Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“Mrs. Schulz,” said the soft-voiced woman, who had materialized once again at my side, “just look at what a mess you are.” She took my arm with surprising firmness. A shiver with a life of its own went through my wet clothes. What a mess, indeed.

Dusty said she’d bring my stuff to my room when I was in the robe. The pink-mohair lady led me down the hall, where she put me in a small chamber that had the antiseptic feel of a doctor’s examination room. Instead of an examining table, however, the middle of the room boasted an enormous reclining chair. It was probably the throne where you got your facial. Large, imposing machines sat next to the chair. Ms. Mohair handed me a green hospital-type gown that tied in the front. She said in that soft, whispery voice, “Somebody will be with you momentarily.” Then she was gone.

Ravel’s Bolero was being piped incongruously into the professional-looking space. I stripped off my damp clothing and hung it on a hook, stepped gingerly across the black and white linoleum, and pulled a couple of paper towels from the dispenser over the sink. After what I’d seen fall from Nick Gentileschi’s pocket, I was paranoid about my own shivery nakedness. Who was watching? Oddly, the room held no mirrors. I glanced up at the ceiling—no cameras that I could discern—then chided myself for being ridiculous. I cinched the warm hospital gown around my middle, patted my damp hair with the paper towels, and took a deep breath.

Within moments a short, ponytailed woman of about twenty-five swished into the room. She was carrying a large plastic bag.

“These are yours,” she announced. “Your friend had to leave. Your purse and department store bag are inside. They’re wet.”

She dropped the bag lightly by the wall and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her white lab coat. She frowned as she assessed me. She wore little makeup over an acne-scarred face that was quite plain. I don’t know why I found both of these physical aspects surprising. But her whole appearance, from the tightly pulled ponytail to her white stockings and white tied shoes said technician rather than beauty queen .

“Your hair is wet too,” she observed. She strode efficiently to a cupboard, retrieved a warm, folded towel, and handed it to me. I thanked her and rubbed the towel over my scalp. “But you did not make an appointment for hair,” she said with a slight, scolding shake of the head.

“This towel’s fine. My hair is just …” Well, my hair. No amount of money lavished on it was going to change that unstylish mass of curls into anything. “Let’s just start with the face today, okay?”

And start she did. While Bolero played in the background, the white-coated woman, whose name was Lane—short, crisp, efficient, fitting her persona—told me we were beginning the process with a thorough cleansing. Her fingers energetically massaged thick, creamy stuff onto my face which she then wiped off with a warm, wet towel. This was followed by a fruity-smelling toner, which she applied in simultaneous swipes across the left and right sides of my face.

“Okay!” she said when the toner was turning my face into what felt like a dry Popsicle. “I’m going to start a list of all the products you should be using for your face. For starters, Wizard cleanser and pore-closing toner.”

“Well, er, how much do they cost?”

She waved this away. “We can just put it on your card.”

“I’m sorry, I need to know.”

She consulted a sheet. “Thirty-six dollars for a ten-ounce bottle of cleanser.” Impatient. “Forty dollars for a twelve-ounce bottle of toner.”

I didn’t mean to gasp, but I did anyway. I saw Arch going shoeless for the rest of his life. “But that’s even more than Mignon! And I thought they were the most expensive.”

Lane pursed her lips, then announced: “We are the most expensive. Do you want to improve your skin or not? We are the best. You’ll see real results if you work with these products.”

I mumbled something along the lines of “Okay.”

Lane slapped down the pencil on her tray. “Let’s go to the next step, then.”

She turned on one of the imposing machines next to the chair. I became more nervous when she assured me that the machine was for brushing. Or, as I thought when Lane stroked my face with electric brushes attached to hoses that ran to the machine, it was sort of like getting a shoe polish for the face, minus the shoes and the polish.

When she was done, Lane gave me a disapproving, suspicious look and ordered me to close my eyes. Having learned my lesson from my Mignon makeover with Dusty, I closed my eyes without argument. Lane placed a wet cloth over my closed lids, levered the chair back, and turned on a rumbly machine that she told me was for steam.

“I’m taking your clothes to the dryer, and I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she said. Her white nurse’s shoes squeaked toward the door. “Relax.”

Left to steam, my thoughts, and Bolero , I tried to unwind. I tried to think about what it was Maurice Ravel was setting to music. Unfortunately, all I could hear was the crash and thud of a vehicle hitting Claire, the shatter and crack as Nick Gentileschi fell out of the department store’s blind.

When Lane returned, she whipped the cloth off my eyes, turned off the steam, and retrieved what looked like a small magnifying glass from her pocket. I recoiled. My face had never been examined at close range.

“I’m going to turn off the light,” she declared bluntly, “and assess the amount of damage you’ve done over the years to your skin.”

By the time I’d managed to stammer, “Do I have to?” the overhead light was off, a purplish light had winked on, and Lane’s magnified eye was accompanied by tsk-tsk noises a la Sherlock Holmes. She flipped the lights back on, donned plastic gloves, and picked up a needle.

“Wait, wait.” I sat up quickly. “I thought women came in to have facials because it was fun and relaxing. Sort of like having a massage.”

“You’re going to look so much better,” she assured me. “We need to get rid of those blemishes.” She brandished the needle.

“Please, no,” I said feebly. “I have a real problem with … needles.”

Lane’s countenance was that of a nurse with an unpleasant but utterly necessary medication.

She said, “The receptionist reported you claimed you were terribly upset about your skin. Now you say you’re unsure about buying products, and you don’t want to have a facial. Are you certain you came in here really wanting to improve your appearance? Or is there some other reason you’re here?”

Paranoia reared its unattractive head again, and I succumbed. “It’s why I’m here,” I said meekly, and slumped back in the chair.

Lane poked and I shrieked. Again I got the displeased-nurse routine. Blemishes , she said as she poked again. I felt blood drip down my forehead. Lane dabbed at it. She put down the needle and, with two plastic-gloved fingers, squeezed the skin on my nose with all her might. I screamed again. At least with a dentist you got anesthetic.

Lane sighed reprovingly and brought the gloved hands to her abdomen. “Are you going to let me finish my work or not?”

“Not,” I said decisively, rubbing my poor, bent nose. The area above my nostrils felt as if it were on fire. My will—my entire desire in life—was now focused on getting out of Hotchkiss Skin & Hair.

“Do you just want your masque now?”

“Will it hurt?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, then said, “No! Of course it won’t hurt.”

Lane had no credibility with me anymore. But I didn’t think a masque could be too bad unless you let it dry and it became more like a theater mask. Or maybe the masque would get to be like those masks they use in horror flicks to suffocate people…. Lane tapped her foot. Yes, I told her, I was desperate for the masque. She swabbed on some more thick, creamy stuff, draped towels over my face, and left. Oh, thank you, God, I said as I pulled the towels away and rubbed the cream off. Thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me a chance to get out of here. I didn’t want a masque, I didn’t want a facial, I certainly didn’t want any makeup.