Stephen was the first friend I made when I got this job. He’s hilarious and loyal, though gossip is his self-admitted weakness. He filled me in on all the office drama before I even had a chance to meet everyone. I don’t recommend this—it made for some awkward introductions—but we were inseparable after that. He’s also a southern expat, so we just get each other like few others do.
I stand and stretch, ambling out to his desk. He holds up Red Vines and dark chocolate M&M’S, which he knows are my favorite. I grab the Red Vines just to keep him guessing.
This is our evening routine. Before Stephen leaves for the night, we catch up on the day’s goings-on—though it’s more like Stephen catching me up on gossip since I’m completely clueless. He once confided that the candy stash is his secret weapon. Guilty consciences seek guilty calories.
“You look tired,” Stephen announces without preamble. Ah, my least favorite insult in disguise.
“Should I smile more, too?”
“Ooh, someone’s cranky. Bad day?”
“Terrible.” I kick off my heels and collapse onto the communal couch, propping my legs up on the table. I need a pedicure. “You would not believe this guy I had to meet with over in Hammond’s office.”
“Do tell.” Stephen swivels around in his chair and rips open the bag of M&M’S, spilling them all over his desk and cursing. “Today’s been super boring, so spill.”
“First of all, he showed up half an hour late for our meeting, thenhad this chip on his shoulder the whole time, like I was the one wastinghistime.”
Stephen wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”
“And then he goes on and on about how busy he is rewriting the tax code. Like I’m supposed to be impressed.”
“So he’s working on tax reform? That’s got to be pretty intense right now.”
“Excuse me, Stephen.” I snap my fingers at him. “We do notcareabout him.Iam the injured party here. Please focus.”
He covers his heart with his hand. “What was I thinking? Empathy for others is so ten years ago. Carry on.”
“You should have seen him. The guy was a human Goliath. Like a linebacker, only bigger. I would have been afraid of him if he wasn’t such a douchebag.”
“Was he good-looking?” He throws an M&M up in the air and catches it in his mouth.
“Good-looking? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“I have, and you just referred to him as a football player, which implies muscles, which has piqued my interest. Many jerks are, unfortunately, attractive. So, was he?”
“That, that—doesn’t matter!” I sputter. “I wasn’t there to get a date. I was there to get my bill passed!”
He raises his hands, placating. “Calm down. I’m asking for a reason. Maybe he was acting out because he was into you. Guys are immature that way, you know. Or maybe he was intimidated by you. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He leans toward me, resting his chin on his hand. “Important question. Did you use your hair on him?”
“Oh my God, you and my hair,” I groan.
“What? If I had your hair, God knows I’d be using it to bring men to their knees.”
“Oh, really? In theworkplace?”
“Why not? You’re much too scrupulous. You and yourethics,” he says with exaggerated air quotes, and I laugh in spite of myself. “Give that glorious head of hair a toss, bat those baby blues, and any man will be putty in your hands.” He dramatically flips a pretend mane.
“I’ll remember that next time I’mout of the officetrolling for guys.”
Stephen’s exaggerating, but like a lot of southern women, I have big hair. It’s long and blond and, honestly, I’m more vain about it than I’d like to admit. I baby it with absurdly expensive products and bimonthly cuts at an overpriced salon in Georgetown. I’m not proud.
I blame my mother for this. She’s beautiful and I’ve spent my life chasing her perfection. At forty-five, she still turns men’s heads in the street—and rocks long hair like she’s Christie Brinkley. It’s one of the reasons I can’t bring myself to crop it shorter; it’s one of the few things that reminds me of home. When I moved north, I dropped my accent but kept my hair.
What I always considered an asset, though, quickly proved a liability in the restrained, austere world of government. In my first week of work alone, I’d fielded so many Elle Woods jokes—and naughty intern jokes—that I considered shaving my head entirely. Instead, I started taming it into submission any way I knew how, which usually means restraining it in a boring bun, like today.
“I’m just saying, God gave you that hair for a reason. You’re a fool if you don’t use it to your advantage.”
“That wouldn’t have worked with this guy, trust me. He was all angry snorting bull, insult this, boast that.” I massage the back of my neck, drained. “I guess my chances of getting Hammond on board now are slim to none, and Slim just left town, as my gramps would say.”
