Curling Iron, Six Minutes

Where’s the curling iron? her friend asked.

I don’t have one, she said.

What? I can’t go out like this.

Didn’t you bring one?

I forgot. I’ve got everything else: makeup, hair dryer.

Your hair looks good.

No, it’s a mess.

Her friend, who had bought a $600 designer dress for $20 at a charity sale, planned to vamp someone at the party. She confided that she wanted her hair to look like Grace Kelly’s.

Are you hoping to attract Cary Grant?

I don’t date dead men. But I need a curling iron.

Let’s go buy one.

They piled into her car and drove to a discount warehouse. There was a whole aisle of curling appliances. Fluorescent lights buzzed. A cell phone played an unpleasant tune. A skinny brunette with a cart piled high with hair products blocked the aisle.

No, no, no, no, no...yes, her friend said as she pounced on a midrange-priced curling iron.

Do you remember the scene in LITTLE WOMEN where Jo burned Meg’s hair?

Can’t say I do. But I saw the movie, her friend said.

In line her friend tossed chewing gum and a sixpack of bikini underwear into the cart, both impulse buys. The cashier asked, Did you find everything okay? Her eyes were vacant.

Yeah, her friend said. We found everything in, oh, six minutes.

They walked to the car, almost tripped over an empty TV box in the parking lot.

Why is this here? she asked.

Yes, why? her friend asked.

They gazed in disgust at the box blocking their way.

Back home, her friend curled and gelled her hair. It went nicely with her retro Chanel off-the-shoulder dress.

I am a vision of loveliness, her friend announced with satisfaction.

You are, she said. Secretly she was critical. The hair was too blond, the Grace Kelly curls too greasy, the evening bag too gaudy. But her friend loved to dress up. She had acted in a community theater production of RENT. She was CEO of her own computer company and spent lots of money on cosmetics and Botox. Men never guessed her age.

As for herself, she wore her usual Black Thing. She no longer dyed her hair, so she would doubtless look the oldest one at the party. It didn’t bother her. She was quietly doing the “David McCallum’s wife” thing. Yes, she had once read an interview with David McCallum’s wife of her determination to “grow old gracefully.”

The party was at a large suburban house with turrets, an upstairs screened-in porch, a pool, and sauna . Mercedes, Porsches, and SUVs lined the street.

Someone at the door squealed, I love your Greta Garbo look!

But it’s not Greta Garbo, her friend said.

While her friend tried to explain, she herself hurried off to get a sparkling water.