“So what do you think?” says a voice behind me. I whirl around, startled, and no doubt looking guilty. Behind me stands a short, thin woman with hugely round, blue eyes. Her skin is deathly pale and contrasts sharply with her black hair, which she wears short and spiked, a look that is surprisingly flattering on her. She is wearing stretch slacks, some sort of open smock, and beneath the smock, a tight-fitting tank top with a low-cut neckline that showcases some very healthy cleavage—she could hide Jimmy Hoffa in there. And just in case that isn’t enough to draw one’s eyes to her chest, she has a tattoo of a horse along the crest of one breast, galloping over those rounded hills.
“You must be Mattie,” she says, eyeing the top of my head with a pitiful expression. Her voice is low, sultry, and slightly hoarse. She comes forward and extends her hand, which is cold. The question of whether she sleeps in a coffin flits through my mind. “I’m Barbara. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, wishing I had one of my chopsticks from lunch so I could use it as a wooden stake, just in case.
“What do you think of Ingrid here?” Barbara asks, nodding toward the coffin. “Doesn’t she look great?”
“She does,” I admit. “Your work?”
Barbara nods proudly. “It is.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Thanks. Come on downstairs and let’s see what I can do for you.” Her tone suggests she expects to find me every bit as challenging as any dead woman.
I follow her down to the basement into an area that looks a lot like the autopsy suite at work. Two steel tables with gutters around the edges stand in the middle of the room and a network of tubes and bottles hang overhead. At one end of each table is a sink, at the other, a drain in the floor. Cabinets line the walls and a faint but noxious chemical odor lingers in the air.
I assume this room is where the embalming is done and I’m relieved when Barbara leads me beyond it to a smaller room where a single, wheeled stretcher stands near a wall-mounted sink. Barbara opens a cupboard and pulls out a rolled up pad, which she proceeds to lay out on the stretcher.
“Hop up,” she says, patting the pad.
“Huh?”
“Climb onto the stretcher and lay down with your head at the end by the sink so I can shampoo your hair.”
“I washed it this morning. You don’t need to do it again.”
She glances at my head. “You use hair spray?”
I nod.
“Then I need to shampoo to get the hair spray out. Otherwise your hair won’t work right.”
“Don’t you have a chair or something I can sit in?”
“Nope, just the stretcher. Most of my clients don’t sit too well.”
I chew my lip as she turns away and starts sorting through the cupboard, removing several bottles that contain God knows what. “So you put dead people on that stretcher when you work on them?”
“Yep.”
I contemplate the stretcher again, my mind scrambling. “How about if I just bend over the sink and you wash my hair like that?”
“I need you to lay down.”
“I don’t think I want to lay on a stretcher for dead people,” I say finally. “It’s kind of…creepy.”
She turns and gives me an exasperated look. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those silly squeamish women. I figured you for a strong one, given that you work with Izzy and all.”
“I’m plenty strong, thank you. I just don’t want to use that stretcher.”
She shrugs. “Well, then, I can’t help you.” She turns back to the cabinet and starts putting away the supplies.
“What do you mean, you can’t help me?”
“Just that,” she says over her shoulder.
“Just because I won’t get on the stretcher?”
“That’s right.” She sighs heavily. “Look, I’ve spent too many years working on clients who are in a reclining position. It’s what I’m used to. It’s how I visualize the hair and makeup. I can and will sit you up when I cut the back of your hair but I’ve tried to do the rest of it when people are upright and it never comes out right. Sorry, but that’s how it is.”
I blow out a breath of exasperation and tap my foot as I weigh my options. My hair does need a touch-up—okay, more than a touch-up. It needs a major overhaul. And Izzy has generously given me the time off and vouched for Barbara’s results.
Barbara glances at her watch and raises her eyebrows at me. “I have a body coming in at four o’clock that I need to fix up for a viewing tonight. The clock is ticking. What’s it gonna be?”
The thought of laying on the stretcher is one thing. The thought of laying there while a corpse waits in the next room prompts me to action. “Okay, let’s get this over with.” I climb up and lay down, my hands folded over my lap in perfect repose. Oddly enough, it feels kind of natural.
Barbara walks over and stares at me for a minute, then her face splits into a smile. “You won’t be sorry,” she says, beaming. “I can see it in my mind’s eye already. I’m gonna do great things for you, Mattie Winston.”
Chapter 14
An hour and a half later, Barbara and I have planned out my entire funeral, including the music, my dress, who will be invited, and which coffin I’ll be buried in. I take Barbara’s advice and opt for the mahogany box with the blue satin lining. At first I think it makes me look too cold, but once Barbara finishes my makeup and lets me look in a mirror with the blue satin beneath my head, I have to admit it looks quite stunning.
And speaking of stunning, Izzy was right—Barbara truly is a whiz at her work. My hair is the color of sun-baked wheat with subtle highlights of golden flax. The conditioner she uses has left it feeling incredibly silky, yet she’s managed to give it more body than it’s had since the time Teddy Laver’s bratty little brother got cotton candy in my hair when we were riding in Teddy’s convertible with the top down.
Even more amazing is my makeup. Barbara introduced me to a whole new color scheme based on brown and russet tones that I likely wouldn’t have experimented with on the bravest of days. And I’ve done some experimenting. In the hall closet of my old house is a box filled to the brim with makeup orphans I’ve bought and tried over the years: foundations, eye shadows, blushes, lipsticks, concealers, powders…you name it.
I would have sworn the colors Barbara used on me are all wrong for my complexion and yet she’s managed to turn me from a pale ice queen into a warm vibrant woman—and all without making me look like a hooker. After providing lengthy instructions on the techniques she uses to apply the stuff, she gives me some samples and a list of the brand names and colors so I can go out and buy some for myself.
By the time I rise from my stretcher like Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein, I know I’m looking better than I have in a decade or more. I am a woman transformed—perfectly willing to have my hair done for the rest of my life on an embalmer’s table.
And despite her rather droll appearance, Barbara is a lively and entertaining conversationalist. During the course of her ministrations, we discuss everything from men and clothing to local politics and world peace. It is a life-changing experience for me—I’ve finally found a hairstylist I can keep, right through to eternity.
And that gets me to thinking about Karen Owenby. I know Deborah Martin, Karen’s hairdresser, because I went to Deborah myself once on Karen’s recommendation. I never went back, but not because Deborah’s haircut was the worst I’d ever had; that credit went to a Vietnamese woman named Mi at a place called Hairy Kari. Mi’s understanding of English was poor at best and after several attempts to communicate what I wanted, I resorted to making chopping motions to the side of my head while I said, “Layer it.” Mi’s enthusiastic nod led me to believe she understood. During the subsequent translations by the owner, which were triggered by the scream I let out when I looked in the mirror, I found out that Mi thought I was saying “Razor it.”