“Let’s talk to Hendrix. If she can get you in,andif she’ll be there, then we’ll see.”
That seems to mollify her for the time being and she nods, but her eyes stray to my head. A frown crinkles her brows. “What’s going on up there?”
She twirls a finger in the direction of my hair-nest.
“Carmen is out of town, so I did it myself and…” I reach up to tug on a wayward curl. “You don’t like it?”
“I mean, it’s aight.” Her crunchy face says otherwise. She steps into the bathroom and pulls at a few locks hanging rather limply around my face.
“I’d like to do better than ‘aight’ for my first date since…” I trail off, not wanting to open a can of worms.
“I get it, but that hairstyle ain’t it.”
“Any suggestions?” I ask, tying the belt of my robe tighter and propping my butt on the bathroom counter.
She eyes my hair critically. “What are you wearing?”
I point to a burnt-orange jumpsuit, which I found in the recesses of my closet, now hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
She splits a speculative glance between the outfit and me. “I’ll be right back.”
She returns carrying a large case by its handle. After placing it on the counter, she sets out a spray bottle, several products, and a diffuser.
“Sit.” She nods to the stool in front of my vanity.
After dampening my hair and adding a few curl-enhancing products, she pulls some goopy leave-in stuff through, separates the curls, and has me flip my hair upside down while she diffuses. Staring at the final result in the mirror, I gape at how different it looks. Way better than when I do it myself for sure. Actually as good as when Carmen does it.
“Wow, Day.” I stretch out one of the curls, watching it spring back. “You did a great job.”
“Not done yet.” She tilts her head consideringly, before digging into her magic box of hair supplies and extracting studded bobby pins. “Got these from the beauty supply store Aunt Hen took me to.”
She center-parts my hair, slicking the front, and then crisscrosses the studded pins all along the flattened sides, leaving a cloud of curls floating around my ears and to my shoulders.
I grab the hand mirror from the counter and examine my hair from all angles.
“This looks fantastic.” I glance back to her, a new pride swelling inside for my daughter. “You’re really good at this.”
“I know.” She doesn’t quite grin, but her lips do twitch like she’s holding it back. “So you like it?”
“I do.” I stand and grab the jumpsuit from the door, offering her an eager smile. “Wanna see it all together?”
The pleasure in her eyes withers as if she remembered she doesn’t actually like me anymore. “Nah, but will you let me know about theHotwivesthing with Aunt Hen?”
I thought we were having a moment. Anytime real connection seems within grasp for us, I say something, do something—I never know what—to ruin it.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll check with Hendrix and let you know.” I glance at her over my shoulder, managing a smile. “Thanks for your help, Day. I love it.”
She nods and turns to leave without another word. Sighing, I sit to do my makeup. The glittering bobby pins paired with gold and green eye shadow, my coppery lip color, and the bronzer on my cheeks make my face a striking palette of precious metals.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror wearing only my bra and underwear. I note the ample breasts that used to feel like a plague when I was younger, the striations of tiny stretch marks around my belly button, and all the subtle and not-so-subtle changes in my body over the years. I’ve learned not to criticize my thighs for being too round, but to be grateful for how I’ve been able to stand. I slip on a strapless sculpting body shaper and step into the jumper. It has a structured bodice that lifts my breasts so they’re likehello. The fabric, a lightweight wool and cashmere blend, hugs and skims the full curves of my hips and ass, falling in wide legs to brush the floor.
In the full-length closet mirror, the woman staring back at me is a stranger, or at the very least a long-lost person I haven’t seen in what feels like forever. Confident sensuality wraps around me like an invisible cloak. The burnt orange singes the deep copper-brown of my skin, exposing the strong curves of one bare arm and shoulder. The shaper cinches my waist, making the curve from back to butt and hips more marked, highlighting the dramatic dips and angles.
So many times my eyes in the mirror were vacant or bruised with sorrow. Tonight they are clear and kohl lined, seemingly darkened by mystery and secrets, a cat-eyed stare shining with anticipation. Laughing, I rush to the bedroom and grab my phone from the nightstand to FaceTime Hendrix and Soledad like I’d promised I would. One of Soledad’s girls has soccer practice tonight and Hendrix has a huge presentation tomorrow.
“Hey, ho,” Hendrix says into the camera, seated at her kitchen counter with an open laptop and a bowl of pho in front of her. “Let’s get the full picture.”
“Show us!” Soledad says from the front seat of her car.