10

When Lorraine was in high school, hair two feet wide by four feet long, she’d become obsessed with the story of Marilyn Monroe. She’d had to choose a biography to report on for English class, and that was who she’d decided to read about. But the story pissed her off. Here was a woman who had what everyone in the world hoped for—success, riches, the attention of the masses, not to mention the kind of beauty only rarely seen. And yet, she was never happy. Always, Marilyn was looking for something else, the one thing that would make her feel complete. Lorraine knew before she read the book that Marilyn committed suicide. She’d seen the TV movie with Chrissy and her mom, the three of them using up a box of Kleenex between them. Still, the ending of the book shocked Lorraine like she’d never been shocked before. She couldn’t finish. She couldn’t write a paper. In the end, she’d decided to switch to Ben Franklin. At least he’d done what he set out to do without much complication, and stuck around to enjoy it.

The thing was, after wanting and wanting, the idea that finally having that coveted ideal wouldn’t be enough, that it wouldn’t ever be all you thought it would be, was too much to bear. If there was one comforting aspect of Lorraine’s obsession with Tommy, it was that she still had the hope of Someday to look forward to.

This idea comforted Lorraine when finally she got a call from him to say, Hey, he was sorry he’d gotten so carried away last weekend, but he just wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. He wasn’t gonna say “it’s not you, it’s me,” he told her. He wouldn’t do that to his Lorraine. All week long he’d thought about the right words. That’s why he didn’t want to call her right away. He wanted to work it all out into the proper words before he told Lorraine that they should just put the brakes on, because everything was moving too fast.

I am NOT going to find if there was a girl to go along with all that “working out.” I am NOT. I am NOT!

“You know, how I feel about you, Quichy.” He only ever called her that when he wanted something.

Yeah, because fifteen years hasn’t been long enough. She knew not to push it, though. He didn’t respond well to pressure—over seventy-five women could testify to that. She knew that he’d get to feeling blue and call her, or just show up late one night, and then she’d have another shot to win him over for good. That was just the way things were. A lot had happened—he needed time to work it out. She would wait. How could she stand this? How do you explain the way the river runs or how the seasons keep flowing one into the next? Some things are bigger than any of us.

The weekend had been lonely, sitting and stewing about Tommy, forcing herself not to go to Brooklyn. Because it was The Right Thing To Do. Throwing herself into Tommy’s weekend would just have made her look jealous, insecure, and desperate. She didn’t go to the family dinner on Sunday for the same reason—she didn’t want to look out the kitchen window over to Tommy’s house. She didn’t want to see him reading the sports section with a steaming cup of black coffee, two sugars, as if he hadn’t a problem in the world, as if it hadn’t even crossed his mind that he hadn’t seen Lorraine in six whole days.

There was always Pooh-Pooh. And food. Brunch was a fabulous New York Institution. They didn’t do “brunch” in Brooklyn. They didn’t do eggs Benedict with rich hollandaise, or a Cobb salad the size of a football stadium topped with tangy blue cheese and crunchy bacon. The Guidos never thought of smoked salmon over a generous layer of cream cheese on black bread, sprinkled with sour capers and freshly ground black pepper, perfect purple onion rings overlapped with precision.

And if you don’t believe brunch is an institution, just look at the line at Sarabeth’s on a Saturday or Sunday, when the sun is bright. Lorraine still preferred 92, because she could sit outside with Pooh-Pooh, taking in the people of her neighborhood, their perfect casual attire—jeans made to look thirty years old, sweaters cut to slim a waist or an arm, in the perfect shade of sky blue, makeup made to look natural, a pair of giant sunglasses pulled atop a glossy slick of hair.

Elegance was the thing here. There was elegance in the facade of the buildings, in the step of a gentleman walking home with the newspaper rolled perfectly under his arm, his white pants freshly laundered with the creases ironed in. It was in the shop window signs advertising “Pre-Holiday Special, 30% reduction in seasonal merchandise,” small and without fluorescent colors and bursts like you saw littering Eighty-sixth Street in the Bay. Even Lorraine was more elegant in Manhattan, even her loneliness had a certain grace to it, in the way it spiraled around her, in the way it traveled through her straw as she sucked a bit of Bloody Mary up into her mouth.

