Catch 26: A Novel. Carol Prisant

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СКАЧАТЬ on earth could Arlene have told Randi to make her seem like a “challenge”? Should she be flattered? Or offended?

      “Let’s just have a look, then.”

      Randi pushed herself away from the counter, stepped toward Frannie in one fluid move and then she was behind her, running the fine black comb through her hair. It pulled a little, once or twice, but it didn’t hurt. It felt almost soothing, actually … sliding smoothly down to the ends and back, down to the ends and back. Obscurely, Frannie felt cherished. Beloved. She sensed her eyelids beginning to droop.

      “Nice hair. Not too thin, considering your age.” She heard the voice as if from a distance, and glancing up at the mirror, watched Randi watching herself as she combed her elderly client’s hair.

      Smooth, and smooth again. Silk. She drifted away to that painting.

      “This is a terrible cut for you, though, Mrs. Turner. Too severe. And aging, don’t you think?”

      Aging. Behind half-closed eyes, the child in Frannie suffered a hurt, and for a moment, she couldn’t reply.

      “So how would you like to look?” Randi asked.

      Her eyes flew open.

      How would she like to look?

      In the mirror, she compared their reflections. Above her own face … lined and pasty, framed by her sparse and badly dyed hair, Randi’s great gorgeousness glowed. It didn’t glow. It burned.

      This room, though. It was terribly bright, wasn’t it? Frannie looked down as, just off-center in her breast, she began to feel an alien something stir. Something she was terribly afraid of. It was only a kind of a … pang, at first. Then a bubble. Then a swelling of … oh God. Of yearning. It was yearning. She scrunched up her toes in her sneakers and reflexively smoothed her skirt to keep the intrusive thing down, and yet, panicky now, because she sensed it wouldn’t stay down, she distracted herself from the thing with a comma of hair on the floor’s clean white tiles: some little thing the broom had missed. And she’d opened her mouth to mention the hair, when she heard herself say, rather loud, in a voice that was nothing like her own, “I’d like to look young.”

      “Young?” Randi grinned brilliantly as Frannie looked into their suddenly blurred mirror-image.

      Oh God. Even her teeth were perfect.

      “You mean younger than you are, Mrs. Turner?”

      A balloon in her throat burst to flittered shreds and the terrible thing gushed out.

      “I’d like to look young. I’d like to look young like the girls outside. Like you. I’d like to, you know … have a figure again. And these liver spots gone. I’d like my hands not to have all these … veins.” She fought down a childlike urge to sit on her hands. “And nice teeth like yours, but all my own. I mean, yes, it would be wonderful to be beautiful, too.” She tried to smile. “But more than that, maybe, I’d like to be young like girls are today. To have a job. Be paid. Be … sure of myself. Empowered, that’s the word! And attractive to men again. Oh, attractive to men! Even to sleep with anyone I liked.” She reddened, but Randi, seemingly transfixed by her own reflection, hadn’t noticed. Which was fine. The last thing Frannie needed at this moment was to be looked at.

      “But almost more than that.” She fixed her eyes desperately on that curl, but nothing could stop her now. She was talking fast, too. To herself? To that spiral of hair? Certainly not to this fantastic creature behind her. And here it was, all in a rush … “I want more than anything in life, before I die, I want to find a man who’ll love me as much as I love him. Who’ll love me even more than I love him, perhaps. ” She lifted her head and found Randi’s sad eyes in the mirror now. Watching her.

      “And one other thing.” Her heart seemed a fist of loss and pain, her lips felt dry and numb. “I wanted – want – to have a child.”

      Omigod. Omigod. Despairingly, Frannie looked down at those ropy, capable, hands of hers, now clutching her skirt, now clutching her bulging thighs. Was this really her? Or was it some other her? And where was all this other stuff coming from? And in front of a stranger! Her face was all wet with saliva and tears. With both her hands she tried to rub it dry. She wanted to retch in shame.

      Randi, watching her in the mirror now, leaned down and cupped Frannie’s shoulders in her hands. Her touch was welcome, yet intrusive. Frannie tried not to shrink away.

      But Randi didn’t notice. Or noticed and didn’t care.

      “Would you like something to drink, Mrs. Turner?” she asked, concerned. “I hate to see you so upset.”

      Upset? That didn’t begin to describe all that Frannie was feeling, all that she’d vomited up. What she’d really like to drink wasn’t – well, it wasn’t likely to be in the icebox – no, the refrigerator – of The Hair House.

      “Yes, I would,” she said in a second voice that wasn’t her own – this one, quavery and elderly— a voice that seemed sad in this all-too-intimate space. She swiped at the last of her tears and straightened, clearing her throat and attempting a laugh. “I’d love a vodka and tonic.”

      Randi winked conspiratorially, then knelt in a singularly graceful motion and opened a cabinet door beneath the counter.

      “Don’t tell them outside.” She giggled, brushing away her brazen hair. “I happen to have exactly that. Right here.”

      Triumphantly, she rose and placed a sparkling cut-glass tumbler and an icy bottle of Grey Goose on the marble countertop. The two clinked slightly, and were followed shortly by a small bottle of tonic and a bright wedge of lime. Randi turned to pour the syrupy liquor into the tumbler, then squeezed the lime between finger and thumb and added the tonic. She watched as Frannie shakily took the drink, and then she spoke in a voice that sounded huskier than before.

      “I actually do understand, Mrs. Turner. And I’ve been studying you since you first walked in and, you know, I can help you so much more than you can imagine. Because I agree: you could do with a real change. Not precisely a makeover, though. And definitely not your conventional makeover. That’s so hackneyed, like the type of thing they do on reality shows, you know? And not my style, in any case. What I think you really need is … a kind of vacation from yourself.”

      Frannie had been sipping at her vodka. It was much too strong and far too early in the day, but it was helping.

      “Yes, I might have several interesting things in mind for you, Mrs. Turner. But this morning – for now – let’s just begin with the hair.” In the mirror, Frannie saw Randi approach the chair again, the rattail comb in hand. She was smiling affectionately at Frannie’s reflection as she resumed her hypnotic combing. “Let’s just start with this hair.”

       CHAPTER 3

      Almost three exhausting and thrilling hours later, a buoyant Frannie Turner, clasping her woolen lapels as she leaned across the car seat, checked her image in the rearview mirror one more time. Her hair was so chic, with all these subtle auburn highlights. It felt all springy and soft and … feminine, too. She loved this hair.

      What would Stanley say?

      Well, СКАЧАТЬ