So Not Happening

Chapter Eighteen: Nobody's Gonna Paint My Head

Chapter Eighteen: "Nobody's gonna paint my head."

~♡~

"I'll see you ladies at dinner, okay?" Dad kisses my cheek and hands me his credit card.

I swear I hear angels singing the "Hallelujah" chorus. Oh, credit card! How I've missed you. Your plasticky goodness. The zipping sound you make when the clerk runs you through a machine. The rattle of a long receipt being spit out by a boutique register.

"Go easy on me today, okay?" He points to the card.

"But, dad, I haven't shopped in forever." Ever since Mom married Jake and somehow I got financially cut off. So unfair.

"But in my heart . . . it's an eternity." I push Lindy out the door before dad goes back to his idea of curtailing my spending and teaching me a lesson. Hmph. Whatever. It's teaching me misery, is all. And causing me to lust in my heart---over other people's clothing.

I step outside onto the front stoop and breathe in the familiar Manhattan air. Ew. Maybe I shouldn't breathe too deeply. We are a little smoggy at times.

A yellow cab speeds us away, like a chariot taking me to heaven.

Shopping---oh, I could just burst into song. The closet I've come to shopping lately is squeezing the melons at Wal-Mart with Mom. And that's just indecent, if you ask me.

"Okay, Lindy. Our first stop is Marco Ricci's salon. While Marco's working his magic on your hair, I'll be getting a manicure and a pedi. Then we'll switch." Dad totally called in a favor to have my stylist work us in on such short notice. Marco's usually booked, like, a year in advance. Maybe Dad's giving him a discount on a new nose or something.

"I don't know." Lindy fingers her ponytail. "I kind of like my hair."

"But it's not about what you like. It's about what Matt might like." I thought we established this last night when we stayed up until 2:00 a.m. talking. I felt like Dr. Phil, coaching Lindy toward a new vision of herself.

The taxi pulls up beside Marco's, and I have to force Lindy out of the car and into the salon.

Lindy plants her feet in the lobby and just takes it all in. The pink walls. The techno music. The ladies in the chairs sipping champagne.

"Um . . . isn't there a Supercuts or a Regis somewhere?"

A squeal has me clutching my ears.

"Profanity! Profanity!" Marco, head to toe in black, scurries from behind the front counter, his beret bobbing on his head. "Who is zees you bring to Marco?"

I swallow. "This is my friend Lindy." I elbow her. She doesn't move. "Greet Marco," I say through gritted teeth.

She tries to shake his hand, but he clutches his hands to his chest.

"Do you know who I am, leetle girl?"

Lindy shakes her head. "N-n-no."

"I am Marco Ricci." His hand sweeps the room. "Hair arteest." He leans forward, his pinched face inches from hers. "Dream maker." He draws himself up, his spine as straight as a hair pick. "Now would you like to greet Marco again?"

With rounded eyes, Lindy looks to me. And back to Marco.

Then she drops herself into an awkward curtsy.

Laughter fills the entry as Marco doubles over and howls. "Zees girl you bring me---she is priceless." He grabs a shaking Lindy by the shoulders. "Kees, kees." And smooches the air beside both cheeks. Then his face sobers. "Oh, we have work to do, no?"