His mom loved that word.
‘Since Josh start school. I get my GED, I go to beauty school, get license, get permit …’
‘Wow,’ Eleanor said.
‘I always do hair,’ his mom said, ‘even before.’ She opened a pink bottle of lotion and smelled it. ‘Little girl … cut doll’s hair, paint on makeup.’
‘That sounds like my sister,’
Eleanor said. ‘I could never do any of that.’
‘Not so hard …’ his mom said, looking up at her. His mom’s eyes lit up. ‘Hey, I have good idea,’ she said. ‘I do your hair. We have makeover night.’
Eleanor’s
mouth
dropped
open. She was probably picturing herself with feathered hair and fake eyelashes.
‘Oh, no …’ she said. ‘I couldn’t …’
‘Yes,’ his mom said, ‘so much fun!’
‘Mom, no,’ Park said, ‘Eleanor doesn’t want a makeover … She doesn’t need a makeover,’ he added, as soon as he thought of it.
‘Not big makeover,’ his mom said. She was already reaching for Eleanor’s
hair.
‘No
cutting.
Nothing we can’t wash off.’
Park
looked
at
Eleanor,
pleading. Hopefully, she’d know that he was pleading because it would make his mom happy, not because he thought there was anything wrong with her.
‘No cutting?’ Eleanor said.
His mom was fingering a curl.
‘Better light in the garage,’ she said, ‘come on.’
Eleanor Park’s mom put Eleanor in the shampoo chair and snapped her fingers at Park. To Eleanor’s horror – to her ongoing horror – Park came over and started filling the sink with water. He took a pink towel down from a big stack, and expertly Velcroed it around Eleanor’s neck, carefully lifting out her hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘No,’ she mouthed, grabbing his shirt. Yes, she thought. She was already starting to dissolve with embarrassment. She couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers.
But if Park left, there’d be no one to stop his mom if she decided to give Eleanor giant, claw-shaped bangs or a spiral perm. Or both.
Eleanor wouldn’t try to stop her, no matter what; she was a guest in this garage. She’d eaten this
woman’s
food
and
manhandled her son – she was in no position to argue.
Park’s mom pushed him aside and laid Eleanor’s head firmly back into the sink. ‘What kind of shampoo you use?’
‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor said.
‘How you not know?’ his mom asked, feeling her hair.
‘Feels too dry. Curly hair is dry, you know?’
Eleanor shook her head.
‘Hmmm …’ Park’s mom said.
She tipped Eleanor’s head back into the water and told Park to go stick a hot-oil pack in the microwave.
It was really, really strange having Park’s mom wash her hair.
She was practically standing in Eleanor’s lap; her angel necklace hung right over Eleanor’s mouth.
Plus, the whole process tickled like crazy. Eleanor didn’t know whether Park was watching. She hoped not.
A few minutes later, her hair was hot-oiled and wrapped in a towel so tight it hurt her forehead.
Park was sitting across from her, trying to smile, but looking almost as uncomfortable as she felt.
His mom was going through box after box of Avon samples. ‘I know it’s here somewhere,’ she said.
‘Cinnamon,
cinnamon,
cinnamon … A-ha!’
She wheeled her chair over to Eleanor. ‘Okay. Close eyes.’
Eleanor stared at her. She was holding up a little brown pencil.
‘Close eyes,’ she said again.
‘Why?’ Eleanor said.
‘Don’t worry. This wash off.’
‘But I don’t wear makeup.’
‘Why not?’
Maybe Eleanor should say that she wasn’t allowed to. That would sound nicer than ‘because makeup is a lie.’
‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor said, ‘it’s just not me.’
‘Yes, you,’ his mom said, looking at the pencil. ‘Very good color for you. Cinnamon.’
‘Is that lipstick?’
‘No, eyeliner.’
Eleanor especially didn’t wear eyeliner.
‘What does it do?’
‘It’s makeup,’ his mom said, exasperated. ‘It makes you pretty.’
Eleanor felt like she had something in her eye. Like fire.
‘Mom …’ Park said.
‘Here,’ his mom said. ‘I’ll show you.’ She turned to Park, and before either of them realized what she was planning, she had her thumb at the corner of his eye.
‘Cinnamon too light,’ she muttered. She picked up a different pencil. ‘Onyx.’
‘Mom …’ Park said painfully, but he didn’t move.
His mom sat so that Eleanor could see, then deftly drew a line along Park’s eyelashes. ‘Open.’ He did. ‘Nice … close.’ She did the other eye, too. Then she added another line under his eye and licked her thumb to wipe away a smudge. ‘There, nice.’
‘See?’ she said, sitting back so that Eleanor could see. ‘Easy.
Pretty.’
Park didn’t look pretty. He looked dangerous. Like Ming the Merciless. Or a member of Duran Duran.
‘You look like Robert Smith,’