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“Oh, it’s my own special blend,” he says with a wink, and I pull my hand out of his.
“Are you making a sexual innuendo that implies that your special blend is your spunk? ‘Cause, if so, that is so nasty,” I say.
“Nasty? Oh, sweet baby Jesus. You said nasty and you sound just like Dolly! Please tell me you’re a customer and you’re going to come in at least once a week.” He throws his head back dramatically.
“I might come back once a week if this is the reception I get. I feel special,” I say with a cheeky smile.
“You are special. And hot to trot, too. But, we can’t stand here gabbing all day. Tanaka is a stickler for time, even for too-hot-to-trot blonde bombshells with great tits.” He gives me an exaggerated wink and grin, grabs me by the elbow, and leads me to the receptionist desk.
I’m totally charmed by him. People who can talk to anyone amaze me.
“What time is your appointment?” he asks as he leads me back to the reception desk.
“It’s at seven-thirty. Color, cut, and blow out,” I say, excitedly.
“Okay. I’m going to need you to fill out all the paperwork again,” he says and hands me a clipboard.
I look down at the stack of papers and recognize the first one. “I filled these out online when I made my appointment. Why did you have me do it if I was going to have to do it again?” I say and look at him quizzically. This is one of my biggest pet peeves, so my good humor fizzles.
He frowns sympathetically, either ignoring or missing my irritation. “I’m sorry. But your submission was all messed up. Your name was off, so we thought there might be other errors. I made the executive decision to delete it and have you do it again.” He pats my hand in more misguided sympathy. “Since we’re worried about the time, just fill out that top form, okay? You can do the rest while you’re under the dryer with your foils.” He winks.
I purse my lips but fill out the form quickly. “Filling out redundant forms will not get between me and the magician who’s going to be like the miller’s daughter in Rumpelstiltskin and turn this hay into gold,” I say and then cringe at the high-pitched fangirl tone in my voice. “Sorry,” I mutter to Noé without looking up at him.
“No problem, Dolly. She’s a legend and we get people in here acting like they’re about to be baptized. You’re tame. For now. Wait till you get done with your hair, you’ll be like one of those television pastors. It’s why our advertising budget is zero,” he says proudly.
I hand him the paper, and he frowns. He blinks up at me and then looks back at the paper and says, “Your name is Confidence?” he asks.
“Yes. I know it’s unusual, weird, whatever. But it’s mine,” I say.
“I erased your e-submission because I thought it was an error. What a fucking fabulous name,” he says.
“Thank you,” I grin.
“But, I’m still calling you Dolly ‘cause that is how I’ll always think of you,” he
says.
“Fair enough. There are a lot worse things than being named after an idol,” I agree.
“Okay, come on back. Let me get you settled in Tanaka’s chair. We book our clients so everyone has thirty minutes where they have her exclusive attention. Since its your first time, she’ll have a lot of questions. I’ll get you some champagne to sip while you’re chatting,” he says.
“I was thinking more like coffee,” I say and then swallow down the saliva that floods my mouth at the word. “Or maybe something that’s more suitable for morning consumption,” I say.
“I’ll add orange juice to your mimosa,” he says and walks me back to the room where one chair sits facing a full-wall mirror. Next to it is a small stand cluttered with flat irons, brushes, and bottles of product.
“Have a seat. Tanaka will be here in less than a minute.” He pats my shoulder lightly and turns to leave. “I’ll be back with your mimosa. I squeeze the juice fresh, so it will be a few,” and then he disappears through a door in the back of the room.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Do I really look like Dolly Parton? I mean, I’m blonde, short, bigger-than-average breasts, bigger-than-average ass, tiny waist that I inherited from my father. My hair is unruly, but that’s because I haven’t washed it in two days and haven’t brushed it in a day. My bare shorts-clad legs dangle several inches off the floor, the toes of my Top-Siders barely skim it when I try to reach. My stomach grumbles, and I put a hand over it. I should have eaten breakfast. I wonder if I could bribe someone to run across to Sweet and Lo’s for one of their ridiculously perfect almond croissants.
“Hey, I am Tanaka,” a loud, lyrical voice sings, yes, sings at me just before a very tall, very beautiful woman steps through the same door Noé had left through. She looks like Tara from True Blood, even down to the black leather jeans hugging her endlessly long legs.
“Hello …” I do my best Adele impersonation.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she shakes her head. “Only I sing,” she says pleasantly, but firmly.
“As it should be,” I admit.
“Your hair is a disaster,” she scolds. “What a waste of beautiful cuticles. You do not take care of it,” she says and picks up a few strands of my hair. She pulls a little magnifying glass out of her pocket and holds my hair under it.
