A Girl Like You by vinnie Kinsella (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

for your hair,” Maddy said, getting up to help me dry the wiggling Penny. “And I suppose you don’t use a good thermal conditioner?”

“What’s that?”

“Geez, Mom, how can you not know anything about hair products?”

I shrugged. “I don’t watch TV. Sue me.”

I set Penny down and she bolted into the living room to roll around on the carpet to dry herself.

“What does your hair look like if you let it dry naturally?”

“A very fashionable frizzy mess,” I said, rinsing out the sink.

“You can’t keep wearing ponytails. It’s just not sophisticated. I’m making you an appointment to get something done with it.”

“I don’t have time.”

“And I’m going with you,” Madison said, talking at the same time as me.

Three days later, Madison dragged me to Le Boutique, literally a pink house with a peppermint-striped awning.

“Jessica?” asked the receptionist, running her lacquered nails down an appointment book. I had to admit, her hair did not look fried. I could barely remember what healthy hair looked like, but hers was glossy.

“You’re here for a makeover?” she said cheerily.

“What? No, haircut—”

“Yes, she’s here for the works,” Madd interrupted.

Over the next two hours, my eyebrows were threaded and dyed, my feet scrubbed and legs massaged (OK, that part I didn’t mind), nails painted an orangey-red, lips outlined with a lip pencil that actually made them appear fuller. I tried my smile in the mirrors as I sat in the hair cutting chair. Eh, still too forced, like I was saying “cheese” for an unwanted photo.

“OK, well, we need to do some trimming,” the blonde stylist said. She was wearing a leopard sheath dress and stilettos that looked like she was heading to a club the minute she got out of work.

“Just the ends,” I said, slumped in the pink plastic cape she had draped over me. “I want to leave it long enough to put in a ponytail.”

“Right, just the damaged hair then.”

I closed my eyes and prayed I wouldn’t leave the salon with a shoulder-length bob.

The stylist ran clippers through my wet hair so fast I couldn’t tell what in hell she was doing to me, but it looked like an awful lot of hair on the floor. She spun my chair, clipped some more, then had me flip my head upside down while she sprayed something good-smelling from my scalp to my ends. Then there was lots of spraying, scrunching, and detangling. By the time she was done, my hair had air-dried.

“Voilà,” she said, swinging the cape off me dramatically. “You look like a whole new woman!”

She swiveled me around so I could look in the mirror. My hair had always been straight, until I had the kids, when it turned wiry and frizzy. But the stylist had worked miracles. My curls were neat spirals, springing back in place when I pulled on them. Best of all, my hair was still below my shoulders.

“Oh my God, Mombo!” Madison dropped her magazine and ran to my side. “You look ten years younger!”

“Now, here’s what you need to do this at home,” the receptionist said as I cashed out and left with shampoo, pre-conditioner, conditioner, detangler, curling gel, shine spray, and a whole lot more self-esteem.

Despite liberal use of the products, I didn’t achieve the same look as I had when I left the salon, but at least my hair no longer looked fried. After a few days, I mastered the lip pencil and when I practiced smiling in the mirror, I didn’t quite recognize myself. It was as if I were becoming a new version of myself.

Was I getting to a better place? Maybe.

35

It was a rainy Monday and everyone at the office, even Jerky, was in a bad mood. The rain left streaks on the windows and robbed the Three Stooges of their clear view of the downtown sidewalks. Jerky abandoned his post on the chair near the door and went to lie under the conference table. Wes had been sleeping most of the morning, snoring lightly, a sputtering sound followed by a whistle. We were all used to his sleeping sounds by then.

I was on my cell, shopping Amazon for compression socks. I’d read somewhere they helped tone calf muscles. Occasionally, I shuffled papers around on my desk, trying to look busy so Joe wouldn’t pile more bills on me to reconcile. I had begun having recurring dreams about falling asleep at my desk, and some days this seemed plausible.

Joe was uncharacteristically quiet.

“For Pete’s sake, someone tell a joke or something,” Paulie said. “It’s like a morgue in here.”

“Knock-knock,” said Sal.

“Who’s there?” Paulie said, sitting up straighter.

“A little old lady.”

“A little old lady who?”

“I had no idea you could yodel,” Sal said, laughing. “Don’t know where I heard that one…I crack myself up.”

Paulie yawned.

“Good one, Sal,” I said, putting my phone down.

“Thanks! Wanta hear another?”

“Sure.”

“Knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?” I asked.

“Cash.”

“Cash who?”

“No thanks,” Sal said, laughing so hard he could barely finish his joke. “I’d rather have some peanuts.”

I smiled at Sal. He had a good heart.

We sat in silence. I could actually hear the seconds on the wall clock tick by.

“Suppose we should start in on them tax reports,” Joe said.

But when he made no effort to move, neither did I.

Wes snored so loudly he woke himself up. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and pulled his suspenders back up on his shoulders.

“Hey Joe, how’s the missus? Haven’t heard you say much about her in some time now,” Wes said.

Joe put down the squeeze ball he’d been kneading and sighed heavily.

“Ellen’s in Florida. Visiting her sister.”

“Lucky her,” Paulie said. “How long’s she down there?”

Joe sighed again, then dug in his drawer for a mint, which he unwrapped, sniffed, and threw away.

“Don’t know, really. She said a month, but now it’s kinda open-ended.”

Joe’s wife Ellen stopped into the office from time to time. She reminded me of Mrs. Claus, pink-cheeked and buxom. They’d been married for more than thirty years. I knew all about the low-carb diet she was trying to