Sunny - Mona Lisa Darkening

His answer was just as practical and blunt. "You own the store, you won't have to pay." His tone softened, turned cajoling. "I know you do not feel inclined to do so, but can you not try this for me? Will you not at least allow me this attempt?"

He was shooting for a miracle, and that just wasn't going to happen, not with just a haircut and manicure. But looking at him, so hopeful, so handsome, so fair, with that tender, hopeful look in his eyes, it was impossible to say no.

"Okay," I said, gritting my teeth, "we can try this."

He didn't wait for me to change my mind. Faster than I could blink, he was out of the car and holding my door open. I found myself hustled inside the salon with almost indecent haste. There were quick hellos — everyone seemed to know Dontaine — then I was seated in a chair, a black crape snapped around my neck quicker than you could whistle. It was a highly effective strategy. Harder to say, "Sorry, I changed my mind" wearing that black crape around you. But then that was just probably my suspicious mind. They were probably as speedily efficient with all of their customers.

Once I was seated and draped, the stylist appeared. He was a trim little man in his later thirties, stylishly clothed and groomed. "Fabulous to see you, darling," he said, air kissing Dontaine's cheeks.

I raised an eyebrow. Darling ?

Dontaine's laughing eyes told me to behave. "This is Melvin," he said, introducing us. "The premiere stylist of New Orleans, a true artist in the field. And this is Lisa Hamilton, my good friend, the lady I told you about."

"Ah, yes," Melvin said, giving me a quick, thorough scrutiny. "A real challenge, but lots of potential, as you said. Daphne," he said to the young woman who had seated me. "Let Antoine know I'll be busy with her for two hours."

When she left to do his bidding, the premiere stylist of New Orleans ran his hands through my hair, checking its texture and thickness, lifting it and letting it fall from his fingers.

"You can't cut it short," I said, wanting to make that clear before he started.

"Yes, yes, sugar. I know," Melvin said, still concentrating on my hair and what he wanted to do with it. "Dontaine told me I had to keep it at least shoulder-blade long."

I relaxed and didn't say anything more after that. I mean, what could he do, length-restricted as he was? Not much more than trim it, right?

Wrong. Really wrong. I got an idea of just how wrong I was when he left and returned with a hair-coloring chart composed of different strands of hair ranging from jet-black to white-blond.

"You're going to color my hair?"

Melvin sniffed. "I do not just color people's hair." He held up different shades of brown against my hair, my skin. "I blend colors together like a palette, not just one color but several. Now, hush-hush. Let me concentrate."

I hush-hushed and let him concentrate… until he held up some lighter color samples against me.

"Not blond," I said.

"No, sugar." He rolled out the last word, dropping the r, so that it came out sounding like sugah. "Dontaine said you weren't likely to agree to that." Making me wonder if all that fast efficiency when we first stepped inside hadn't been good strategy after all. "Though you really would look lovely as a blonde," he said hopefully.

"Forget it," I said, scowling.

"Then we will simply lighten the color and add in some highlights."

He lied. It wasn't simple at all. He brushed this alarming rust-colored paste into random bits of my hair, and wrapped it in foil. Then he started to slather this yucky blue paste over all my remaining hair. When I asked if he was dying my hair blue, Melvin laughed, hush-hushed me again, and proceeded to make me look like this bizarrely painted alien antenna. I wondered briefly if all that aluminum foil crunched up around my head would draw lightning during a storm. What a stupid thing that would be, to get struck by lightning. Maybe I was being paranoid but weirder things had happened to me lately. But no storms came. And no angry lightning bolts zapped down from the sky to strike my head.

For once I was thankful for my diminished sense of smell — all my senses were duller now. Even so, the chemical smell was foul. I don't know how Dontaine stood it, but he did, sitting nearby in a chair they had brought out for him. He flipped through a fashion magazine, smiling at me when our glances met — mine uncomfortable, impatient; his soft and tender, indulgent. A look that, along with his attentiveness, screamed boyfriend. I got a lot of envious looks from the salon girls, all of them young and pretty. And even from a few older clients busy having their hair done by other stylists.

When Melvin had finally finished applying all the dye, a girl named Tammy came out and did my manicure while the dark wet goop stained its way into my hair.

When she asked me what color nail polish I wanted, I said, "Clear." She glanced at Dontaine. When she got his nod of approval, she briskly and efficiently got down to business, finishing up just as the timer for my hair dinged. They washed the dye out, and sat me back down. I had a brief glimpse of my turbaned head before Melvin spun me around so I was no longer facing the mirror. He took the towel off, and with little scissors in hand, began snipping away. He trimmed the ends, a very simple straight cut across the bottom. I assumed he was finished. He wasn't. He was only getting started. He gathered up a hunk of hair, holding it straight up and out. Snip, snip went the scissors, and a clump of hair at least three inches long fell to the floor.

"I thought you were keeping it long."

"I am, sugar. Just adding in some long layers. Lightening up all that thick weight."

He was very detailed and meticulous in his cut. Quite different from what I was used to. At one point, he actually rolled and twisted up different sections of my hair, cutting across the ends of them as he let them untwirl. He spent over an hour on me, the longest haircut I'd ever gotten. No doubt the most expensive, had I had to pay for it.

When he was done cutting, yet another girl came out and set up a camcorder and tripod. She pressed a button and a red light came on.

"You're recording this?" I asked.

"Yes," Melvin said. "So you'll be able to see what I'm doing and duplicate this style later."

"Why don't you just show me how to do it now?"

"It's a surprise, darling," he said, eyes twinkling.

A surprise. Sure. But I could be tactful sometimes. I kept my mouth closed while he gooped up his hands with styling gel, and proceeded to rub it into my hair. Yuck.

The blow-dryer whined as my hair was pulled in all different directions by a twisting, twirling brush. If Melvin or Dontaine thought I was going to do this every day, they were delusional.

Finally, the whining blow-dryer clicked off. My neck was dusted off, and the protective cape removed. Finished, I thought. But I should have known better by now. Before I could move, another little man came striding up. He was pretty like Melvin, and flamboyantly gay. Shadow accented his eyes, mascara darkened his lashes, and ruby color brightened his lips and cheeks. He was darkly complected, both skin and hair, with a slim oval face and these really high, sculptured cheekbones like Prince, the singer, before he became know as the Artist Known as… whatever.

He sauntered up to us and air kissed first Melvin, then Dontaine, who stood up to greet him. I stood as well as Dontaine introduced me to Antoine.

Instead of shaking my hand, he kissed it. "A pleasure, mademoiselle." His eyes shifted to Dontaine. "And a real challenge, as you said. Yes, yes." He gave me that same scrutinizing look that Melvin had given me, but this one didn't stop at my neck, it continued all the way down to my feet. "Wonderful, wonderful," he said, eyes traveling back up to my face. "You have begun the process, my dear Melvin. Now I will finish it."