Lauren Takes Leave by Julie Gerstenblatt Page A

think their wives have had pedicures and facials. That
all the exercise really does lift foreheads and shape butts. They are
none the wiser, and you are all the better. Olé!” He strikes a final pose,
clippers in hand.
    “Dear God, Brandon, put out the fire. She’s new here and
you’re scaring her!” another male stylist sings, coming to my rescue.
    “Hush, Priscilla,” Brandon sings back. “This woman is in
need. I can sense it. I’m channeling my inner diva to help her find her own
diva, lost deep down inside, hidden under years of mediocrity.” He looks at me.
“How’d I do?”
    “Not bad. Pretty fair assessment, actually.”
    “You and I are one and the same,” Brandon sighs, leaning
over the back of my chair to look at us side by side in the mirror. “We’re
stereotypes. I’m the flaming gay male, and you’re boring suburban mom.” He
pumps some mousse into his hands and re-fluffs his spiky hair. “It happens.”
    “That’s kind of harsh!” I balk. “Suburban and mom, yes. I
wouldn’t call me boring, necessarily.”
    “But you’d call me flaming, right? Just what you’d expect
from your hairdresser?”
    Of course, he’s right. But being honest seems mean,
especially to someone I’ve just met. It’s like the Jewish American Princess
principal: I can call myself that, but if anyone else does, I’m offended. So I
give a tentative smile and continue on, not answering him one way or the other.
“I’m just used to things a certain way. The rhythms of my day have become
predictable, regular. I’m just living the way I think I’m supposed to, the way
people around me do.”
    “Well, then, if mediocrity is what you’re used to, I’d
suggest bangs to cover that forehead. But if you’re looking to break out of the
same old ho-hum, I’d say take this card”—using sleight of hand, Brandon
produces a business card from up his sleeve—“and go for Botox.”
    “What is this?” I read the typeface on the card and see
that’s it’s advertising my very own dermatologist. “Dr. Grossman? He’s the
ancient guy who burns off my warts!”
    “Now, that’s the kind of thing one shouldn’t be ‘out’
about,” Brandon notes, checking my hair under the lamp. “Dr. Grossman is a
genius. And look! So am I. You’re a blonde again. Let’s go wash and blow.”
    Jodi passes by my table at Neiman Marcus several times. I
actually have to call her over, and even then she’s not sure whom she’s walking
up to.
    “Holy Mother of God, you look gorgeous!” She leans across
the table to kiss me hello. “Bitch,” she adds, grabbing a clump of my hair.
From her, that’s the highest level of compliment. “Who did this to you? It’s a maz ing.”
    “This guy at the new salon at the Ritz.” I shrug.
    “Brandon blew you?”
    I chuckle. “You know Brandon?”
    Jodi tosses her long hair dramatically. “Lauren, I know
everyone.”
    We sit back to chat. “Did you notice anything else about
me?” I lead.
    Jodi’s doe eyes, always framed in mascara, bat once or
twice as she thinks, taking me in. “No,” she concludes. “Other than your hair,
you look the same.”
    “It’s not my looks, dork. Try again. I’ll give you a hint.
What time is it? What day of the week?”
    Then it clicks. “You’re not at work!”
    “Shh…I could be spotted by a mom of one of my students
right now! We’re in dangerous territory here. That’s why I’m facing the wall.”
    “You could just lie, you know, if anyone saw you. Say
you’re at a conference, on your lunch break.”
    “A conference for what? Cashmere?”
    “Shakespeare, cashmere, same thing,” she dismisses. “Ugh,
I’m so hot.” She peels off her sweater to reveal perfectly skinny arms and bony
clavicles that make her fashionably gaunt.
    “You get those arms from Pilates?” I motion.
    “No way! You know I’m too lazy to work out.” She takes a
sip of her water through a straw, leaving a ring of sparkly pink lip gloss on
the plastic.