Free Someone to Love by Addison Moore Page B

exploration.
    The Happy Hair and Nail salon sits nestled in
the same strip mall as Starbucks, so I head over and decide to cash
in on my hair and nail jackpot sponsored by none other than
Cruise’s own mother.
    I watch as the artisan carefully paints my
nails a candy apple red while another prods, pokes, and tickles
mercilessly at my feet. Secretly, I hate getting a pedi. I hate
having my toes scrubbed and molested, and every time they pull out
the clippers, it feels as if I’m having my nails chewed off by a
rabid school of fish. There’s nothing appealing about someone
playing with your feet, unless of course, it was Cruise at the helm
of the foot fondling, then I wouldn’t mind so much. Speaking of
which, I should have asked Lauren and Ally if there was something
special I should be doing to ready myself for my impending conjugal
union—like give myself a bikini wax in delicate places, or soak in
rose petals for thirty days straight. Not that I plan on waiting
thirty days before getting down and dirty with the boy toy in
question.
    Am I really trying to trick him into
boyfriend-hood? I’m not am I? Tricking someone into a relationship
is the earmark of a despicable person. I’m simply attracted to
Cruise and, it just so happens, not to anybody else. A part of me
does want to be a player—the girl with a heart of steel who could
care less about who I’m “playing” with at the moment, but it just
so happens he’s the only one I’m interested in sharing myself
sexually with. Anyway, school starts in a week, and I’ll probably
forget all about my hormones like I have in the past. I’m studious
that way, and professors and books rarely hold much sex appeal.
    After an hour of listening to foreign banter
that sounded like the aggressive plucking of guitar strings, I
schlep myself over to a bona fide workstation near the front of the
establishment.
    A frail woman with burnt frizzy hair plucks
at my locks while inspecting them with great interest. She wears a
purple frilly smock that bears the name “Boppy” emblazoned across
the front, complete with sparkly jewels bedazzled throughout. Her
blue fingernail polish is badly chipped, revealing a gardener’s
manicure just beneath the nail beds, and she’s sweating profusely
even though it’s a balmy two degrees in here.
    “Virgin!” She whoops it out like a fire
alarm.
    My God, can she really tell by looking at my
freaking hair? I sink in my seat as a half dozen women flock over
and pull my mane as if I’ve suddenly morphed into a one-woman
petting zoo.
    “Give her a shag,” one cries.
    “A perm, but go spiral. She’s got the
length,” another croaks.
    I’m quick to scoff at the idea. I can attest
to the fact there shall be no follicular felonies of the permanent
variety committed on my person this afternoon. The women admiring
my virginal tresses have obviously developed a contact high off the
ammonia congesting the air. Unless this quasi-dental chair they’ve
hiked me up in has some magical time machine properties, and we’ve
all been transported back to 1983, there’s no way in hell I’m
letting a spiral perm fly.
    Boppy leans in. “I’m doing highlights.” The
over-processed princess seizes me as if to ward off the angry
villagers. “This hair is crying for some contrast, and would you
look at those eyes? They’re bedroom eyes for God’s sake. She needs
bangs.” She shoos the other women away like unwanted pigeons.
“Don’t you worry, hon. I’ll have every man from here to Canada
trying to drag you off to bed.” She snaps her gum to annunciate the
point. “Let’s get you under the faucet.”
    “Oh, um, I washed my hair this morning. I
think all I really need is a little trim off the bottom.” The
thought of her digging her less than hygienic fingernails into my
scalp sends a rise of vomit to the back of my throat. I lean in and
whisper, “It’s my first time getting my hair done.” A cloud of
shame settles around me for no good