Split Ends (8 page)

“What kind of women does Dane date?”

“Dane is off-limits, Sarah Claire. Repeat after me: you worked for the Ted Gibson Salon on Fifth. They're an Aveda salon, so their organic background is perfect. They train stylists and offer spa treatments, as well. Yoshi is taking my word on this, so don't blow it. I told him you and Ted had creative differences.”

“Why is Dane off-limits? I finally have a Hollywood moment and you want to rip it out from underneath me before I've fully digested it? That's just wrong.”

“Focus, Sarah Claire.”

But of course, I'm focused already. (Is
obsessed
too strong a word?) Granted, my chances with a man like Dane are like the odds of getting hit by lightning here in sunny SoCal, but if all those nights alone taught me anything, it's that even a lowly servant girl like Jane Eyre can find true love. Of course, her man was blind first, but whatever.

“Did a man ever rescue your mother, Sarah Claire?”

Like a slap to the face,focused already Scott has my attention. “Salon on Fifth. Aveda. Organic. What else?”

“You were passed over for a promotion.”

“I was passed over for a promotion, and it wasn't because of my talent. Politics got in the way.”

“Very good add, Sarah Claire. You're getting it.” Scott nods his head.

“And somewhere, like in the
Picture of Dorian Gray
, there's a painting getting very, very ugly with my lies.” I hate to tell Scott that California is one of the hardest places to transfer one's license to, and Yoshi has to know good and well where I've been working.

“Yoshi is a genius with color. He's going to basically start from scratch with any trainee. He'll recognize your talent, but he'll want to erase most of how you've been programmed. There's one way at Yoshi: the Yoshi way. He knows one hundred times more than your instinct will tell you, so listen to everything he says.”

“Please stop saying ‘Yoshi.' I feel like if I hear that man's name once more, I will have to suffocate him on sight.”

“
Tsk, tsk.
Unresolved anger, Sarah Claire. You need a jacket—a short one. Look in that closet and make sure everything is fitted. You want the pointed heels to elongate that leg.” Scott runs his hand down my shin.

“Is Dane married, Scott? Did his wife throw him out?”

“I told you, he's remodeling. His wife? What, do you think she gave him a frying pan and plopped him on my doorstep? You've been watching Nick at Nite again, haven't you? He's not married, and I don't know how he ever will be Just like you, he lives in a dream world, with his head in a book.”

“Really?” I say brightly. “What kind of book?”

I pull my journal out of the suitcase pocket, and Scott grabs it. “No more of this. From here on out you live life; you don't dream it. That was always your problem, Sarah Claire. You need to face reality.”

“Reality sucks. Do I need to point that out?”

“It
has
sucked. Put that in the past tense. From here on out it rocks.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“There's Armani makeup in that black box there.” He points to the floor. “I got it in a sample pack from the Emmys this year, and my clients seem to like the products. Great highlighting features, especially the blush. Just gives your face a halo effect.”

Scott is clearly avoiding my questions. “You know way too much about girl things. Where's the mystery anymore? Remember when you raced your Camaro and worked on cars for a living?”

“It's only going to get weirder. Brace yourself.”

I think I'm ready to go back to the Hideaway, do a wash and set, and snuggle on the sofa with a movie. Just two days ago that felt like the perfect day. Unfortunately, now I really want to take one six-foot-something souvenir with me. That would certainly get the Sable tongues wagging for a reason.
And if I'm capable of having a reason, may he
look like Dane Weston.

What would Mrs. Gentry have to say about Dane? Could that sweet, genteel lady be capable of a low, guttural growl?

chapter 5

I've never sought success in order to get
fame and money; it's the talent and the
passion that count in success.
~ Ingrid Bergman

I
'm still absorbing the fact that grown people pay to have someone dress them and that it's a competitive business. Isn't the whole point of success dressing the way you want to dress? Isn't that one of the first things you learn in preschool? It's horrifying to think of someone poking and prodding at me and sticking jelly boobs down my shirt.

I look into the mirror again, wondering what my new “image” says about me. Does it say “Steve Harris said yes to that Sadie Hawkins Dance”?
Would my life have been different if he had?

