Gee thanks, asshat. At least I don’t have a receding hairline forcing me to go for the Bruce Willis look.
“Yeah, I’m getting a haircut. Anything else?” I’m getting pissed and don’t know how much of this humiliation I can take.
“Just don’t do anything stupid. If you don’t know what to say, stay quiet.” He folds his arms over his chest. “This is a big night for Brooke, and I want it to go well. I have no fucking idea why she thought you should take her…you seem to be her latest ‘project,’ but I couldn’t talk her out of it, so I’m just warning you.”
Project? I feel a wave of panicked insecurity, but then remind myself that he doesn’t have any idea about what is between Brooke and I. My back bristles but I force myself to speak.
“Warning me?” I grip the handles of my chair so hard my knuckles are white. “Is this a work related issue? If so, I think someone from HR should be here.”
He gives me a threatening look and ignores my veiled threat.
“Don’t fuck this up for my girl, Nathan. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly,” I say looking down so that I don’t give him the death glare. If I were the Green Lantern mister big shot would be on his knees now, blinded by the rays from my powerful ring. “Can I go now?” I ask as steadily as my fury will allow.
“Yeah, get back to work.”
The entire walk and elevator ride back to my cube I plot my revenge. The first gesture will be executed on company time.
Too bad he won’t be seeing the caricature I’ve got planned for him. It will definitely be a pre-waxed Arnold in the Amazon, swinging from a vine with one hand, and a very small banana in the other.
Animate Me / Chapter Thirteen / And the Award Goes to…
“Every adventure requires a first step.” ~Cheshire Catxii
Saturday morning I stand in front of a row of stores on Melrose Place confused. When I look to the right I see a designer’s store called Stella McSomething and when I look to the left I see another expensive looking clothes place called Marc and Jacob but I don’t see a fancy hair-cutting place. I study the address on the paper and look up again. Is this like Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in Harry Potter where you have to cast a magic spell for the buildings to slide apart and reveal your destination? Maybe it has a protective nerd shield. Perhaps it’s a sign that I shouldn’t be here.
Just when I’m about to give up I notice an antique looking gate between the two buildings. I approach it and peer through, revealing a courtyard with a fountain and all kinds of exotic looking plants. Is this the place?
I tentatively pull open the gate and step inside. Just on the other side of the fountain I see a wall of glass with busy haircutting people inside. I can almost hear Betty, the tiny woman that lives in my car’s dashboard and runs my GPS, say, “You have reached your destination.”
The minute I approach the reception desk I realize my life is no longer my own. I also realize that I should’ve dressed nicer.
“Hi, I’m Nathan Evans and I have an appointment with Bradley.”
“Yes, of course,” the glamazon purrs before stepping from behind the desk. “Come with me.”
I walk behind her marveling at how she balances in those ridiculous shoes. They have big platforms and a mess of straps halfway up her calves. Her skirt is short enough that she probably can’t bend over without a show. She stops in front of a door.
“You can change in here.”
“Change?” I sputter. Am I getting a physical exam along with my haircut?
She squints and I can tell she’s trying not to roll her eyes. She opens the door and steps towards a fancy antique looking wardrobe thing. Reaching in, she pulls out a black robe made of a thin fabric—definitely not terry or flannel. I’m supposed to wear this? Maybe this is Hogwarts.
“You take off your shirt and hang it in here, and then put this on,” she explains like I’m a candidate for preschool. “Can I get you a cappuccino or a glass of wine?”
Wine? It’s ten in the morning. This crowd must like to get the party started early. “Actually, some water would be great, thanks.”
After she closes the door behind her, I pull off my hoodie and T-shirt and hang them up. As I slide on the robe I stop to look in the mirror noting that those new crunches and bench presses Curtis showed me are paying off. When Brooke put her hand on my chest Thursday night, I didn’t flinch from embarrassment but welcomed it because I know working out has been worth the effort. Curtis has had me on a regimen for years, initially in the hopes that I would be able to defend myself when people picked on me. But I kept it up because it relieved the stress of bending over an animation table all day.
I tie the robe shut and venture outside. Another woman approaches me. She has her eyebrow pierced, light blue eyes and the blackest hair against her pale skin.
“Hi Nathan, I’m London. Let me take you to Bradley.”
He must be the king of this castle because the throne-like chair she leads me to is in a private area facing the garden. Bradley sweeps in right after her and shakes my hand.
“So you are Nathan.”
I nod.
“Morgan asked me to take good care of you. You are taking Ms. Brooke to the Emmy’s tomorrow, yes?”
Ms. Brooke? I nod again, still overwhelmed.
He tips his head, examining me. I can tell there are a lot of thoughts running around in there that he won’t be sharing, but I’m used to that feeling when people meet me.
“I looooove Brooke, so I am going to make sure you’re the hottest guy at the event.”
Really? I think skeptically. Well, good luck with that.
He steps behind me and watches my reflection in the mirror as he runs his hands through my hair, lifting and watching it fall.
“Can I show you something?” I ask, remembering my plan.
“Sure, do you have a picture of a cut you like?”
“Not exactly.” I pull out my old glasses and put them on, then press my hair over my forehead. “This was my old look that Arnauld suggested could be improved. I thought it would be helpful for you to see it.”
Bradley coughs and London hands him his bottle of water. He is pressing his hand on his chest and can’t seem to talk, so I continue.
“Can I ask your opinion? I mean, is it really that bad?”
“Well, let me understand,” Bradley asks once he has his voice back. “What is this, some kind of pseudo-intellectual, geekazoid grunge, pre-Mia Farrow-Woody Allen, ‘I’m too busy thinking deep thoughts to do anything as frivolous as getting my hair cut’ look?”
I stare at him, blinking repeatedly, stuck on the creepy Woody Allen reference.
“Was any part of that what you were going for?” he questions.
I dig in my pocket for a folded paper and I open it carefully. “No, I was patterning myself after Roy Orbison in his later years. I hold up a picture of the singer who was popular in the fifties. “See the glasses and how he wore his hair swept down. He was so cool when he toured with the Traveling Wilburys.”
Bradley holds it up and studies the image. “You think this is cool?” he asks, not hiding the disbelief in his voice. “Wait a minute, isn’t this guy dead?”
“Yes, but…” I begin to argue before he cuts me off.
“Oh no! I don’t do dead guy styles or Justin Bieber haircuts. I draw a hard line there. We all have our limits and those are mine.”
He folds up the paper and gently removes my glasses and sets both on a side table.
“Nathan, did Morgan explain that I’m the best?”
“Yes,” I lie. Morgan only told me how much he cost, which of course would imply that he’s either the best, or people with money are stupid.