The Art of Love (8 page)

Chapter 10

"
The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought.
" ~ SunTzu,
The Art of War

I feel like a complete idiot, but I’m standing outside of my neighbor Dahlia’s door. I literally have to force myself to raise my hand and ring the bell. I’m so embarrassed, I just want to slink away in an improvised game of ding-dong ditch. I’ve spent the last two hours studying
The Art of War,
and I feel like I have the semblance of a plan, if only I have the guts to go through with it.

It only takes a few moments before Dahlia yanks the door open. She’s wearing a snug-fitting, 1940s-style dress and looks immaculate, as usual. I wonder for a moment about the kind of person who lounges around her house in a dress that needs to be dry-cleaned.

“More boyfriend troubles?” Dahlia asks in that droll way she has of speaking. She uses no greeting, no acknowledgement, just straight to the chase.             

Following her lead, I fire back with, “
I need an army.”

I’m pleased to see this throws Dahlia a little. She furrows her perfectly shaped eyebrows, glances over her shoulder, and says, “
You realize I don't have one hiding in the kitchen.”

“
No, listen.” I drop the tough-girl act. “I went to talk to you-know-who today, and he’s definitely in the market for a girlfriend.”

“
Oh, really?” Dahlia’s eyes widen and she leans in, intrigued beyond looking cool and sultry. “He told you that?”

“
Kind of,” I admit.

She raises an eyebrow with skepticism. “What does that mean?”

“Well, you can’t tell anyone. I mean, seriously, you can’t.” Dahlia nods her consent so I continue. “I guess the Winchell is in some financial trouble. Trent is hoping that Bouche starts bringing in more customers. He said if I could help him out he’d be grateful.”

“How grateful?”

“A-trip-to-the-Bahamas-with-him-as-tour-guide grateful.”

My neighbor lets out a small puff of air between her lips. “
Subtle.”

I don’t care about subtle, I just care about landing a boyfriend I’m not ashamed to be seen with anywhere but the thrift store. “
Yeah, but he also made it clear that I wasn't the only contender for the title,” I add.

“
Sue.” Dahlia gives me a concerned look. “Even by straight girl standards, isn't that a little skeevy?”

“No, it’s not like that.” She’s getting the wrong impression. “He was actually quite sweet. He’s just worried about his family’s business and also has this trip to the Bahamas he can’t use since he broke up with his girlfriend.”

“And this is appealing to you?”

This is so not the question I want to be asked. Dahlia obviously isn’t seeing the big picture, so I have to spell it out for her. “
Dahlia, he's a Winchell,” I point out. I start counting on my fingers, “Hot, rich, straight, single, and definitely not a loser. Half the single women in Chicago would kill to be with him.” After thinking about it, I add, “Hell, even some of the married ones.”

I know I’ve gotten through to her when she admits, “
Okay. If I'm honest, I might even get in line for that.” Pushing her front door open a little wider and waving me inside, she asks, “Who’s your competition?”

Dahlia’s living room is perfect, like you’d expect. It’s all black and white and chrome. Here and there are little splashes of color to attract the eye, kind of like how Dahlia always wears the perfect shade of red lipstick.

“Her name is Kiki,” I say, stepping inside.

“
Sounds bitchy.” Dahlia purses her lips. “Let me guess. Hostess that thinks she's better than you?”

I’m impressed. Her assessment is spot on. “How’d you know?”

Dahlia gives me half a smirk. “I’ve eaten at restaurants before.” She takes a seat on a white chair and indicates I am to do the same on the black counterpart. “So why bring your troubles to me?”

We’ve arrived at the super embarrassing part of my visit. “
I don't have an arsenal,” I confess. “I don't have an army. I don't have any supplies. Right now, I don't have anything.”

“
And you want me to what?” Dahlia wants to know, employing her flat, caustic voice again. “Knock over an Army Surplus Store?”

