Wife Living Dangerously (10 page)

Ouch. I always liked my hair. It’s obedient; it curls when I wrap it around a hot iron, lays flat and smooth when I use a
blow dryer and paddle brush, and I don’t have much gray. But I suppose my mother-in-law is right. My hair doesn’t have any
particular style. I usually pull it back in a ponytail or headband, same look since high school. I finish chopping the salad
and resist the urge to dump the whole thing down the garbage disposal. Instead, I tell my mother-in-law that I have found
many occasions to wear the green plastic necklace she gave me when in truth I handed it right over to Lucy for playing dress-up.

Michael and his father emerge from the basement. “Hey, Miss Julia. Do you know why the Dairy Queen got pregnant?” Jim wisely
doesn’t wait for an answer, because by now he knows that an answer is not forthcoming. “Because the Burger King forgot to
wrap his whopper!”

Meet my father-in-law, Jim Flanagan, the towering Irishman, ruddy, keg-chested, always smiling. A traveling salesman for Atlas
Auto. A big flirt, just like his son. Ever since Jim collapsed with congestive heart failure at the tennis pavilion two years
ago, there seems to be a tacit agreement among family and friends to indulge his awful jokes.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Jim,” my mother-in-law groans. “That’s
enough.
” She leans in to whisper, “I’d still rather have him around, bad jokes and all.” Kathleen suddenly looks at me, squinting
and holding up her fingers to frame my head. “I’m telling you, a haircut would do you good.”

By the time my in-laws have left, I am intent on getting one of those shaggy styles, something cute and sexy, tousled and
Meg Ryanish. I go online, search “Meg Ryan hair,” find a publicity photo from her last movie, print it out in full color.
Tomorrow I’ll make an appointment with LuAnn Bubansky at The Hairport.

“Why would you want to change your hair?” Michael asks, clicking rapidly from channel 1 to 93. “You’re fine just the way you
are.”

My husband doesn’t understand that I’m no longer content with fine. I don’t want long, boring, parted in the middle, hasn’t
changed since high school hair. I want sexy, funky, wild,
dangerous
hair. And by the grace of God and LuAnn Bubansky, that’s exactly what I’m going to get.

My jeans are too tight. I know I’m not pregnant, and I’m not premenstrual, but before arriving at the only appropriate conclusion,
I go through my traditional self-delusional litany: The pants shrank in the wash. They shrank at the dry cleaner. They shrank
in my closet. I’m retaining water. My legs are suddenly more muscular, creating the sensation of tightness. I bought these
from a rack near the junior section, so they are probably sized more for narrow-hipped middle-school girls, not amply built
mothers like me. There’s defective stitching along the seams. The pants are mislabeled. The company skimps on fabric so they
can sell their pants cheaply.

I shoehorn myself into the jeans and make my way to Hairport, one of the few “beauty parlors” left in town where you can get
your nails done for fifteen bucks and hear all the most accurate gossip. The other salons have transformed themselves into
“European day spas” where they charge forty dollars on an “aromatherapy pedicure,” which never made sense to me: how can it
be aromatherapy when your feet are so far away from your nose you can’t smell anything? The whole European day spa concept
seems a little ridiculous in a town where the “French bistro” is run by people who pronounce crème brûlée “cream brooley”
and all the foreign surnames are so anglicized that you’d never know these families had ethnic roots. Mary Lopez calls herself
Mary Lopes, pronounced like the verb, one syllable. The Les Jardin family goes by “Lezjarden,” accent on the Lez. And did
I mention that the Chinese restaurants serve white bread?

LuAnn glances at my photo of Meg Ryan. She pokes at my hair with her fingers, moving in to examine it more closely.

“We’re talking perm,” she says. “Maybe a few highlights over here to frame your face. You’ll look very cute.” LuAnn Bubansky
describes herself as “happily divorced” and has three gangling teenage sons, all high school basketball stars with apparently
realistic NBA aspirations. She drapes a gold vinyl cape over me and pulls out a box of pink perm rods. “You’re going to look
real cute, sweetheart.”

I wave my picture of Meg Ryan, a last-minute confirmation of my original intent. “So, I’ll get basically this style, right?
I mean, I wouldn’t want anything too curly. I’m not looking for curls. Just sort of shaggy, you know?” I force myself to say
the word. “Sexy?”

LuAnn shoves a clip in her mouth and proceeds to wind my hair around a rod. “Uh-huh,” she mumbles. “Sexy. Shaggy. Not curly.
Got it.”