She could have called Matt—should have, probably. But she didn’t want to use him for company only when Tommy’s was an impossibility. It didn’t seem right. There was a lightness to his tone that you didn’t want to quash. You wanted to protect it, stroke it softly with your palm, and not let it go. And since she’d thought all week long she’d be having a repeat performance this weekend of all the things that had thrilled her so much the weekend before, she considered Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off limits for hanging out with Matt.

But Tuesday—when she went back to work—should be fine. She would be able to dial his number and suggest that movie without any complicated feelings of guilt. That’s just what Lorraine was thinking as she passed through the giant gold doors of Guido’s salon Tuesday morning. Those doors were 14 karat through and through. A publicist had dreamed up the idea, promising Guido that if he invested $500,000 into the doors, they would land him in every single daily paper and monthly magazine in the country, if not the world. And she’d been correct.

But the gold didn’t do very well in the wet weather. It would stain and lose its luster. It would wear thin where people pushed at it. Plus, there was the security issue. When you flaunted something like that, people wanted it. And often, they’d stop at nothing to try and get it. Five years back someone had succeeded in stealing one whole door. It was a big coup involving a jewel thief and a whole Ocean’s Eleven-style team of elegant burglars.

Even that didn’t stop the force that was Guido’s. The heist brought Guido more success. His was named the number one salon in the world after that, and the Princesses became permanent fixtures.

The doors were insured. Even while the one was missing, it didn’t hurt business one bit. If anything, the clientele increased. Curiosity brought people to come take a look. A Japanese magazine did a story on the stolen door, which brought a whole new source of clientele—Japanese tourists. They snapped up photos and stylish cuts all at the same time.

Lorraine was expecting a methodical day—Tuesdays were notoriously slow and marked by lots of mindless chores. There would be the towels, the foils, and plenty of opportunity to sit with her thoughts, wonder for the thousandth time what she was doing here, if there would ever be an end to her struggle with Tommy. And also about Matt, whether she could maintain a friendship with him.

But no sooner had the golden doors come to a perfect whooshing close behind her than she heard voices calling her here, there, and everywhere.

She heard her name in three pitches, from three directions. Being the logical, unflappable sort she was, Lorraine went directly to the closest person who’d invoked it, Jacqueline. Jacqueline was as tall as Lorraine, but French, which for some reason lent her an air of being taller and older. She was more willowy, that was certain, and without exception she wore black, head to toe, with an expensive-looking floral print scarf tied and wrapped all different ways—in her hair, about her neck, pinned over her shoulder, at her waist. She wasn’t pretty exactly, but the Frenchness seemed to make up for that too. There was a sense of mystery about the way her almond brown eyes blinked slowly, closing for many seconds at a time, the false eyelashes she wore meeting and then opening like a butterfly’s wings. She was a bitch, and really just run-of-the-mill at coloring hair—but Jacqueline’s claim to fame was speed. And that, Lorraine respected. She admired people who knew what they had to do and did it.

For that reason, the two of them worked well as a team. She knew that must be why Jacqueline had chosen Lorraine as her assistant for the day. What she didn’t know was what everyone was freaking out about.

“What’s everyone so damned crazy about?” she asked Jacqueline on the way to her station, where Jacqueline needed her help “tout de suite.”

“Someone fucked up royally, darling. The annual benefit for the Association for Poor Girls Who Want Bigger Boobs—deeeee APGBB—is at the Met this week, and nobody at reception put it in deeee boooooook.” Her hips swayed exaggeratedly as Lorraine followed behind her.

Lorraine was caught between stifling a laugh and having absolutely no idea what the oversight had to do with the hyper-rushed mood about the salon—it’s not like there wasn’t some benefit going off every night of the week that kept them booked solid. But Jacqueline answered the unanswered question for her anyway.

“Zee fucking Princesses. Zey’ll all want zeir rrrrroots done today. And of course none of zem has made zee appoint-te-ment.”

