Beauty Shop Tales. Nancy Robards Thompson
as good as homemade. “Avril is the guest of honor. Let her go first, and everyone else fall in line after her.”
My mother is a feeder. She thinks every problem in the world can be solved with food. If you’re happy, she’ll feed you. If you’re sad, she’ll feed you. If you’re uncertain about your future, eat and everything will fall into place. So there amidst the cutting stations and the bonnet driers I take my place at the front of the makeshift buffet, feeling like the prodigal daughter returned home.
Once my plate is full, Mama seats me in the place of honor—the center bonnet drier—and assembles a TV tray for my food. If I hadn’t fully regressed to preadolescence, with this I have. Completely.
“Mother, I don’t want a tray.”
She scoots it closer to me. I scoot it back, precariously balancing the paper plate in one hand.
Enough is enough.
I stare her square in the eye to get the message across.
Thank God for Gilda Mathers.
“Tess, stop it. She doesn’t want the tray. Take it away or I will.”
The two women stare each other down, Gilda with her large frame and short, teased, chestnut hair—à la Kathy Bates. Small, wiry Tess with her long, flaming curls. Never have you seen two women so opposite.
But either one would give her arm for the other. Gilda has been my mother’s best friend for as far back as I have cognizant memories; a faithful employee of Tess’s Tresses, all-round confidante and second mother to me. She even came out to California a couple of times with Mama to visit me.
Tess’s gaze wavers first. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Then dutifully folds up the tray and whisks it out of sight. This time Gilda won—thank God in heaven—next time it’ll surely be Tess, in that natural give and take of friendship.
Gilda plops into the red Naugahyde dryer seat next to me, with an umph and a paper plate piled so high, I’m afraid one wrong move will send everything falling to the floor. Lonnie Sue Tobias and Dani Reynolds, who also work in the beauty shop, pull up folding chairs so that the four of us form a square. They leave the dryer seat to my left free. For Mama.
Dani has the remnant yellow-blue shadows of a fading bruise around her eye. My heart clenches. She’s tried to cover it with concealer, but the discoloration shows through under the florescent lights. It looks like she’s had a hard fall or someone’s fist connected with her left eye—
“Okay, start talking, missy,” says Gilda. “Tell us everything starting with the last time I saw you out there in California. How long’s it been now?”
Lonnie Sue scoots forward on her chair. “Must be five years at least. That’s when I came down with appendicitis, when you and Tess were off in California. Land, how time flies. Darlin’, we’re so glad you’re home and so is your mama. She can sure use an extra set of hands in the shop. My tinnitus is acting up again and sometimes I take such a spell I can’t do nothin’ but put a pillow over my head and lay there in the dark with what sounds like the bells of St. Mary’s going off in my head.”
Gilda frowns around the chicken leg she’s biting into. “The Bells of St. Mary’s was a movie. It’s not actually a place where they ring bells.”
Lonnie Sue wrinkles her pert nose and flicks a strand of cropped eggplant-colored hair off her forehead. “I know that, Gilda, I mentioned it because it is a movie. You know, on account of Avril being in the movie business and all.”
Oh, no—
“Well, actually, I only worked on a few movies.”
Lonnie Sue, Gilda and Dani regard me with confused frowns.
“But you did do Julia Roberts’s hair. Right?” demands Gilda.
At the mention of Julia Roberts, the room quiets. Well, it doesn’t exactly fall hear-a-pin-drop silent, but those within earshot stop talking and crowd around.
“Well…” I squirm inwardly and wonder what exactly my mother has told them. Because the truth is, I only assisted the stylist who did Julia Roberts’s hair on one of the movies she made back in the nineties. I didn’t actually have my hands in her hair. And I only got that job because Chet realized how disillusioned I’d become with the whole Hollywood scene and thought if I could get in the middle of the business, I’d be happy. He had his work and loved it, so he called in a favor to get me the assistant’s job hoping I’d find my place among California’s beautiful.
After the Julia Roberts movie, I worked on a few minor projects—the Persephone picture, and a couple others…nothing notable. By then, I’d had it with the industry. If I felt like a fish out of water before Chet dropped me into the great Hollywood shark tank, well, after that I was the fish who wanted to dive out of the aquarium. Working in the movies wasn’t for me. It was too shallow, too many people willing to take off their clothes and sell their firstborn for a taste of fame. Not at all what a naive, wide-eyed, small-town girl thought it would be. I was pretty much at risk for being eaten alive.
At least by doing hair in salons I was able to build relationships with clients, change someone’s outlook by helping them become the best they could be. In the movies, the only reason anyone helped anyone was if it benefited them.
I had nothing in common with these people and it scared me because Chet thrived in this cardboard world. He couldn’t understand why I’d settle for working at a salon when “if you only tried a little harder, you could make your dream come true.”
I didn’t always feel this way about California. Chet and I had had big dreams. I was going to be a star and he was going to be my agent. That was our plan—to take Hollywood by storm.
But when the plan didn’t work out quite like we thought it would, he took a job at WKGM in the mail room and I tried to land another agent. This is where the irony sets in—I couldn’t get work, but they loved him so much that eventually they created the extreme sports segment for him.
For a girl from a small Florida beach town, at first glance Hollywood seemed like Fantasy Land. But it tends to trap people this way. In the beginning, it seduces, whispers sweet nothings—delicious, mouthwatering promises.
I endured one humiliating experience after another—I couldn’t crack the reputable agents because of my lack of experience and, okay, I’ll admit it was probably because of my lack of raw talent. The only agents who were interested in me were the ones who were out to scam or prostitute me. It’s amazing what some people will do for a taste of perceived stardom. I’m no prude, but I have my standards and it soon became apparent that I did not have what it took to conquer Hollywood. In return, Hollywood had nothing to offer me. There I stood with my nose pressed to the glass of this magnificent candy store, but it was closed, the lids set firmly on the jars, all the goodies stored out of my reach.
For a short time before I came to this sad realization, I thought Chet and I could be happy there.
Chet had became somewhat of a minor celebrity around town and was bitten by the bug. People started recognizing him on the street—“Hey! Aren’t you that extreme sports dude on TV? I saw your spot on the ASP Tahiti Surfing Tour. Righteous, dude!”
Fame, minor as it was, was like a drug to him. The more recognition he got, the more he craved. The more remote the location the network sent him to—Fiji, Australia, Hawaii—the more he craved getting away. You know how I feel about flying. So I stayed behind, focusing on how everything would get better once we had a baby.
That was before I knew a baby was out of the question.
“So what’s Julia Roberts like?” A voice from the crowd pulls me back, and I realize I don’t even know who asked the question.
“Umm…she’s very nice. Very down to earth.” This is not a lie. I was in close enough proximity that I could ascertain that she’s quite pleasant. It’s the other people in the industry who weren’t so wonderful.
“So