my sink. “Mind if I wash your hair here?”
I shake my head. He closes his suitcase and has me sit on it, folds a towel over the edge of the counter, and gently leans my head back. Warm water sprays over my hair, tickling my scalp at the base of my neck, sending reverberations through the muscles of my back. He massages my head, fingers kneading deep, and I think of dough. Rinse, condition, rinse. He squeezes the wetness from my ends and wraps me in a turban. I stand, wobbly, my body soft beneath his fingers.
“Is this what you mean by chillage?” I ask.
He grins. “You just let León take care of you.”
As he paints my hair and twists the foil around it, I listen to them talk of television shows and trendy nightspots and people they both know but I’ll never meet. I realize how confined my days are, to the two floors of this building and the stairway between them. To the Coop once a week and Target, four miles away, when I need a shower curtain or a new notebook. But León and Janska also live on their own narrow island of reality, limiting their daily tasks to what fits them best.
While waiting for the color to set, Janska manicures my nails, clipping away teepees of dead skin at the cuticles and filing ragged keratin edges. Her own are painted aqua to match her top and set with tiny rhinestones, long and shiny, Egyptian scarabs perched on the end of each finger. “Um, what were you thinking for me?” I ask.
Laughing, she says, “Just a coat of clear polish. If that’s okay.”
I nod.
Patrice Olsen does understand people. I would not have been able to handle all this in the network bus surrounded by unfamiliar words, smells, noise. In my own space it’s bearable. When I look at my hands and don’t recognize them, there’s something else I know. The chipped Formica table I bought at the Salvation Army and love because the top is the perfect shade of Oma Opal , just like my grandmother had in her small cottage. The braided wool rug, a spiral rainbow hiding the drab commercial carpeting already installed here when I rented it. The loveseat, with its two wrinkled canvas cushions. The slightly yellowed light. I can breathe here.
Janska finishes my manicure and asks to see my closet. “I’m wardrobe too. Did you have any thoughts about what you wanted to wear Saturday?”
I shrug, gesture to the clothes I have on now, linen-look drawstring shorts and a sleeveless blouse. “I don’t know. Something like this?”
“Do you have anything more . . . fun?”
“No.”
“Let’s take a look anyway.”
She opens the bedroom closet and stares at the few things I own. “What about this?” she asks, removing a gauzy tunic-style shirt with a bold, violet geometric design tumbling over it. “The tag is still on.”
“I bought it on clearance a couple years ago, but every time I put it on I just feel too . . . I don’t know. Too purple, maybe?”
“It’s perfect for the camera. With these.” She takes a pair of dark capri jeans, cuffed beneath the knee, off the hanger. They are hand-me-downs from Gretchen. “Great. That was simple.”
León beckons me back to the kitchen, to the waiting chair at the sink, where he removes the foil from my hair, rinses it, and buffs it until damp. Then I’m coated with a plastic cape and he cuts a part in the middle of my head and combs my hair straightagainst my cheeks. Seaweed , I think, reminded of my time at the ocean as a child.
“What do you think of bangs?” León asks, twisting chunks of hair into alligator-mouthed clips.
“I haven’t had them since I was ten.”
“They’re making a comeback. On you, anyway. You have too much forehead without them.”
My cheeks burn. “Oh.”
“I’ll keep enough length for you to be able to pull it up out of your face still.”
“How much are you taking off?”
“To the shoulders. A smidge more.”
“That’s how long it is already.”
“Oh my. Janska, we pegged her right. She doesn’t look in the
I shake my head. He closes his suitcase and has me sit on it, folds a towel over the edge of the counter, and gently leans my head back. Warm water sprays over my hair, tickling my scalp at the base of my neck, sending reverberations through the muscles of my back. He massages my head, fingers kneading deep, and I think of dough. Rinse, condition, rinse. He squeezes the wetness from my ends and wraps me in a turban. I stand, wobbly, my body soft beneath his fingers.
“Is this what you mean by chillage?” I ask.
He grins. “You just let León take care of you.”
As he paints my hair and twists the foil around it, I listen to them talk of television shows and trendy nightspots and people they both know but I’ll never meet. I realize how confined my days are, to the two floors of this building and the stairway between them. To the Coop once a week and Target, four miles away, when I need a shower curtain or a new notebook. But León and Janska also live on their own narrow island of reality, limiting their daily tasks to what fits them best.
While waiting for the color to set, Janska manicures my nails, clipping away teepees of dead skin at the cuticles and filing ragged keratin edges. Her own are painted aqua to match her top and set with tiny rhinestones, long and shiny, Egyptian scarabs perched on the end of each finger. “Um, what were you thinking for me?” I ask.
Laughing, she says, “Just a coat of clear polish. If that’s okay.”
I nod.
Patrice Olsen does understand people. I would not have been able to handle all this in the network bus surrounded by unfamiliar words, smells, noise. In my own space it’s bearable. When I look at my hands and don’t recognize them, there’s something else I know. The chipped Formica table I bought at the Salvation Army and love because the top is the perfect shade of Oma Opal , just like my grandmother had in her small cottage. The braided wool rug, a spiral rainbow hiding the drab commercial carpeting already installed here when I rented it. The loveseat, with its two wrinkled canvas cushions. The slightly yellowed light. I can breathe here.
Janska finishes my manicure and asks to see my closet. “I’m wardrobe too. Did you have any thoughts about what you wanted to wear Saturday?”
I shrug, gesture to the clothes I have on now, linen-look drawstring shorts and a sleeveless blouse. “I don’t know. Something like this?”
“Do you have anything more . . . fun?”
“No.”
“Let’s take a look anyway.”
She opens the bedroom closet and stares at the few things I own. “What about this?” she asks, removing a gauzy tunic-style shirt with a bold, violet geometric design tumbling over it. “The tag is still on.”
“I bought it on clearance a couple years ago, but every time I put it on I just feel too . . . I don’t know. Too purple, maybe?”
“It’s perfect for the camera. With these.” She takes a pair of dark capri jeans, cuffed beneath the knee, off the hanger. They are hand-me-downs from Gretchen. “Great. That was simple.”
León beckons me back to the kitchen, to the waiting chair at the sink, where he removes the foil from my hair, rinses it, and buffs it until damp. Then I’m coated with a plastic cape and he cuts a part in the middle of my head and combs my hair straightagainst my cheeks. Seaweed , I think, reminded of my time at the ocean as a child.
“What do you think of bangs?” León asks, twisting chunks of hair into alligator-mouthed clips.
“I haven’t had them since I was ten.”
“They’re making a comeback. On you, anyway. You have too much forehead without them.”
My cheeks burn. “Oh.”
“I’ll keep enough length for you to be able to pull it up out of your face still.”
“How much are you taking off?”
“To the shoulders. A smidge more.”
“That’s how long it is already.”
“Oh my. Janska, we pegged her right. She doesn’t look in the
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