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Makayla brushed back her flying tresses. “It is and think what you want of the Upper Peninsula, but I love it here. It’s a different world.”
“I can see that.”
Passing over the 2.8-mile bridge Donja marveled at the glistening waters. “Big river,” she said.
“It’s broad, but short for a river. It’s only seventy-five miles long in its entirety, but it’s impressive,” Makayla chimed. “It starts up at Whitefish Bay. Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“It’s quaint, but historic. Lake Superior drains in that area forming the river which takes a drastic fall, with intense rapids, hmm I think it’s about a twenty-three foot drop with a mad rush for Lake Huron. The rapids are why the French named these two cities, Sault Ste. Marie, Sault being the French word for—”
“Rapids,” Donja blurted. “My mom told me. Seems your dad has schooled her well.”
“Ahhh,” Makayla smiled.
Suddenly Donja sat erect, watching a thousand-foot vessel below them. “She’s an amazing lady this St. Mary.”
“Indeed,” Makayla smiled, “and she not only serves as an international border, but when her lover, Lake Superior, sends loving winds to embrace her waiting lips, she can turn volatile with passionate swells, capsizing any vessel that disturbs their love affair.”
“That’s eerily romantic,” Donja breathed.
“My dad told me that,” Makayla beamed with admiration. “He’s a hopeless romantic.” She paused the music. “Get your license out.”
Donja looked ahead as cars were lining up to pass through customs. Her heart palpated, and it dawned on her that St. Joseph was fading…something she never expected to happen. Her friends, especially Debbie, flashed in her mind and then by no will of her own, Kevin. She remembered his eyes, his lips and that cute little twitch he got on his jaw when he was nervous.
Makayla eased forward, following a line of cars. Donja, taken by curiosity, scanned customs with booths and wooden barriers reminiscent of the Chicago toll roads. Washed in memories, she felt a bit melancholic but when they stopped to show their license the newness of the situation erased her thoughts.
Leaving customs, Makayla sped past traffic like a silver bullet and it occurred to Donja that this fancy Lexus was nothing short of a race car compared to her old banger.
Straight ahead Donja saw a sign that said, ‘Welcome to Ontario.’
“Are you ready for an adventure, birthday girl?” Makayla shouted.
“Bring it on!” Donja laughed.
~~~
Déjà vu was an amazing establishment, unlike anything Donja had ever experienced. She and Makayla spent a half hour in the sauna, then got a massage. A manicure and pedicure had them giggling like fifth graders while deciding on nail colors. Makayla chose red and Donja eventually chose a deep burgundy. After ten minutes under a blue lighted nail dryer, they were escorted to a wall of sinks with lay down chairs. Donja closed her eyes and she felt completely pampered. After a shampoo and twenty-minute nap during deep conditioning, the shampoo and color specialist escorted her to the gallery where she was handed over to a male stylist named Dirk. He was lanky, built for speed with arched brows, purple hair, a thick French accent and a nose ring. He seated Donja in his swivel chair. All but enthralled, she couldn’t stop staring; he was flamboyant with a feminine facial quality unlike any male she had ever encountered.
Dirk, seeing Donja’s eyes in the mirror locked up on him, gave her a quick wink.
Rosy with embarrassment, Donja dropped her eyes.
He laughed boisterously and spun the chair left, then right, studying her facial structure. Finally, without a word, he began a love affair with her hair all the while eyeing her in the mirror. He snipped six to eight inches off the ends, added some soft layers, then removed her drape. “Mademoiselle,” he winked, “I’ll finish after your makeup.”
Across the room from the hairdressers, Donja and Makayla sat in swivel chairs side by side facing lighted mirrors as two makeup artists cleaned their faces with astringent. Donja closed her eyes and she felt completely giddy as the artist, makeup brush in hand set upon her newest masterpiece. Curious, Donja opened one eye to peek as the artist whose English was nil to none, finished her foundation and cheeks. Astonished, she opened the other, all the while holding her breath, trying not to blink as a picture began to develop before her very eyes. The clinician lined her eyes in black then used dark shadows on the outer edges, lighter near the nose. She plucked her dark brows, then with a brush and pencil arched them to perfection. Three coats of mascara finished off the eyes and then she worked magic on her lips. When the artist moved away and Donja saw the image staring back from the mirror, she froze.
Is that me?
The makeup artist contorted her face glancing back and forth from the mirror to Donja, then she babbled something in French which Donja didn’t understand.
“She wants to know if you like it?” Makayla chimed in.
Finding her voice, Donja blurted, “Yes…it’s unbelievable.”
“I told you,” Makayla said, just as another artist quieted her voice by painting her lips.
Donja climbed down from the chair and thanked the artist, who in her mind was a Leonardo da Vinci in the making. She strolled toward the hair salon, yet her steps faltered. Snared by the strangest of feelings, certain that she had left part of herself in that makeup chair, she came to a stop. She turned and glanced back to the lighted mirror. She raised a hand to her cheek.