An hour later, I look like an Irish water spaniel. I want to vomit. Oh, God. WHAT HAVE I DONE? “It’s… sort of curly,
isn’t it?” I ask, trying very hard not to cry.

“Oh, hon, you’ve got to give it
time.
It takes a good four days for a perm to relax.” She pulls on one of my coils, presumably to give me a glimpse of what my
hair will look like when it “relaxes.” It snaps back with the tension of a metal tape measure.

I check my watch: darn it. Lucy’s piano recital started ten minutes ago. I jump into my van and speed all the way to the school,
rolling through every stop sign, flying through two red lights. I flip down the vanity mirror and look again. Okay, so it’s
curlier than I’d expected. But it’s kind of cute. I reapply my lipstick, blot my lips with a finger, then dab the excess lipstick
onto my cheeks. I check the mirror again. Maybe it’s not the shaggy Meg Ryan look I’d hoped for, but neither can it be described
as bland.

I race through the parking lot, navigating around hundreds of minivans and SUVs and the occasional Camry and scurry into the
building. My heels clatter down the shiny steps to the auditorium. I slide in next to Michael just as Lucy is standing to
take her place at the piano. My husband regards me offhandedly—he does not recognize me—then swivels his head for a second
look. In that head-swiveling moment I pray that he turns to find me dazzlingly attractive, the wild goddess he has always
secretly wanted me to be.

“Interesting look.” He evaluates my hair like an insurance agent appraising crash damage.

“You don’t like it?”

Michael shifts his eyes back to the stage. “You look like Larry from the Three Stooges. Except female. Just kidding. ”

“You hate it.”

“No, no. It’s cute.
You’re
cute. I’m just not used to seeing you with curly hair. Don’t worry. I’ll get used to it.”

Lucy steps onto the stage and Michael reaches for my hand as our daughter centers herself on the piano bench and raises her
delicate fingers. I glance at my husband’s face and see that his eyes are already brimming. He squeezes my hand harder.

“Remember when she was a baby?” he whispers. “Remember how she tried to play the piano with her feet?”

I want to share Michael’s moment of pride and nostalgia but all I can think about is this calamity atop my head, this stiff
mass of curls and kink. This is not something I can wash out in the shower. I’m stuck with this monstrosity for the next five
months, maybe longer.

Michael does not look directly at me for the rest of the evening. When he talks to me he seems to be addressing my kneecaps.
Caitlin says she wants my “old head back.” Jake cries when I picked him up from kindergarten. I have made a horrible mistake.

Tonight I set the table with the good place mats, the ones I bought at the Hallmark store for forty-two dollars made of heavy
pressboard and laminated to a high gloss. As I set one down at Michael’s place at the head of the table, I notice that it’s
stained, a big oil stain that mars the watercolor skies like a thunderhead. The fat spotted cows are no longer grazing under
a clear blue sky but in the gloom of the approaching squall.

I watch Michael pick at his cornflake-crumb chicken and mashed sweet potatoes.

“Something wrong?”

“Not much of an appetite,” he mumbles.

“Hard day at work?”

“Not really.”

“Is it my hair?” I blurt out. “Just be honest with me.”

Michael puts down his fork and the kids stare at their father and wait for his response, hoping, I’m sure, that he will give
authoritative voice to their own opinion of my devastated head. He lifts the napkin to his mouth.

“Maybe.” He sighs. “You had such beautiful hair, Jules. You’re a beautiful woman. Why couldn’t you just let it alone?”

“It’s a girl thing,” I say, falling back on the lamest of alibis.

“It’s not a girl thing, it’s a mistake.” Michael finally makes eye contact with me. “Oh, Julia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it
that way. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay. You’re right. It was a mistake.” I run my fingers through my hair and hear it crackle. After dinner I take a
very long, very hot shower and shampoo with baking soda and vinegar because someone told me it would soften the perm. It fizzes
and foams like a science fair volcano, but when I’m done blow-drying my hair is still horrible.

I hear giggles from Jake’s room, pull on a bathrobe, and crack open his door to inspect. Michael and the kids are on the floor
in a circle. In the middle is Homer, wearing a cape fashioned out of a red bandana.

“All hail Emperor Shmalla, of the planet Shmalla, in the galaxy of…”

“Shmalla!” the kids chime in.