It’s obvious to me what I want, but Dahlia needs enlightening. “
No,” I tell her. “I want you to help me look better.” I gesture between her and me. “Hotter... Sexier...”

“
Sorry.” Dahlia reclines in her seat. “I don't teach.” Then, after looking me over appraisingly, she adds, “Besides, I'm not sure your personality and my style should ever breed.”

I have to admit, I’m disappointed. Dahlia is the most stylish person I know, and seeing that she already knows about my campaign, she seemed like the ideal guide into the perilous world of fashion. “But d
on't you at least know some fabulous gay men that might give me a shove in the right direction?” I ask in a slightly pleading voice. I’m really at a dead end if she won’t help me out.

I can see the wheels spinning in Dahlia’s brain. “
You know...” She gives it a little more thought. “Now that you mention it... I do know some lip gloss lesbians that would probably be thrilled to help you out.”

“
Lip gloss?” I wonder. I’ve never heard this expression before.

“
They're a subsect of lipstick lesbians,” she explains. “Very rare, very sparkly.” Dahlia smirks, looking me over again. “They'll love you.”

Dahlia got on the phone, and within less than twenty-four hours we are meeting her friends outside the Hair Today, Blonde Tomorrow salon. These ladies are lovely. Erin is medium height with deeply tanned skin. Her brown hair is cut into a perfect bob, and her enormous brown eyes are warm and friendly. She’s dressed fashionably but not in the straight lines and tight fits that become Dahlia so well. She has more of a flowing style with bright colors and easygoing fabrics. Her girlfriend’s name is Anna. She has long, wavy blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and an infectious laugh. Her fashion choices are similar to her partner’s. They are both shimmering with creamy eye shadows plus lots and lots of lip gloss. They are obviously excited about my project because when Dahlia introduces us, it’s like I’m being attacked by giant, sparkly butterflies as they both hug me.

“I can’t wait,” Anna says, ushering me toward the door of the salon. “Let’s get started.”

Inside, I’m introduced to a stylist named Alix, with an “I.” His hair is black and shiny from being heavily gelled, and it’s obvious he goes to the gym. A lot. He sits me down and loosens my hair from its customary bun at the nape of my neck. What can I say? I work in food service, and customers do not like it when they find a long, black hair in their food. Or any type of hair, for that matter, even if it’s their own.

“You have beautiful hair,” Alix tells me. “So thick and wavy.” I don’t know how genetics works as far as hair, but I don’t have the poker-straight hair that a lot of Eurasians get. Mine is black and stronger than rope, but it also has a bit of a wave if I let it. “We could layer in some lovely highlights,” he suggests. “I can see everything from blonde to red.”

Dahlia steps in here, giving him a stern look. “Stop trying to pad the bill, Alix. She wants something where she doesn’t have to drop three hundred dollars every six weeks for a touch-up.”

Giving a good-natured little laugh, Alix runs his fingers through my hair and says, “Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“We want to keep the length,” Anna tells him. “Just add some long layers and give it motion. That way she can still pull it back for work and also let it loose for a night on the town.”

I feel instantly grateful to Dahlia for introducing me to her friends. They really seem to know what they’re doing.

While Alix is conditioning my head and snipping at various bits of my hair, Erin and Anna give me a pretty comprehensive lecture about makeup. So much about how you apply it, apparently, has to do with the shape of your face, lips, and eyes. Not to mention how much eyelid you have available to use as a palette which, for me, is not very much. I’m not a big makeup type of female, but the fabulous lip gloss lesbians are so supportive and enthusiastic that I’m actually having fun. The only part I find alarming is when Erin comes at me with a contraption she calls an eyelash curler, but it looks more like the thing they used in
A Clockwork Orange
to keep that one guy’s eyes open to watch the films.

“So, tell me,” Dahlia says as she lounges around the salon watching my transformation. “Didn’t you ever have any women in your life to show you how to do all this before you came knocking on my door?”

