Split Ends by Kristin Billerbeck Page B

office manager!
    â€œJust for future reference? No skinny pants or denim. It's policy. If you appear smaller than the clientele, they don’t come back. We joked that we should print on the mirrors, ‘Objects standing behind you in the mirror are bigger and more tank-like than they appear.’” She laughs melodically. “Yoshi wants his clients to sizzle and his stylists to be hot enough to be inviting but classic enough to be couture.”
    Whatever that means. “Seriously?”
    â€œIt’s our motto.”
    â€œIt doesn’t make any sense.” I mean, I know I’m a country girl, but that doesn’t make any sense. How can it be a motto?
    Jenna’s jaw twitches. “Look, just fill out the forms. It isn’t exactly your place to be telling Yoshi what makes sense.” She thumps her hand on the granite, and I realize I’ve failed the one piece of education I brought with me: I ticked off the receptionist. Worse yet, I ticked off the office manager, and this I managed in the first five minutes!
    A door opens and I snap back to attention. A tall, Asian man with gold highlights in his black hair approaches me and looks to Jenna. “This her?” he says, as though I’m not standing right there. I wonder how he can tell I’m not a client, and my mind immediately goes to my boots. The only clothing of mine that I’m wearing.
    Yoshi is clean. Unconscionably so. I half expect his teeth to glisten when he smiles, but of course, he never does.
    Jenna nods subtly, thoroughly disgusted with me.
    â€œCome in the back, please,” Yoshi orders. “Jenna told you no skinny pants?”
    I can hear the rushing of my heartbeat. “Yes, sir.”
    As I’m led through the salon, I’m a bit starstruck as I imagine myself bent over the simplistic yet elegant wash sinks. Maybe I’ll be leaning over Lilly Minder—or hey, maybe even the next Cary Grant or Dr. McDreamy—one day!
    There are magazine covers lining the hallway to Yoshi’s office, and they are all current. “The salon is in so many magazines.”
    â€œOf course it is. You were expecting . . . ?”
    â€œJust that, sir.”
    â€œWe’re currently doing makeover shows for Wake Up, LA! and the E! network. There is no shortage of opportunities here.”
    â€œI brought in my portfolio,” I say, holding out my book as he enters his office. He just waves it off and sits behind a desk filled with trophies and pictures of him with famous people. I keep the application clipboard, my heart pounding at how I’ll get out of this . God help me. I can’t lie to him.
    Yoshi doesn’t look at me. He looks right behind me into a mirror and watches himself. I want to turn around and see what he’s saying to himself, but I imagine that’s just as rude as what he’s doing, so I keep forward, trying to pretend he’s not looking right through me. He kicks the door shut with his leg. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
    I sit.
    Yoshi crosses his leg over his knee. “Let’s get a few things out of the way. I know you’re from Wyoming, so don’t bother filling that out.” He finally looks at me over my portfolio. “It’s better for both of us if you don’t lie on paper. I know you’ve never stepped foot in New York. I called the salon Scott said you worked for and they’d never heard of you. And your license is from Wyoming, so I should assume you were working in New York . . . why?”
    â€œI—I—” But what can I say, really? “I’m good, Yoshi. And I will listen to everything you have to teach me. I’m better than if I was from New York because I come with absolutely no attitude. None whatsoever.” Except that slightest bit of old Hollywood royalty fantasies, but I’m totally willing to squelch that.
    â€œListen, I know what my training is worth. I know why