Jacqueline already had twelve clients on her schedule. “You believe diz sheet?” she said to Lorraine as she passed a copy of the schedule her way. As quick as lightning, she approached the client waiting in her chair and switched to a singsong, effusive manner that Lorraine supposed Jacqueline thought Americans expected of the French.

“Bon-JOUR!” the women for whom no jewel was too big or too bold exclaimed with an equally bold accent—Texan perhaps.

The client thought for a second, working out the words in the air with a Guido Nailed pointer finger adorned with a purple flower. Finally she smiled proudly, and replied, “Tray BI-en, MERCY!”

“Ah! You have been practicing, Katherine! Now, darling, what have you used on your hair? Eeet looks kind of green.” Jacqueline was a master of the smile that meant moron! but that others took as kind understanding. It was another reason Lorraine liked her. And Lorraine understood why it sprung to Jacqueline’s face just then—it killed a colorist when her client didn’t listen to care instructions. It meant more work and more time and, well, just think of someone storing a Whistler in their moldy basement.

“Oh, dear! You are right! Well, we were away in Hawa-eeeee and I’m afraid I just swam and swam in the pool all day long.”

You could easily believe this explanation by looking at her fleshy facial skin, which looked sort of well done, if not completely overcooked, except for a small area around her eyes, which must have been covered by sunglasses.

“Ah, dear, you must use sunscreen on your tresses. Lorraine, please have reception add the entire Kerastase Soleil line to Katarine’s tab.”

In that time, Lorraine had been grabbing sections, passing them to Jacqueline to paint purplish mud-looking bleach onto, and in that short time, Jacqueline had finished. She didn’t have to tell Lorraine how long to set the dryer for. Nobody had to tell Lorraine anything. If she had her own way, she would have told Jacqueline to convince her client to go one shade darker, especially with the tan. The white blond color didn’t sit right on Katharine’s build or face shape. Instead, she pressed some buttons and with a quiet beep, Katharine had a halo hovering around her head, distributing heat as it went.

“Could I get you some cappuccino with one Sweet ‘n Low, Katharine?” Lorraine asked, remembering the detail from her card.

Lorraine passed a stack of brand-new magazines to the client before leaving to retrieve the cappuccino order.

Juan, beverage master, was whirling around, zipping up espressos, steeping hand-tied bags of Indian teas in mugs of hot water. “What you need, chica?” he asked, his back to her, passing two beverages to another assistant, James, on the other side of his circular sunken beverage bar.

Even Juan was happy doing what he was good at. You could tell that. Maybe he was saving to open his own chain of cappuccino bars. Everyone knew he made the best. It wouldn’t be hard to branch out. He’d already been featured in New York magazine for the Best Cappuccino in the city, with a smiling photo to boot.

When she brought the beverage back to the Texan, Lorraine chatted her up while preparing sections at a neighboring seat for Jacqueline’s next client. And when it was time, she brought Katharine to the sink to rinse her off; she followed Jacqueline’s instructions to a T. She’d have done differently, but this was Jacqueline’s art, and she respected that, although, increasingly, she realized no one respected hers. Watching Jacqueline’s red Guido Nails brush their way over one head after another, her gold B catching the light once and again, Lorraine tried to make an art of predicting just what Jacqueline would want before she could ask. Jacqueline didn’t seem to notice.

There wasn’t time for lunch. Lorraine had to use that hour to fold the towels, cut foil squares, and organize the duck clips Jacqueline would need throughout the rest of the day. Her stomach was grumbling, but she always kept a few sucking candies in a drawer to keep from getting dizzy or slowed down by the hunger. She tossed one to Jacqueline, who gave her a look like she’d just read her mind. Good, Lorraine thought, at least I can be good at being underused. At least that’s something.

At around two-thirty, anyone who was really paying attention could see the energy at Guido’s had reached Code Orange level. Assistants’ ponytails were looking disheveled, there were splodges of dye on hands and along cheekbones, dotted on chins. The stylists were cutting corners, sticking clients under the dryers when they didn’t really need to, buying time to finish someone else without appearing neglectful.

At three forty-five, the first dissatisfied client surfaced with a loud expression of disapproval. “Excuse me, Jacqueline, but this is unacceptable.”

