sipped champagne. Fred Flintstone mooned Barney.
“You ready to go blond?” Stefano asked.
“What?” I forgot about the tattoos. When he didn’t react, I turned to look him straight in his shiny face.
“Jay didn’t tell you?” His cupid’s bow mouth twisted with amusement. “You, my dear, are going to join the ranks of Carole Lombard, Marilyn Monroe, and our own dear Haley Rush—and go platinum!”
I froze. “But—Jay said he thought Haley looked better as a brunette.”
Stefano batted at the air. “Hon-bun, it doesn’t matter what Jay does or doesn’t like. Haley’s a blonde—I do her color, BTW—and you have to match. And besides. FYI? Jay has as much style sense as my cockapoo.” He giggled. “I really just wanted an excuse to say cockapoo .”
I gulped. “Okay.” It made sense, of course. To pass as Haley, I’d need Haley’s hair.
Seeing my expression, Stefano gave my hair a reassuring squeeze. “ Girrrrrrl! You are going to look superfierce —like a cute little man-eating sex kitten! You are going to have the men clawing at your door . . . and then you’re going to come right back here and tell me all about it!”
That made me laugh. Stefano was pretentious, affected—a hairdressing and Hollywood cliché. Despite all that—or maybe because of it—I immediately adored him.
While Stefano fluttered around, Rodrigo remained on the couch, poking at his laptop and pretending not to listen. When he got up to use the bathroom, Stefano whispered, “What’s the matter with Tinker Bell?”
“He’s down on Hollywood, for some reason.”
“Oh, please. All these people come here looking for love. Not of a man or love of a woman—but love from everybody . And when they’re not instantly discovered, it’s like, ‘Why are you all so stupid that you can’t see my utter fabulousness?’ Probably Tinker Bell had one of his screenplays rejected. Again.”
“He told you about his writing?” I whispered.
“Ugh!” Stefano ran a comb through my hair, careful not to tug. “He told me, he told my assistant, he told my cat —who should be around here somewhere, BTW. I hope you’re not allergic.”
He lowered his voice back into the murmuring range. “Anyhoo, I know some independent producers who read the script. Bear in mind, these are rich kids whose daddies set them up so they can read screenplays all day and buy independent films as a hobby. They’ve never actually produced anything in their lives, and even they said it stunk. One called it self-indulgent garbage, one said it was derivative crap, and the third called it . . . well, something that might offend those lovely shell-shaped ears.”
Rodrigo came out of the bathroom and settled back among the pillows. Stefano straightened and began to whistle. He brushed a stinky white solution onto my hair and wrapped it, piece by piece, in foil. while Rodrigo tapped away on his computer.
“Writing another screenplay, Rod?” Stefano asked him.
Rodrigo kept his eyes on his laptop. “Yes.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t give up your dreams. You’ve got too much talent to let it go to waste.”
It took all my strength to keep my face neutral.
Rodrigo seemed to ignore him, but I guess he was just screening for sarcasm. “Thank you,” he said at last.
When my hair was entirely encased in foil, Stefano lead me to an empty loveseat, draping it with a throw blanket so the chemicals on my head couldn’t endanger the velvet. “Champagne?”
“Seriously?”
He looked up at the tin ceiling and sighed. “Well, okay. It’s technically sparkling wine because it’s from Sonoma , and you can’t call something champagne unless it’s from the Champagne region in France.”
This was so much better than teaching eight-year-olds how to hula hoop.
Stefano disappeared for a moment before returning with a tall glass and a stack of reading material.
“ Variety , Vogue , Men’s Health , or Fit Pregnancy ?”
“No Us Weekly ? No
“You ready to go blond?” Stefano asked.
“What?” I forgot about the tattoos. When he didn’t react, I turned to look him straight in his shiny face.
“Jay didn’t tell you?” His cupid’s bow mouth twisted with amusement. “You, my dear, are going to join the ranks of Carole Lombard, Marilyn Monroe, and our own dear Haley Rush—and go platinum!”
I froze. “But—Jay said he thought Haley looked better as a brunette.”
Stefano batted at the air. “Hon-bun, it doesn’t matter what Jay does or doesn’t like. Haley’s a blonde—I do her color, BTW—and you have to match. And besides. FYI? Jay has as much style sense as my cockapoo.” He giggled. “I really just wanted an excuse to say cockapoo .”
I gulped. “Okay.” It made sense, of course. To pass as Haley, I’d need Haley’s hair.
Seeing my expression, Stefano gave my hair a reassuring squeeze. “ Girrrrrrl! You are going to look superfierce —like a cute little man-eating sex kitten! You are going to have the men clawing at your door . . . and then you’re going to come right back here and tell me all about it!”
That made me laugh. Stefano was pretentious, affected—a hairdressing and Hollywood cliché. Despite all that—or maybe because of it—I immediately adored him.
While Stefano fluttered around, Rodrigo remained on the couch, poking at his laptop and pretending not to listen. When he got up to use the bathroom, Stefano whispered, “What’s the matter with Tinker Bell?”
“He’s down on Hollywood, for some reason.”
“Oh, please. All these people come here looking for love. Not of a man or love of a woman—but love from everybody . And when they’re not instantly discovered, it’s like, ‘Why are you all so stupid that you can’t see my utter fabulousness?’ Probably Tinker Bell had one of his screenplays rejected. Again.”
“He told you about his writing?” I whispered.
“Ugh!” Stefano ran a comb through my hair, careful not to tug. “He told me, he told my assistant, he told my cat —who should be around here somewhere, BTW. I hope you’re not allergic.”
He lowered his voice back into the murmuring range. “Anyhoo, I know some independent producers who read the script. Bear in mind, these are rich kids whose daddies set them up so they can read screenplays all day and buy independent films as a hobby. They’ve never actually produced anything in their lives, and even they said it stunk. One called it self-indulgent garbage, one said it was derivative crap, and the third called it . . . well, something that might offend those lovely shell-shaped ears.”
Rodrigo came out of the bathroom and settled back among the pillows. Stefano straightened and began to whistle. He brushed a stinky white solution onto my hair and wrapped it, piece by piece, in foil. while Rodrigo tapped away on his computer.
“Writing another screenplay, Rod?” Stefano asked him.
Rodrigo kept his eyes on his laptop. “Yes.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t give up your dreams. You’ve got too much talent to let it go to waste.”
It took all my strength to keep my face neutral.
Rodrigo seemed to ignore him, but I guess he was just screening for sarcasm. “Thank you,” he said at last.
When my hair was entirely encased in foil, Stefano lead me to an empty loveseat, draping it with a throw blanket so the chemicals on my head couldn’t endanger the velvet. “Champagne?”
“Seriously?”
He looked up at the tin ceiling and sighed. “Well, okay. It’s technically sparkling wine because it’s from Sonoma , and you can’t call something champagne unless it’s from the Champagne region in France.”
This was so much better than teaching eight-year-olds how to hula hoop.
Stefano disappeared for a moment before returning with a tall glass and a stack of reading material.
“ Variety , Vogue , Men’s Health , or Fit Pregnancy ?”
“No Us Weekly ? No
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