What I'm trying to say is that I stole Dane's hat. I'm not proud of it. But it was there sitting on the hook on my way out, and I thought, you know, it would just give me that added edge—the confidence Scott spoke of. But now I'm feeling sort of guilty. Like what if Dane was having a really bad hair day and I stole his cover-up? And I borrowed it like a Winowski borrows things, which does nothing for my confidence level. And as a Christian I'm ashamed admit my superstition was stronger than my morals.

LA is the strangest place. Everyone drives, though I'm seeing a slow jog would get you where you needed to much faster. Santa Monica Boulevard, which we take into Beverly Hills, is really just an excuse to wait at ridiculously long stoplights and stare at the people beside you, generally inside their BMW or Prius. There doesn't seem to be much else around. Oh wait, there's a Jaguar. I stand corrected.

Unlike the airport, there doesn't seem to be much culture here. It's about as white-bread as Wyoming. I
feel like I've been zapped and I'm now living in a Barbie
townhouse. It's only a matter of time before Barbie's driving a hybrid. Trust me on this.

“How come there're no bikes? It seems like it would be faster,” I say as we sit at another eternal stoplight. “How do you stand this? Going thirty feet to wait another five minutes?”

“What good is faster if you're dead? Trust me, you don't want to be riding a bike here unless you've got a death wish. You just deal with it, all right? A lot of people means traffic.”

I look out the window, my eyes resting on a gym lit up inside so we can all amuse ourselves with other peoples' perfect bodies—Lycra-wrapped entertainment for this particular stoplight.

“Look at those people. Why don't they just run to work?”

“Sarah Claire, people here aren't necessarily outdoors-men, all right? You can't wear an iPod and jog. You'd end up dead. Besides, it's illegal.”

“No way! What do you mean, it's illegal? Besides, I'm just saying you don't have to be an outdoorsman to run in all this perfect weather. Jogging doesn't make you Paul Bunyan.”

“People run, just not here, all right? They run up in the hills or on the beach. Not on Santa Monica Boulevard. It's illegal because you can't hear cars.”

“Whatever.”

“Take that stupid hat off; you look ridiculous.”

I borrowed it fair and square. “It gives me confidence. You said I should be confident.”
Besides, it smells good.

“I said you should be confident, not look like Johnny 63 Depp at a premiere.”

“It's Humphrey Bogart.”

“He's dead and a furniture collection at Thomasville. that the kind of success you're looking for?”

“He's timeless. So, yes.”

“Take the hat off, or I'm telling Dane you have a thing about stealing people's clothing and not to leave anything around, especially his boxers.”

I quickly pull off the fedora. “You have control issues, you know that?”

“This is the famous Rodeo Drive. That's Ro-day-country girl.”

“You mean I can't buy me a saddle there no more?” I give it my best twang, but inside my stomach is doing Olympic gymnastics.
I'm here. I'm really here
.

Finally, we're thrust into a line of cars that leads to a parking garage. After a parking fiasco where someone in a Prius called us a not-very-environmental name, we walk to the pristine alley that houses Yoshi's. I wish I had a camera. I'd love to send Kate a picture of me arriving at my destiny.

From the street—which is within the confines of what Scott called the Beverly Hills Golden Triangle—the salon looks like an exclusive Japanese tea house. I think it's been modeled after Charlie's Chocolate Factory—
No one ever goes in, no one ever comes out—
because it's incredibly quiet here. Free of the hustle-bustle just two blocks over
.
Hollywood royalty is always beautiful, but the price of getting there is never shown. Apparently, it's held in secret silence. The Pentagon should have such intelligence.

“What do you think?” Scott asks.

“It looks secret. Where's the name of it?”

“Trust me, people know it's there. I meant of Rodeo Drive, before we parked.”

“It was what I expected, only cleaner.” It's weird to see all those names I read in the magazines on shops: Michael Kors, Armani, Stuart Weitzman . . . José Eber, Frederick Fekkai. Seeing the hair salons, I realize that off-Rodeo akin to off-Broadway in New York. “Like the whitewashed buildings of Greece.”