Lorraine looked up to see what the Ohmigod might be referring to. Probably she thought she needed more light pieces around her face. This girl—holding a little dog Lorraine recognized from the park—was a master client. She’d been having her hair colored since she was six years old, and she knew exactly what looked best on her. If that was what she was referring to, Lorraine would have to agree. She looked a little washed out. Over time the highlights had come to look almost all one color, which can happen sometimes. Lorraine would have thrown in a shock of chunky nearly-white blonde and a few really dark pieces—about five minutes work—and then recommended a heavy fringe before passing the Ohmigod off to the cut girls.

The Ohmigod conformed Lorraine’s hunch. And then Lorraine saw the dissatisfaction on Jacqueline’s face, the pure disdain for her client, which was probably more personal than anything—because, really, the girl was right.

“You know what, darling Little Miss Money Bags? You need to trust your styleest.” Jacqueline employed the tone a nursery school teacher would to a boy caught tucking into the class snack on the sly.

Lorraine tried not to show her shock, but she knew this was a potentially explosive situation, with the fuse already ignited. The client was always right—not only in the Guido Method, but in all methods. If she wanted her hair purple with a touch of green, then by God, that’s what she should have! You could gently guide your client to the most optimal style for her, but in the end, the choice was hers. It took time to build a level of trust where the client understood that letting the stylist make the big choices would result in the best possible style, and sometimes it never happened.

Never, though, did you call your client the names you thought up for them in your head. Jacqueline had already dug her grave by treating a client that way. It was grounds for immediate dismissal, and she knew it. So she didn’t hold back. “Oh, and by dee way, you have a crooked nose, and everyone knows you throw up in zee bathroom after you make us order your stupeeed Happy Meal from McDonald’s. Lorraine will finish you off; she’s a better colorist than I am anyway.” Jacqueline turned to Lorraine, and she could see the sad glaze over her eyes.

She’d just cracked. That was all. Who knew why? She could have merely been hungry. Lorraine felt sorry for Jacqueline. She knew what it was like to work for so long for something, only to see it slip through the teeth on your rattail comb. She was surprised by the hug from her French colleague. It was rather strong, maybe because Lorraine was the only one around; or maybe because Jacqueline didn’t want anyone to see the tear Lorraine felt soaking into her neck. At her ear she felt more than heard the words. “You are wonderful, Lorraine, really wonderful. Don’t waste it.”

Jacqueline tossed Lorraine one last look before fanning all her Guido Nails over her chest, like two Chinese paper fans in a finale dance. She looked down at them with a smile, and turned with a wink to go—who knows where.

As her hips swayed in that obvious way and the ends of her silky rose-print scarf picked up in the wind of her step, she didn’t pay any mind to the Ohmigod.

“Do you know who I AM, for fuck’s sake? My daddy is, like, the biggest publisher in the world! He, like, discovered that Henry Potter guy!”

When Jacqueline had disappeared between the golden doors, the Ohmigod turned to Lorraine for approval. “Well, he is,” her voice trailed off.

Lorraine smiled, just as Jacqueline would have before she had a breakdown, saying moron! on the inside, while appearing sweet on the outside. She dried the Ohmigod’s hair while asking a neighboring assistant to bring Ms. Wilkes a nice cup of chamomile tea with honey. “It’s her favorite,” she said loud enough for the Ohmigod to hear, placed a reassuring hand at her shoulder, squeezed, and passed her the latest issue of People. Her card said she loved to read it. Then Lorraine plunged into correcting her color.

Back inside the color closet a few minutes later, Lorraine took a second to breathe and think about what just happened. She was ecstatic, but worry was starting to cloud over her happiness. She’d ignored the Guido Method—again. Just then she felt a vibration coming from her back jeans pocket. What now?

The strange, long string of numbers looked like a mistake to Lorraine. Still, she answered, “Hello?”

“Oh, darling Lorraine! So great to hear an Americano! How are you dear?” Mrs. Romanelli asked.

“Oh! Mrs. Romanelli, I’m doing great!” To add to the worry of what had just happened, Lorraine remembered the table Pooh-Pooh had destroyed. How was she going to fix that?