As if on cue, Homer, who has been racing in circles, stops abruptly and sits up on his haunches. “Yes, we are here on the
planet Shmalla, where we’ve been granted an audience with the emperor himself, Most High and Revered Shmoo Shmalla.” Michael
is speaking into an imaginary microphone.

“Emperor Shmalla is wearing his customary red Cape of Shmallitude. It is believed that this cape, handed down through generations
of Shmoo Shmallas, gives his royal highness the power to predict the weather, discover hidden Cheerios, and poop anywhere
he wants.”

The kids are hysterical and Michael looks pleased. He is the master of the crazy bedtime story, and the planet Shmalla is
just one in a rich repertoire that includes Tales of Mr. Doody, the hapless retailer whose key resource is cow dung because
he lives on the edge of a dairy farm and it’s free for the taking; and G.I. Jimmy, the dimwitted soldier who whines like a
baby when his mother forgets to put candy in his CARE package.

“And look who has made her grand entrance! It’s the Prime Minister of planet Shmalla, her Royal Curliness, Shminky Shmalla!
All hail Prime Minister Shmalla!”

Michael winks at me and scoots over to make room in the circle. He pats the carpet and gestures for me to sit beside him.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the prime minister has her own magical powers. She can change the form and texture of her hair
in the blink of an eye.” I squeeze in between Lucy and Michael, who kisses me on the nose and whispers, “I love you.” If only
I did possess the power to change my hair.

Before bed I slather myself with maximum control gel, pull my kinky coils back into a tight ponytail, and turn away from the
mirror in disgust. My goal is to be asleep before Michael climbs into bed beside me. I suddenly remember that his band is
playing at The Rock Barn this Friday night and I had planned to go. I’d even secured a babysitter. Now I’m wondering if I
should just stay home with the kids and keep my head out of public view.

Evan Delaney loves my hair, nah, nah, nah na nah!

As Annie and I are striding across campus for a quick lunch we pass Evan on the crooked slate path that bisects the grassy
courtyard. Evan is holding his briefcase with one hand, pointing at his head with the other.

“I like it,” he calls out. “Your hair. Very pretty.”

Already I can feel the blood in my cheeks. “Thanks,” I say, bashfully. I move toward him, pulled along by a force not unlike
undertow.

“It really is quite fetching.” He looks at my hair approvingly, then he steals a glance at the rest of me.

I resist the urge to say: You really think so? You mean, you don’t think it was a stupid mistake? You haven’t lost your appetite?
I’m not a complete idiot for doing this to myself? I don’t look like one of the Three Stooges? You don’t think I should just
leave well enough alone? Are you absolutely positive?

“Thanks,” I say.

“So, I’ll see you in a few weeks, right?”

“Yes. I’ll be there,” I say. Annie and I continue on our way, my fingertips twitching as the thrill of Evan’s attention ricochets
through me.

“Who
was
that?” Annie asks, turning around and craning her neck for another look.

“Who?”

“
Him.
That guy? The good-looking one? The one who likes your hair?”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s Evan Delaney. He’s a medievalist.”

“Uh-huh.” Annie is staring at me, smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“He likes you.”

“He does not.” I pause. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. And he’s a hunk.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Bullshit.”

I watch my reflection in a window as we pass Volk Hall and admire the Woman Formerly Known as Bland. What was the word he
used? Oh, yes.
Fetching.

M
ay God bestow His beneficence upon the inventor of spandex. These pants make me feel slim and leggy. The pink sleeveless top,
on the other hand, exposes too much armpit flubber so I’ve switched to a gray cotton T-shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves,
another garment design concept deserving praise and gratitude. I dig out a pair of black high-heeled sandals bought for a
wedding but rarely worn because they give me vertigo. I give myself the unabridged makeup application normally reserved for
job interviews, college reunions, and first dates: green tinted concealer for emergent zits, yellow for dark circles, moisturizing
foundation followed up with a mineral-based loose powder application. Brow color dabbed on with a tiny stiff brush, burgundy
lip liner, matching matte lipstick, quick touch of gloss on the center of the bottom lip for the illusion of fullness like
they tell you in the magazines. Granite eyeshadow, one shade for the crease, another for the brow bone, then two coats of
ebony nonclumping mascara. A bit of bronzer on the cheeks and a lot of blending and my makeup is finally done. I douse myself
with Happy, run a blob of finishing cream through my fetching locks, review the rules with the babysitter, kiss the kids,
and hop in the van.