Everyone turns as I walk into the room, parting and providing me an uninhibited view of the lady with an exciting date. “Oh my God,” I squeal, more than say, as I spot Arlene standing in the center of the action. “Look at you!”
A metallic zing sounds as Wanda finishes zipping up the royal blue dress with a bowed sash that tucks in the waist.
The flowy, butterfly sleeves of her dress billow as she reaches up and fluffs the loosely curled bob and fringe of sideswept bangs. “Leora cut my hair.”
“It suits you. Wow, Leora.” I seek her face among the others and shoot a smile. “The cut is incredible, and so is the color.”
“That’s Arlene’s natural strands, plus a dab of toner—”
“Ooh! You have to try my special shampoo,” Gertie hollers from the end of the bed, and the rest of us exchange glances of sheer panic.
“Rather than dyeing and dealing with upkeep,” Leora quickly says, “we decided to let the silver shine through, cutting layers that added volume and brought out the depth of her natural color.”
Leora fiddles with the ends of Arlene’s curls, spritzing them with hairspray while Wanda loops a chunky silver and pearl statement piece I’ve already objected to around Arlene’s throat—evidently, I don’t get a vote until I have “crepey neck skin” (their words), so something to look forward to, for sure.
As the mist clears, everyone beams at one another, and I get to showering Arlene with the confidence she deserves. Leora went subtle but a hint smoky on the eyes, and rosy pops of color on her lips and cheekbones are accentuated by the new hairdo.
“See? Didn’t I tell you joining forces would lead us to a style that’s perfectly you?” I spin her around for confirmation from the rest of the ladies, not caring if I’m coming off braggy, as they’d initially been against my suggesting anything. “Mutual satisfaction all around.”
“Let me guess,” Grandma Helen snarks, “That’s what we’re having a class on next.”
Everyone cackles, leaning against the footboard of the bed and the dresser and walls as they laugh at me.
Sticking out my tongue, I ball up a cashmere scarf that has no business even existing in weather this muggy and toss it at my grandma.
Nervousness creeps into the line of Arlene’s spine, and she begins winding the end of the sash round and round her hand, until a few of her fingers lose color.
“You have a classic Hollywood vibe going, and best of all…” I gently take her by the shoulders and angle her toward the full-length mirror. “Check out that smile. You look happy, radiant, and like you’re about to knock a guy off his feet.”
“I don’t know about all that,” Arlene says, quick to shrug off compliments—as though she’s so unaccustomed, she has no clue what to do with them.
“Better check the mirror again.” We both peer at the reflective surface, and as more faces pop up behind us, I’m filled with such love at the adoration and encouragement. “I see bravery, kindness, and resilience. I see a woman who deserves security, love, and acceptance. She’s had to pick herself up and carve out a new, more joyous life centered on herself, and with the help of her friends, she’s killin’ it, too. I see you, Arlene. We all do,” I say, and five other heads bob in agreement.
The corners of her mouth tighten and purse, doubt creeping in at the quiver of her chin. “I feel like one of those fancy actresses in the movies,” she blurts, eyes shiny with happy tears and her spreading smile morphing into a giggle. “I can’t believe that’s me. That I’m still in there.”
Witnessing the transformation leaves me blinking back tears as well, and it has nothing to do with the surface-level modernization of wardrobe, makeup, and hair. It’s not easy, uncovering and accepting our most vulnerable inner self.
“There you are,” I say. “Perfect as you are, too.”
Arlene whips around and hugs me with such force I nearly topple into Leora and Wanda.
They join the embrace, the light squeak of bedsprings and winding of additional arms signaling Gertie, Vonetta, and my grandma have joined the hug as well.
“You know that pep talk could apply to you, too,” Grandma Helen says low in my ear, folding my hand into hers.
“Of course,” I say, clasping her hand in return. While I understand the logic and freely apply it to others, I’ve never been good at letting me off the hook.
If I run fast enough from dawn to dusk, most days I can outrace the feelings of inadequacy caused by the fact that my mother made me raise myself and three siblings to earn her love. Oh, and she thinks I’ve done a shit job.
I’ll never forget the day I finally voiced my feelings of unfairness, pleading for a break from my youngest brother, who at three, called me Mom as often as he did the woman who birthed us.
That was the day she sardonically labeled me a princess.
Oh sure, princess. You just sit there. I’ll do it all.
Anytime I’d reply I was too swamped with homework to cook dinner, she’d hurl the insult at me again, another dart in my skin. That voice stayed in my head for far too long, and after spending a decade berating myself for every mistake, it’s taking longer than I’d like to quiet the criticism and crank up the grace.
The doorbell rings, and we scatter like a flock of noisy geese. Honking and searching for bags and jackets and keys—“and prophylactics just in case,” I proclaim—as we waddle in a group toward the door.