Lorraine had the instinct to grab onto the counter behind her, shrink into it. The idea of someone “watching” her was a teensy bit off-putting. Then she let it all spill out.

Mrs. Romanelli only let Lorraine talk for a couple of minutes before cutting her off. “First of all, don’t worry about the table. It’s the fourth one poor Pooh-Pooh has gone through! The store keeps a stock of them for me, so just call up ABC Carpet and Home over on Broadway and speak to Len. Now, as for the important issue, don’t you dare doubt what you just did with that spoiled girl! Sometimes you have to break the rules, darling, to get where you need to be.” Then Mrs. Romanelli got distracted by someone on her end. “Thomaso! How are you, darling? Oh, my, your muscles have become so pronounced, dear! Please, let me rub some sunscreen on your chest! You don’t want to burn.”

Lorraine was glad to let Mrs. Romanelli go. She did not want to imagine her rubbing sunscreen on Thomaso—already her mind had conjured up too much. After she’d placed her phone back in her pocket, though, Lorraine did think about her words. It was true, wasn’t it? You were always hearing about movie stars and all kinds of successful people who didn’t listen to the way you’re “supposed to” do things. She hadn’t meant to break the rules. It was her instinct that had told Lorraine to take over where Jacqueline left off. And something about Mrs. Romanelli’s call—although odd as hell—made Lorraine more confident in what she’d done. There was a wisdom she’d always felt in her grandmother, and somehow Mrs. Romanelli’s call communicated that same sensation now. Boy, did she miss her grandmother.

When she’d had a chance to rinse the Ohmigod, Lorraine was happy with her work. She’d fixed the color just as she’d imagined. The Ohmigod loved it, and when she went down to the cut girls, she did exactly as Lorraine suggested with her bangs. In the spirit of efficiency, and because it felt so damn wonderful (and because in the tornado of activity, nobody had noticed), Lorraine took over Jacqueline’s client list for the rest of the day.

The next two hours were a blissful flurry of activity. Lorraine didn’t even notice she hadn’t eaten anything since her raspberry scone for breakfast. In shades of that other day, when Guido had unwittingly let her do just this same thing, Lorraine was flying, operating on a sublime level of being. She was a colorist again! And boy, did it feel freaking awesome. Each client looked better than the next. The hours moved along lyrically, one movement flowing into the next, and then the next...until all came to a screeching halt.

All the blow-drying, the chatter, the patter of assistants’ feet running here and there, the squish-squish of shampoo and conditioner pumping, the ssssshhhhh of mousse foaming in a palm, it all seemed to fade out to a gentle hum. Suddenly all there was in the world was Guido. He appeared in her mirror towering over Lorraine and the client she was standing over, Mrs. Tinnerson.

Because she knew the importance of such things, Lorraine smiled, rather than let her jaw drop to the floor at the realization of the situation’s severity. She politely excused herself for a moment and followed Guido to the color closet, where he closed them both inside.

She looked right at Guido, pretty sure she was about to the sacked, already thinking about her uncle, who would be forced by her mother to take Lorraine back. He’d want to take her back anyway, if only for the I-told-you-so quality such a gesture would afford their already tempestuous relationship. And for the first time, Lorraine was surprised by the fact that the idea resonated with unmistakable disappointment.

Guido looked right back at Lorraine and then shifted his gaze up and around, taking in all the bottles of color and the mixing bowls and brushes, color swatches and books—the whole Guido kingdom had been built essentially from this room. And then, as if reminding her who she was standing in there with, he stared her down, with waved brows and bulging eyes, never once blinking, never fidgeting. “You know what’s happened here today, Lorraine. You know, what you’ve done. I don’t need to remind you that you’ve broken the rules again. That’s two times now. I tried, Lorraine, I tried to appease you by handing over that class. Never in my career have I done that for another junior colorist. But apparently, that wasn’t enough for you.”

