PAINTED NAILS AND PUPPY DOG TAILS
Giselle Renarde
It’s not like I was stalking her or anything…
I shouldn’t have said that. All it takes is denying something for everyone to think, The dyke doth protest too much, and then you can never convince them otherwise. But seriously, I wasn’t stalking her. She just happened to work in the salon three doors down from my swinging bachelor pad above the deli.
The first time I saw her, she was balancing a tiny plastic pot of soy sauce and disposable chopsticks on top of a little tray of sushi. A pink lily sprouted from her jet-black, rockabilly hair. Her standard-issue black cotton dress gave her the look of a gothic naughty nurse, but it was her shoes that really caught my eye. They looked like ballet slippers, but in hot-pink patent leather. Hot. Pink.
Were I to describe my image of perfection, my ideal woman, I would list every one of her stunning features. Frozen to the sidewalk, in awe of her sheer beauty, I watched her balance lunch, condiments and utensils in one hand. She had the grace and dexterity of a vintage cocktail waitress. Reaching for the salon door, she managed to open it just far enough to slide her foot between the door and jamb.
Even struggling and unbalanced, she was a sight to behold. I stood there, watching, until it occurred to me what an ass-face I was for not helping her out. Weighed down by cleanish, half-dry clothes fresh from the cheap Laundromat, I bounded over to open the door for her.
That’s when she looked up at me. She seemed stunned at first, wide-eyed, probably because I’d come sprinting out of nowhere. When it dawned on her that I was only holding the door, not robbing the joint, she smiled. Not only did she smile, but she also said, “Thanks.”
Sigh.
That breathy utterance made my year. Seriously.
Every time I walked by the salon after that, I tried to peek in to see if she was there. But the windows were all frosted glass at eye level. All I could ever make out were her shoes. There was no mistaking pink patent leather.
On the few occasions I caught sight of her as she walked her lunch back to the salon, I never did manage to pop into her field of vision. Courageous as I seem, I couldn’t seem to work up the nerve to talk to her, not even to say, “Hi.” Every time I saw her, my tongue seemed to swallow itself and my heart hid behind a rock.
I realized one dismal day that, if I stuck my head out the window, I could see the salon’s shop front. It was a pretty swanky place, a steady stream of rich bitches going in silver and coming out copper. Lots of yoga moms, too, who came out looking essentially the same as they’d looked going in.
In watching out the window for her chance appearance, it occurred to me that I’d been thinking of her nonstop since that first brief encounter. At night, I dreamed about her painted nails against my scalp as she washed my hair before she cut it. When I woke up in the morning, it was to the disappointment of being in bed without her. Her absence from my everyday existence was excruciating enough that I’d close my eyes and roll under the pillow. I kissed her pink lips where reality couldn’t find me.
Now, I should probably reiterate that I was not stalking this girl. Seriously. I just happened to notice that she locked up alone on Wednesdays. What harm would there be in showing up at closing time and asking for a quick haircut? I’d reached the point where, nervous as I felt, I couldn’t not meet her.
For a girl like that, my everyday cargo pants weren’t going to cut it. She was so well put-together; her clients too. If I showed up looking like a South American rebel fighter, she’d suspect I wanted more than just a haircut. For her, I shaved my legs and searched my closet for something ritzy to wear. I owned two long-forgotten dresses. One was the royal-blue Girl Guide uniform I filed away at age eight. The other was the simple black dress I’d worn to my high school reunion. Would you believe it still fit? Sort of. I don’t think it was skintight when I bought it, but I must say it was a good look on me.
When I left the apartment wearing a gown Wednesday evening, I felt like a cross-dresser. I’ve always been more snips and snails than painted nails, but if it meant sliding incognito onto the salon girl’s radar, the end certainly justified the means. Right?
She’d just left the salon and was strutting down the street when I arrived. Damn it! But all was not lost: she picked up the price list board that lived at the corner, and my heart leapt in my chest. She was coming back to me!
“Let me help you with that,” I offered, running to the corner in my flip-flops.
She looked up and… wow! I could have spent eternity in that one intense moment of connection. Did I mention she had green eyes? Beautiful, like a cat’s or a snake’s. Her lips were blood red. No flower in her hair that day, but she wore a retro burlesque veil that scarcely covered her bangs.
As she picked up the plywood sandwich board, she shot me a wide smile. “I’ve got it, thanks,” she cooed, her smooth muscles surging as she carried the sign. “You can grab the door if you want.”
When she lifted the board into the salon, the fruity scent of her perfume breezed by me. My knees went so weak I had to cling to the door just to stay upright.
“Going somewhere special?” she asked, leaning the sign against the wall.
I couldn’t fathom what she meant, and my mind wasn’t working fast enough to utter anything but, “Huh?”
Brushing her hands against the front of her black cotton uniform, she explained, “I see you around the neighborhood. You’re usually wearing… well, not a little black dress.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s true,” I replied, trying to stick to the script. “Just thought I’d stop in and see if maybe you could do me quick.”
Her jaw dropped. Obviously, I hadn’t learned my lines very well. I could feel my palms sweating as I stammered, “Haircut. I stopped in for a quick haircut, that’s all.”
“That’s too bad,” she said, drawing out each word. I hung on her cherry lips as she spoke. When she strutted past me, I nearly jumped out of my clothes. She flipped through the appointment book. “Looks like we’ve got a couple slots in the morning. Want to come back for ten-thirty?”
“But you’re here now. Couldn’t you do it?” I pushed. Was that too forceful? I wasn’t thinking anymore, just begging.
“Sorry, hon,” she replied with a dramatic frown. Showing me her nails painted with purple shooting stars trailing rainbows against a black backdrop, she clarified, “I don’t do hair, just nails.”
Thinking on my feet, I thought of my feet. “A pedicure! Yes, I definitely need one of those.” Sticking them in the air, I urged, “Look how nasty my toes are. Aren’t they gross?”
Way to seduce the girl, Claire. Brilliant powers of flirtation!
Luckily, the nail girl was amused. “You haven’t seen gross until you’ve seen athlete’s foot. Eww. Or a nasty case of contact dermatitis—even worse!” With a shudder, she picked up the small clock at the reception booth. Pen in hand, she flipped back to the current date in the sign-in book. “I guess I’ve got a few minutes. What’s your name?”
“Me?” I asked, as if she could possibly be talking to anyone else. “My name’s Claire.”
She put the pen down without writing my name in the book, then reached over to the door and flipped the deadbolt. “Billie,” she introduced herself, extending her hand in such a way I felt half inclined to kiss it.
I almost didn’t. I told myself to shake her hand like a normal person would, but my lips did not obey. I kissed it. She inhaled so sharply, I could hear her breath enter through her nose. My heart pounded as I looked up. For whatever good deeds I’d done, God smiled on me, and so did Billie.