Rachel Glaser - Paulina & Fran

“Can you just straighten it? That’s what I want.”

“Are you sure? We have a chemical called KillKurl, but it’s permanent. It’s harsh on hair, and yours is already so dry. The SUPERCURL deep conditioner would revitalize it. You’ve got such beautiful curls—”

“Straighten it.”

The hairdresser looked at her with disdain. His own hair was tightly cropped to his head, but he moved with inherent style. “It’s a long, intense process. I’d have to apply it, let it sit, do my eleven o’clock, and then rinse it off. It breaks the natural bonds of the hair. It erases your hair’s memory.”

It smelled like burning. Fran sat under a dryer, her hair bundled and clipped in foil, fighting nature. Looking at the glossy fashion magazines on the table, Fran was stunned to see Paulina on the cover of Hair Monthly . Paulina had grown into the sophistication of her face, like it had been her face’s great plan all along. Fran ducked under the dryer to reach for the magazine. She found the article and started to read.

Paulina Hermanowitz, 26, is the young entrepreneur behind the curly hair revolution. The past two years have seen SUPERCURL double in revenue and become a salon favorite. SUPERCURL has deviated from industry standards with their new male campaign “Curls aren’t just for girls,” which has introduced their products to the other half of the population. Graphic designer Gretchen Peterson designed SUPERCURL’s new curlyboy logo.

Things haven’t always been easy for the new company. Hermanowitz was widely criticized last fall when she donated SUPERCURL products to the homeless in lieu of a monetary contribution.

Fran didn’t want to know any more. Things had wound themselves together too tightly. Fran flipped to the next article, detailing the ways hair changes during pregnancy. She spent a few minutes looking at an illustrated timeline of the history of braiding.

The dryer droned on. It warmed her ears until they stung. Fran could feel the chemical working. It was undoing all the senseless coils. Unconsciously, she started to compose a montage of hair memories — boys in middle school playing with her curls, pulling them and letting them bounce up, strangers stopping her on the street telling her how jealous they were.

Fran felt deserted under the dryer. The salon filled with gaudy suburban moms. The European hairdresser drifted about, teasing everyone, kissing customers good-bye on both cheeks. His eleven o’clock arrived — a teenage girl with thick, unruly curls. The hairdresser applied SUPERCURL Deep Conditioner while the girl’s mother looked on, relieved.

Finally the hairdresser raised the dryer’s head, took off the plastic shower cap, and led Fran to the sinks. “Rinse her, Amy,” he said, and the water started. The woman’s hands caressed Fran’s scalp. Fran remembered the time in the bathroom in college, exhausted from dancing. She thought about what train she would take, the J or the 6. Then it was back under the dryer. The hair dryer worked its anger at her. Don’t go to New York , it said. She had already quit Levrett-Mercer. Quitting Julian would leave her with nothing.

Fran’s new hair fell flatly away from her face. Instead of clinging together, it feathered out, escaping her. The hairdresser tried to act enthusiastic, but even he seemed to know that Fran had been condemned. “Give it a few days. The hair needs time to recover from the shock.” His phone chirped from his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, laughing quietly. He unsnapped the salon gown from Fran’s neck, releasing her from his responsibility. He talked cheerfully with the other customers while she fumbled with her wallet. The worst part was, she had to pay him for it. She had to tip him!

The next morning, Fran woke up hung over, thinking of Julian. Gradually, she recalled the small details of her life. It was Friday. She didn’t have to go to Levrett-Mercer. Fran wanted to rejoice! She got out of bed and started her morning routine. She would take an early train to Pittsburgh. If she got there early enough, she could cab to Julian’s and surprise him before he started work around lunchtime. This energized her. She started to throw socks and underwear into the old patchwork backpack. What was the weather in Lancaster this weekend? Fran didn’t have time to check.

The mirror stilled her. She took Paulina’s hair clip from her bureau and pinned back a section of limp hair. It didn’t improve it. Fran undid the clip and put it in her pocket. She wanted to scream. She wet her hair in the sink and it hung even straighter. She’d figure out something on the train.

Fran stood in front of the long bathroom mirror in Pittsburgh’s Penn Station. On one side of her, a young girl expertly applied lipstick. On the other side, a homeless woman rinsed her mouth. Fran tried ineffectually to twirl her damp hair into curls. The young girl watched with interest, before following her mother’s voice away from the sinks. Fran wet her hair down again and combed it out with her fingers.

She looked like an animal that had fallen in a pool. This was not ideal for a romantic getaway. She would have to get a perm somewhere. She had to get a perm now. She wandered through the station, pausing to think under the stunning rotunda, looking for a stranger who would let her use his phone. Strangers walked in every direction, but Fran hesitated, unable to stop them. They passed her silently. Some turned back to look at her, sensing that she wanted something from them. Couples passed hand in hand. Fran would never interrupt a couple. Couples were on their own journeys.

Finally, Fran saw a teenage girl pulling a rolling suitcase. The girl had short spiky hair. Fran approached her smiling. The girl listened reluctantly.

“I’m sick,” Fran said to Julian.

“Oh, baby, that’s horrible. What’s this number you’re calling me from?” She could tell she’d awakened him. She pictured how the light hit his bed in long stripes at this time of day.

“It’s the doctor’s office phone,” Fran said. The girl stared at her in disbelief.

“What’s wrong?”

“The flu, they think.”

“I’m going to come out there and take care of you.”

“No, no,” Fran said quickly. “Let’s just see each other next weekend. I’ll rest up for it.” The girl gave her a resentful look. Fran turned away from her.

“I have to wait a whole week?” He sounded forlorn.

“I’m really sorry. Maybe I’ll get there a day early.”

“What about work?” Julian asked. The girl sighed impatiently.

“I’ll take a sick day. I’m taking one right now.”

“Sounds like a plan, Fran,” he said with labored cheer.

“Can you get a refund on the room and the car?”

Fran pictured a cool, relaxing lake, a little white house with blue shutters, and a garden with gray, weather-damaged statues. Next to it sat an old rented Buick covered in sunlight. Her mind even conjured up a good-natured mutt, running toward her through the grass.

“Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourself,” he said. Fran felt a burst of love for him.

“I love you.” The girl put her hand out for the phone.

“I love you too,” Julian said, only a few miles away.

Fran handed the phone back to the girl. The girl studied her, as if deciding her age, or where she came from, or what would become of her.

“It’s not usually like this,” Fran said. “My hair, I mean. It’s usually curly.”

“Whatever,” the girl said and quickly wheeled her luggage away.

Fran would go back to Ohio. A train to New York would cost $150 and take nine hours with all the stops. Back at her apartment she could look for jobs — maybe a job in Pittsburgh. She pictured herself living harmoniously with Julian, like she’d done that one summer. Or maybe Jane would get big in the Art World and ask Fran to be her assistant. She imagined Jane and Deena in bathing suits at Art Basel. Maybe one night they’d include her. .