She felt all the buts forming in her head, only they sounded silly. Sure she’d acted swiftly, done a good job, but she knew it wasn’t what Guido wanted. Even though she’d been happy, in some ways she’d felt like a thief stealing something that wasn’t hers, wearing jewels that didn’t belong to her. But all the other sensations had been so intense, she couldn’t listen to those nagging doubts. Lorraine was in a zone then, and it hadn’t mattered that she wasn’t good enough for Tommy, or that she’d been stressing over Matt. The whole world consisted of what Lorraine was doing, the precise movement of her fingers, the vision of color in her mind. Was she going to have to pay for that? She pressed her finger pads into her nails, and a thought popped into her head. The Guido Nails. They were Lorraine Nails. Matt’s words came back to her: “He needs you more than you need him.”

Suddenly she felt bold. “Guido, you and I both know I’m an exception.” And then bolder. “You and I, we come from the same place.” This could have meant Brooklyn, this could have meant talent, anything really. But it seemed she had gotten his attention. “I’m a star stylist, Guido, and if you don’t recognize that, I think we both know that someone else will.” Lorraine knew how to play hardball—now it seemed all the tactics were flying back to her.

Guido breathed deeply, then sighed. Was there regret in that sigh, regret that he’d taken advantage with the nails, robbing her of credit she was really due? If there was, she wouldn’t bring it up, wouldn’t push the issue. The most important thing to her was simply to color hair freely.

“All right, Lorraine. You’ve got your wish. Ms. Wilkes has a big mouth. She stayed here for an extra hour just staring at herself in the mirror and telling all the clients what a magician you are, and of course, adding how important her ‘daddy’ is.”

“Yeah, and?” Lorraine wanted to know, her old fire coming back to her. Her days as a fish out of water in Manhattan were officially, instantly, behind her. In fact, she couldn’t see why she’d ever felt like that in the first place. No matter where she was, she knew what she was good at, and she knew who she was. Maybe she’d just forgotten for a minute.

Guido gave Lorraine a careful look. “And Lorraine, the Princesses were sitting right there when she said it. And Mallory herself was sitting in my chair. I’d just come back from mixing her color and she screamed, like the spoiled bitch she is, ‘Stop!’ like I was her stupid little puppy, whom Anna was coloring next to her. ‘I want Lorraine to color my hair,’ she said. And now, Lorraine, the fate of my entire business rests in your hands.”

Lorraine stood stock-still. Guido sighed once more, turned, and left the color room. “I expect you on the floor in two minutes,” he called over his shoulder. For a moment, Lorraine felt rooted to the ground. But her trepidation soon passed. Lorraine wasn’t worried—she had confidence in herself. And besides, the Princesses didn’t scare her. A head of hair was a head of hair. Sure, you’d up the ass-kissing a couple thousand notches. You look like a huge ass kisser to me. But even on that she only had a certain threshold. Lorraine didn’t fear being herself—people respected her for it. Jacqueline had respected her for it, and that was precisely how she’d landed this unique opportunity.

Page Six

October 15, 2004

Onetime Brooklynite Lorraine Machuchi of Guido’s salon in the swanky Bendel’s department store on Fifth Avenue wowed all present yesterday, after Froggy stylist Jacqueline Lefronge suffered a nervous breakdown at the head of client Ms. Wilkes, who reminds the Post that her father is “the biggest publisher in the world, and is responsible for that Henry Potter dude.” While Ms. Lefronge drowned her sorrow in croissants beurres at Payard, Ms. Machuchi took over her seat and made Ms. Wilkes look “just like that mean woman on Desperate Housewives,” according to Ms. Wilkes herself, who could not stop looking in her hand mirror during our interview. However, more importantly, Ms. Machuchi proceeded to color Mallory Meen and all the Princesses. Appointments with Machuchi are currently booked until 2015, according to sources at the salon.

When Machuchi was questioned, she simply stated, “Fuhgedabboudit!”

Just kidding. She didn’t really say that. But we couldn’t help ourselves.

Description: Framed clipping of Page Six mention of Lorraine Machuchi’s first hands-on coloring experience with the Princesses. Arguably the day everything started happening for her. In fact, a lot more than she knew...

Comments: I will be keeping this, as it was ME ME ME who spread the word about Lorraine. I am the one who told those Princesses, who think they are just too good for someone like me, even though it was MY daddy who found that Henry Potter dude!