“If you’re really sure, I’ll phone him tomorrow and get you in.”
It was all Rory could do not to throw her arms around Soline. “I’m so excited. Thank you.”
Soline’s mouth twitched, as if she were about to say something, but she bit her lip instead. “What are fairy godmothers for?”
THIRTY-THREE
RORY
September 14, 1985—Boston
Rory held her breath, silently repeating Soline’s words as another shower of hair fluttered into the lap of her black nylon cape. When it comes to hair, Paul Ramone and the staff at Bella Mia are as good as it gets. No doubt, it was true. But as she sat there, surrounded by a puddle of freshly cropped locks, she prayed she hadn’t made a mistake she’d regret for months.
She had green-lighted Paul’s suggestions for lowlights and a sassy pixie cut and had held her breath as he set to work. An hour and a half later, she’d been foiled, shampooed, moussed, and blow-dried, and was now in the process of being debulked—whatever that meant—while Soline pretended not to watch from behind her magazine.
It had already been a full day, beginning with a visit to Neiman Marcus. Soline’s personal shopper, Lila, had done the legwork in advance, so that when they arrived, an entire rack of carefully curated pieces had been waiting. All she had to do was try on and give the thumbs-up or -down.
The final tally was more than she’d spent collectively on every scrap of clothing she’d ever owned, but the new pieces made her feel stunning. In fact, she’d been so excited with her updated look that she’d decided to wear one of the outfits out of the store.
She’d ended up leaving with only a handful of bags, as the bulk of her purchases had been left for alterations. She had initially balked at the idea, until Soline explained that beautiful clothes, like beautiful women, deserved to be shown to best advantage, which meant they must fit properly.
Ironically, the only thing they hadn’t nailed down was an outfit for opening night. But Lila had asked for another chance, promising to come up with a winner in plenty of time. Rory had been only too happy to agree. She had to admit, for someone who’d never cared for fashion, she was certainly enjoying the Cinderella experience.
It took a moment to realize Paul’s scissors had gone quiet and that he was standing back, studying her head with narrowed eyes. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. Not yet.”
Rory slid worried eyes to Soline, who was nodding. “Shorter over the ears, I think. And soften the fringe.”
Rory wasn’t sure what surprised her more, the words shorter over the ears or the fact that Soline was telling one of Boston’s most sought-after hairstylists how to do his job. “Can I please look now?”
Paul’s and Soline’s “no!” came simultaneously. Paul also admonished her to hold still if she didn’t want to end up like Van Gogh. She closed her mouth, cringing as the snick-snick of his scissors resumed. It’ll grow back, she reminded herself. Eventually.
Twenty minutes later, Paul removed the black nylon cape and gave Rory’s chair a spin until she faced the mirror. “Voilà!”
Rory blinked at the woman staring back at her from the glass, familiar but a stranger too. Her eyes looked larger, her cheekbones more sculpted. She ran her fingers through the short waves, admiring the subtle lowlights Paul had added. She touched the bare skin at the back of her neck, her exposed ears. She felt naked. And strangely liberated. She already knew what her mother would think, but what about Hux? She looked nothing like the Rory he’d left behind.
“I look . . .”
“Chic,” Soline supplied, appearing over her left shoulder. “And polished. And beautiful.”
Rory blinked at her reflection. “Do I?”
“Like a proper gallery owner.”
Rory turned to beam at Paul. “You’re a miracle worker.”
He shrugged, waving off the remark. “Who would guess that under such a mop lurked an absolute beauty? But promise me you won’t put either one of us through that again. I’ll see you in five weeks. And then every five weeks after that. Short hair requires upkeep. And mousse.” He handed her a tall silver canister. “A dollop the size of a golf ball. No more or you’ll be crunchy. Nod so I know you understand.”
Rory nodded obediently. “How much do I owe you?”
“For today? Nothing. I’m happy to do this favor for Ms. Roussel. God knows I owe her a thousand more. And please, put your tip money away. I don’t want it.” He paused, shooting her a wink. “This time.”