final touches below my jaw. “But
my
nose doesn’t need any work.” She clucked her tongue and pulled the sponge away.
I cut my eyes to her but we were so close that it strained me to stare very long.
A thick layer of powder came next. “You’re gonna take this in your bag, Em, and put it on before you get out of the car. No shine on your face, hear me?”
She sounded like me when I talked to Annette.
Don’t forget your backpack. Are you sure you brushed your teeth
?
Lipliner, eyeliner, brow filler. Eye-shadow. Mascara. Lipstick. Gloss.
She stepped back and evaluated. “Where’s your Chi?”
I looked at her. “My…natural energy of the universe?”
She put a hand on her hip. “Your flat iron.”
Getting only my blank stare in response, she reassessed. “Then an up-do. Got bobby pins?”
On and on it went, Jeannie with her good-smelling hair products and hair twirling and bobby-pinning. Me, immobilized in the chair, fretting over the time.
“Anyway,” she said, working on a new section of my hair, “The articles I printed talk about what happens when a business partner dies.”
I spun to face her. “What does happen?”
She smacked the back of my head. “Hold still.”
“When you go into business with somebody,” she said, “You can sign a buy-sell agreement and get life insurance on your partner. Then if he dies, you can buy out his share using the insurance.”
“What’s the agreement do?”
“It sounds like a prenup for business partners. Something to nail down who can buy an owner’s interest and what price they’ll pay.”
“Are doctors like regular business partners or is a medical practice different?”
She shrugged. “Not sure it matters. Killing a guy to buy up his share of a practice is a stretch. You see that, right?”
I dropped my head into my hands, frustrated. She thumped the base of my skull with a hard flick. “Sit up.”
“Until I figure out who wanted Platt dead,” I said. “Everything’s a stretch.” I tapped a shiny fake nail on my watch face.
Jeannie shellacked my hair with a bottle of Paul Mitchell and told me to put on the dress. I squeezed into it and she pulled the zipper up in back.
“Your legs look
awesome
,” she said, when I turned around for her inspection. The hem of her dress was alarmingly high on my thighs. “But the neckline sags. We have to push up your boobs.”
I didn’t own bra pads, which Jeannie said was worse than not having a Chi iron. She fashioned a set by cutting and balling up an old pair of my pantyhose and telling me how to stuff it under my breasts inside my bra cups. When I finally got a look at myself in the mirror, I was pleasantly shocked.
Jeannie passed me the thin stack of articles she’d printed and followed me to the door, where her parting action was to spritz me with Giorgio Beverly Hills. I pulled the door shut behind me, feeling as elegant as her perfume, and descended the steps. At the bottom, I emerged from the building’s shadow into the sun and when its warmth washed over me, the transition felt metaphoric.
I did vain, stupid things during my drive to the surgery center. I tilted the rear-view mirror at me so I could admire my sexy lips. Sometimes I glanced at the faint reflection in the driver’s side window for another look at my too-cute hair. Once I lowered the sun visor so I could see the way my fingernails looked as they played over the steering wheel.
I drove a little faster than usual, not because I was late, but because glamour was exciting, even in a Taurus.
When I pulled into the surgery center, I re-applied facial powder as instructed and stepped from the car, approving my reflection in the window one last time before taking long, confident strides toward the building. Jeannie had swept my hair up in a way that looked sharp and classy in the contour of my shadow. I watched my silhouette cross the pavement and marveled at how empowering the new style felt compared to my usual
my
nose doesn’t need any work.” She clucked her tongue and pulled the sponge away.
I cut my eyes to her but we were so close that it strained me to stare very long.
A thick layer of powder came next. “You’re gonna take this in your bag, Em, and put it on before you get out of the car. No shine on your face, hear me?”
She sounded like me when I talked to Annette.
Don’t forget your backpack. Are you sure you brushed your teeth
?
Lipliner, eyeliner, brow filler. Eye-shadow. Mascara. Lipstick. Gloss.
She stepped back and evaluated. “Where’s your Chi?”
I looked at her. “My…natural energy of the universe?”
She put a hand on her hip. “Your flat iron.”
Getting only my blank stare in response, she reassessed. “Then an up-do. Got bobby pins?”
On and on it went, Jeannie with her good-smelling hair products and hair twirling and bobby-pinning. Me, immobilized in the chair, fretting over the time.
“Anyway,” she said, working on a new section of my hair, “The articles I printed talk about what happens when a business partner dies.”
I spun to face her. “What does happen?”
She smacked the back of my head. “Hold still.”
“When you go into business with somebody,” she said, “You can sign a buy-sell agreement and get life insurance on your partner. Then if he dies, you can buy out his share using the insurance.”
“What’s the agreement do?”
“It sounds like a prenup for business partners. Something to nail down who can buy an owner’s interest and what price they’ll pay.”
“Are doctors like regular business partners or is a medical practice different?”
She shrugged. “Not sure it matters. Killing a guy to buy up his share of a practice is a stretch. You see that, right?”
I dropped my head into my hands, frustrated. She thumped the base of my skull with a hard flick. “Sit up.”
“Until I figure out who wanted Platt dead,” I said. “Everything’s a stretch.” I tapped a shiny fake nail on my watch face.
Jeannie shellacked my hair with a bottle of Paul Mitchell and told me to put on the dress. I squeezed into it and she pulled the zipper up in back.
“Your legs look
awesome
,” she said, when I turned around for her inspection. The hem of her dress was alarmingly high on my thighs. “But the neckline sags. We have to push up your boobs.”
I didn’t own bra pads, which Jeannie said was worse than not having a Chi iron. She fashioned a set by cutting and balling up an old pair of my pantyhose and telling me how to stuff it under my breasts inside my bra cups. When I finally got a look at myself in the mirror, I was pleasantly shocked.
Jeannie passed me the thin stack of articles she’d printed and followed me to the door, where her parting action was to spritz me with Giorgio Beverly Hills. I pulled the door shut behind me, feeling as elegant as her perfume, and descended the steps. At the bottom, I emerged from the building’s shadow into the sun and when its warmth washed over me, the transition felt metaphoric.
I did vain, stupid things during my drive to the surgery center. I tilted the rear-view mirror at me so I could admire my sexy lips. Sometimes I glanced at the faint reflection in the driver’s side window for another look at my too-cute hair. Once I lowered the sun visor so I could see the way my fingernails looked as they played over the steering wheel.
I drove a little faster than usual, not because I was late, but because glamour was exciting, even in a Taurus.
When I pulled into the surgery center, I re-applied facial powder as instructed and stepped from the car, approving my reflection in the window one last time before taking long, confident strides toward the building. Jeannie had swept my hair up in a way that looked sharp and classy in the contour of my shadow. I watched my silhouette cross the pavement and marveled at how empowering the new style felt compared to my usual
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