I refrain from adding it was like Greece with more bling—tacky gold doorframes, designer names, and people who looked like they dressed for New York's fashion week. It reminded me of a period film in Bath, England—elite walking about just to be seen in the latest fashions. There was one couple of overweight tourists in bad shorts; otherwise, it was one scurrilously low-riding pair of jeans after another. Crack is more than a drug here.

My heart is in my throat as I try to remember everything I've been told. Luckily, I'm so nervous I don't remember my name as it is. So if I flub anything, I can plead unadulterated fear and public schools.

“You're on your own from here,” Scott says on the sidewalk. His cell phone buzzes and he looks down. “I've got to take this. You'll be fine.”

“Aren't you going to at least introduce me?”

He shakes his head, talking into the cell phone, and I'm left staring at the impenetrable walls of Yoshi's. Granted, there's a door right in front of me, but it seems like the type of place you need an engraved invitation to enter. I keep picturing that scene in
Pretty Woman
where Julia Roberts tries to buy clothes in a boutique and is told she's not welcome. I'm thinking there's not going to be any Richard Gere to get me out of this mess.

I brush my fingers through my hairstyle, suck in a deep
breath, turn the handle, and push open the door. Inside, a
fountain trickles gently into a koi pond. A labyrinth of sweet-scented plants (jasmine) lines the pathway to the jade granite receptionist station. In my head runs that very annoying song about eating the dishes. Curse that Willy Wonka; he's ruining my moment!

But it's beautiful. It's everything I expected—and much less. Not too fancy. Not too plain. Just right. My eyes wander to the ceilings, painted in a modern, murky green, and I feel like I belong. I know I shouldn't. Or don't. But this doesn't feel like Sable where I was always the third wheel; this feels like home.

I stand at the receptionist desk staring into the shop. Compared to the gardenlike spa entrance, the salon itself is very stark—but in a good, make-yourself-at-home way. Simple black leather chairs, white laminate shelves, and bamboo hardwood floors (rejuvenating and environmentally sound, according to Scott). It's a very clean modern look. Bleached. I don't know what I was expecting—perhaps gold or marble wash sinks?—but I love it. See, that's the thing about the rich: they do things cheap and people think it's the epitome of chic. When I'm rich, I'm going to put on my white canvas Keds and tell everyone they're the new black.

“May I help you?” A young Asian woman with magnificent, jet-black straightened hair and a cropped shirt that shows off her belly button ring greets me. I don't know if she was sitting there the whole time or magically appeared.
You can even eat the dishes!

“I'm Sarah Claire.” I pause. “Sarah Claire Winston. I'm going to work for Yoshi.”

“Did you bring a head?”

“I didn't. I didn't know how to get it on the plane.” Heads are personal in this business. You're assigned a head with real hair at the beginning of beauty school. You make up stories about it, what it needs, what its goals and ambitions are—then you usually pass it on to some poorer stiff than you in beauty school. Not me. I kept Vanilla. Her natural-red straight hair was the key to my future. She's back in Wyoming. Hey, I'm practical, and I wasn't toting a head in these high-security times.

“Yoshi's teaching via satellite, Miss Winston, but he is expecting you and he'll be done shortly.”

“He is? I mean, I'm not due until tomorrow.”

“I know,” she says mystically.

He knows. She knows. Am I the only clueless one here? Did I leave my psychic abilities back in the cowboy state? Or in the car with Dane's fedora maybe? “Do you mind if I look around a little?”

“Scott Baker called this morning and announced your arrival. Feel free. Just stay out of Yoshi's way. He's in back teaching.”

“Oh. Does everyone work on Monday?”

“Yoshi works seven days a week. He uses the sinks for teaching during off hours and struggling actors as his heads. This is not a nine-to-five, if that's what you were thinking.”

“No, no. I wasn't thinking that. I was just curious.”

“You might want to say good-bye to your social life if you hope to show Yoshi you're serious.”

Why am I suddenly feeling like an intern on
Grey's
Anatomy?