse than singing, so . . . here goes nothing.
The voice that comes out of me is rich and melodic and full of soul and the crowd immediately responds.
I’ll be damned.
When Geri’s not shit-housed and not screaming Journey songs from the top of a bar, she actually possesses a decent set of pipes.
The crowd goes wild and I’m completely bolstered by their response and possibly also the peach martini. I add a few dance moves and strut across the stage. I flip my hair and the crowd totally loses it.
“Here I go again!”
As I proceed, I channel Tawny Kitaen (before all the unpleasantness) and my performance quickly becomes that of legend.
When the song ends, the audience gives me a standing ovation and her friends are shouting their heads off and collectively it’s about the best feeling I’ve ever had.
And that’s when it occurs to me that there may be more to Geri than I ever realized.