Eleanor was unfailingly polite with his mom.
She even tried to make small talk. One Saturday night after dinner, Park’s mom was sorting her Avon shipment on the dining room table while Park and Eleanor played cards. ‘How long have you been a beautician?’ Eleanor asked, looking over at all the bottles.
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 lift-ing 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-oill 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,’ Eleanor said.
But … yeah, she thought, prettier.
He looked down. Eleanor couldn’t look away.
His mom swooped in between them. ‘Okay, now close eyes,’ she said to Eleanor. ‘Open. Nice
… Close again …’ It felt exactly like having someone draw on your eye with a pencil. Then it was over, and Park’s mom was rubbing something cold on Eleanor’s cheeks.
‘This very easy routine,’ his mom said.
‘Foundation, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, lip liner, lipstick, blush. Eight steps, take you fifteen minutes tops.’
Park’s mom was very businesslike, like someone with a cooking show on PBS. Pretty soon she was unwrapping Eleanor’s hair and standing behind her.
Eleanor wanted to look at Park again, now that she could, but she didn’t want him looking back. Her face felt so heavy and sticky, she probably looked like one of the Designing Women.
Park scooted his chair closer to hers and started bouncing his fist on her knee. It took Eleanor a second to realize he was challenging her to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.
She played along. God. Any excuse to touch him. Any excuse not to look at him directly. He’d rubbed his eyes, so he didn’t look painted anymore – but he still looked like something Eleanor didn’t have words for.
‘That’s how Park keep little kids busy during haircuts,’ his mom said. ‘You must look scared, Eleanor. Don’t worry. I promise no cutting.’
Eleanor and Park both made scissors.
His mom rubbed half a can of mousse into her hair, then blew it dry with a diffuser (which Eleanor had never heard of before but was apparently very, very important).
According to Park’s mom, everything Eleanor was doing with her hair – washing it with whatever, brushing it, tying in beads and silk flowers – was dead wrong.
She should be diffusing and scrunching and, if possible, sleeping on a satin pillowcase.
‘I think you look really good with bangs,’ his mom said. ‘Maybe next time, we try bangs.’
There will never be a next time, Eleanor promised herself and God.
‘Okay, all done.’ Park’s mom was all smiles.
‘Look so pretty … Ready to see?’ She turned Eleanor around to the mirror. ‘Ta-daa!’
Eleanor looked at her own lap.
‘Have to look, Eleanor. Look, mirror, so pretty.’
Eleanor couldn’t. She could feel them both watching her. She wanted to disappear, to drop through a trap door. This whole thing was a bad idea. A terrible idea. She was going to cry, she was going to make a scene. Park’s mom was going to go back to hating her.
‘Hey, Mindy.’ Park’s dad opened the door and leaned into the garage. ‘Phone call. Oh, hey, look at you, Eleanor, you look like a Solid Gold dancer.’
‘See?’ his mom said, ‘I told you – pretty.
Don’t look in mirror until I come back. Looking in mirror best part.’
She hurried into the house, and Eleanor hid her face in her hands, trying not to mess anything up. She felt Park’s hands on her wrists.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess I knew you’d hate this, but I didn’t think you’d hate it this much.’
‘It’s just so embarrassing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because … you’re all looking at me.’
‘I’m always looking at you,’ he said.
‘I know, I wish you’d stop.’
‘She’s just trying to get to know you. This is her thing.’
‘Do I look like a Solid Gold dancer?’
‘No …’
‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘I do.’
‘No, you look … just look.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Look now,’ he said, ‘before my mom gets back.’
‘Only if you close your eyes.’
‘Okay, they’re closed.’
Eleanor uncovered her face and looked in the mirror. It wasn’t as embarrassing as she thought
– because it was like looking at a different person. Someone with cheekbones and giant eyes and really wet lips. Her hair was still curly, curli-er than ever, but calmer somehow. Less deranged.
Eleanor hated it, she hated all of it.
‘Can I open my eyes?’ Park asked.
‘No.’
‘Are you crying?’
‘No.’ Of course she was. She was going to ruin her fake face, and Park’s mom was going to go back to hating her.
Park opened his eyes and sat in front of Eleanor on the vanity. ‘Is it so bad?’ he asked.
‘It’s not me.’
‘Of course it’s you.’
‘I just, I look like I’m in costume. Like I’m trying to be something that I’m not.’
Like she was trying to be pretty and popular.
It was the trying part that was so disgusting.
‘I think your hair looks really nice,’ Park said.
‘It’s not my hair.’
‘It is …’
‘I don’t want your mom to see me like this. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘What?’
He kissed her. Eleanor felt her shoulders fall and her stomach untwist. Then it started twisting in the other direction. She pulled away.
‘Are you kissing me because I look like someone else?’
‘You don’t look like someone else. Plus, that’s crazy.’
‘Do you like me better like this?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m never going to look like this again.’
‘I like you the same … I kind of miss your freckles.’ He rubbed her cheeks with his sleeve.
‘There,’ he said.
‘ You look like a different person,’ she said,
‘and you’re just wearing eyeliner.’
‘Do you like me better?’
She rolled her eyes, but she felt the heat in her neck. ‘You look different. You look unsettling.’
‘You look like you,’ he said. ‘You with the volume turned up.’
She looked in the mirror again.
‘The thing is,’ Park said. ‘I’m pretty sure my mom was holding back. I think she thinks this is the natural look.’
Eleanor laughed. The door to the house opened.
‘Awww, I told you guys to wait,’ his mom said. ‘Were you surprised?’
Eleanor nodded.
‘Did you cry? Oh, I miss it!’
‘Sorry if I messed it up,’ Eleanor said.
‘No mess,’ his mom said, ‘waterproof mascara and stay-put foundation.’
‘Thank you,’ Eleanor said carefully. ‘I could hardly believe the difference.’
‘I’ll make you a kit,’ his mom said. ‘These all colors I never use anyway. Here, sit down, Park.
I trim your hair while we here. Looking shaggy
…’
Eleanor sat in front of him and played Rock, Paper, Scissors on his knee.
Park
She looked like a different person, and Park didn’t know if he liked it better. Or at all.
He couldn’t figure out why it upset her so much. Sometimes, it seemed like she was trying to hide everything that was pretty about her. Like she wanted to look ugly.
That was something his mother would say.
Which is why he hadn’t said it to Eleanor. (Did that count as holding back?)
He got why Eleanor tried so hard to look different. Sort of. It was because she was different –
because she wasn’t afraid to be. (Or maybe she was just more afraid of being like everyone else.) There was something really exciting about that. He liked being near that, that kind of brave and crazy.
‘Unsettling, how?’ he’d wanted to ask her.
The next morning, Park took the onyx eyeliner into the bathroom and put it on. He was messier than his mom, but he thought that might look better. More masculine.
He looked in the mirror. ‘This really make your eyes pop,’ his mom always told her custom-ers, and it was true. The eyeliner did make his eyes pop. It also made him look even less white.
Then Park did his hair like he usually did –
flared up in the middle, all messy and tall, like it was reaching for something. Usually, as soon as he did that, Park combed his hair out and down again.