“I was raised by my mom and my grandma and my three aunts,” I tell her.

“What are they? Hippies?” Dahlia idly flips through a magazine with an air of nonchalance, but it’s obvious she’s interested in my story.

“No, they’re all natural Irish beauties,” I explain. “It has to be a really special occasion for any of them to invest more time in their looks than washing their faces in the morning. They don’t have to.”

Dahlia thinks the whole thing over with a puzzled expression on her face. A life without excessive grooming or silk stockings or designer accessories seems beyond the realm of her reality. “How totally bizarre,” she finally concludes.

After Alix finishes up with me and has taken a sizeable slice off of my checking account, we head to our next location, Theodore's Haberdashery. There are fashionable men's suits, shirts, and hats displayed in the window, so it seems a little peculiar that we are going there to work on my wardrobe, but I trust these ladies know what they are doing.

It turns out, the dapper little man called Theodore and his crew do more than sell impeccable menswear; they are actually some of the best custom tailors in all of Chicago. Dahlia had insisted that I bring my chef’s jacket and pants with me, and now I understand why. I get changed into my work clothes, and they put me up on one of those mini-platforms in front of a three-way mirror. Theodore himself oversees while an assistant name Victor tucks, pins, and chalks my various angles and curves. Not that I have many curves, but the tailors are determined to make the most of what I’ve got.

When they’re finished, I can’t even believe I’m wearing the same pieces of clothing. I look almost shapely. Part of that has to do with Erin’s insistence that I wear a pushup bra. “Just because you don’t have a lot of cleavage doesn’t mean you get to ignore it,” she explains. I haven’t exactly been ignoring my boobs, but what I do have usually does just fine with a sports bra. But the lip gloss ladies will not tolerate my gray, stretched-out jogging bra. Anna visibly shudders when she sees it. From now on, my breasts are to be pushed up and cinched together at all times. To hear them talk about it, I should practically be wearing one of these contraptions in my sleep.

The final stop on my makeover is Madigan’s Department Store to overhaul my wardrobe and apply the new laws of makeup that I’ve learned. Dahlia makes no pretense that she is not happy with this venue. “Can’t we go someplace that’s a little more…” she pretends to search for the right word, but I think that’s just for show, “exclusive?”

After my hair and the tailoring, I can already feel my budget collapsing under the strain. “Maybe you can,” I tell her, “but sous chefs don’t make all that much, and I’m still paying off culinary school.”And probably will be for the next century.

Sighing, she gives me a shrug. “So? Charge it.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not that kind of person.”

“What kind is that?”

“The kind who can wantonly run up a credit card bill and still be able to sleep at night,” I explain.

From her expression, I can tell that I’m still a bit of a mystery to Dahlia.

“Let’s start from the ground up,” Dahlia tells the lip gloss gals once we’re standing in the lady’s clothing section. “I’ve seen her wardrobe, and it is in need of a complete overhaul.”

“Since when have you seen my wardrobe?” I want to know.

“Checkered pants, rubber clogs, white jackets.” She waves a hand at me. “I get the picture.”

“Oh, and you think that’s all I have, just the clothes I wear to work?” I know Dahlia has been nothing but helpful to me so far, but she’s crossed the line into pretty darn insulting, and it’s getting my back up.

“I assumed.” Dahlia looks at me, askance. “If I’m wrong, please enlighten me.”

I don’t want to get in a fight with my neighbor, but I also have my fill of bitchy with Kiki at work, so I turn to Erin and Anna to say, “Don’t listen to her. I do have some nice things.”

“Of course, you do.” Anna pats my shoulder. “Let’s get you some super flattering basics, and then we can build out from there.”

By the time they’re done with what is known as “a few basics,” most of my savings is gone, but standing in front of a dressing room mirror in a fitted black dress with my hair and makeup done, I don’t even recognize myself. I look more like an attractive, fashionable cousin that I’ve never met. Clapping, Anna hops up and down in place she’s so excited.