Kira Coplin - Pop Tart

‘No, I have to have them, they complete my whole–my whole, well you know, my “Pillow Talk” vibe or whatever you want to call it,’ she said.

‘Pillow talk?’ I asked, forgetting to reference my call sheet once more.

‘That’s my first single–have you heard my album? It’s the song about being best friends forever…do you know it?’

Ignoring her question I looked down at the bag of hair again. ‘Your hair has so much body the way it is, you really should try wearing it the way you have it now.’ I winced, hoping she would just go along and agree with me.

‘I really need them…I can’t shoot “Pillow Talk” without them,’ she pleaded, wide-eyed. I imagined that any other girl in her position would’ve either thrown a fit or fired me by that point, but Brooke stared up at me like a child begging to stay up past her bedtime. In all honesty, it would’ve been easier if she wasn’t so sweet, and I realized that there was no getting out of it.

‘All right, you’re the boss,’ I said, trying as hard as I could to appear upbeat as I plunged my hand into the bag full of hairy little extension pieces in disgust. Here goes nothing , I thought as I struggled with one of the snap clips.

‘Oh here,’ Brooke, seeing my struggle, said. As I watched her miraculously pop the clip open by simply applying pressure to the ends with her fingers, I knew I had blown my cover– I couldn’t even open the damn things . To my surprise, she handed it right back to me, thinking nothing of it.

‘So, who usually does your hair?’ I asked her sorting through weft pieces of varying widths, contemplating which ones to use.

‘Oh, sometimes my ma does it, or my friend Hayley. I had been using this one lady from back home for a while. She was supposed to come up here with me today but she has… arthritis real bad?’ She posed the bit of information to me as a question, as if she was suddenly scared she had confused arthritis with algorithm, or another word starting with the letter a that she didn’t quite understand.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ I answered, signaling that she had used the correct term.

‘Yeah, I don’t know much about it but her wrists and stuff swell up pretty bad–it’s hard for her to grip things…’

‘Oh man,’ I hummed unenthusiastically, hoping our conversation was distracting her from the disaster that was slowly becoming her head. To create a ‘fuller look’ (or at least that’s what I told myself I was doing), I had stacked the pieces on top of one another. Clipping in the last piece, I stepped back to survey my work, which to my horror resembled a stacked perm with hair of entirely uniform length.

‘You did that fast! I’ve never had anyone put them in without straightening my hair first–it saves so much time,’ she squealed, the color draining from my face as I realized I skipped a vital step. She swiveled around in her chair and I braced myself for tears–hers following my own. Now, face-to-face with my new ‘head creation,’ she pondered her reflection in the mirror for a few seconds before erupting into a big smile.

‘I look just like Cleopatra in that one movie!’

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