The Look Read online

  She looks lost and uncertain. “And you promise you’ll hold my hand?”

  “Every minute,” I tell her. “Trust me.”

  Louise is standing outside the curtain. She heard the shrieking. I ask her to get us a taxi and she goes off straightaway to find one, without staring, or saying anything to Ava, or asking why. Not remotely ditzy in any way. I like Louise.

  Twenty minutes later we’re in Covent Garden, standing in the reception of Locks, Stock, and Barrel. It’s the only posh hair salon I know. It reminded me of a spaceship the moment I walked through the door to have my hair cut. The perfect place to become an alien.

  The girl at reception looks through her book to see if she can fit Ava in.

  “What was it you wanted done?” she asks. “Cut and blow-dry?”

  “No, we need it all cut off,” I say.

  Louise lent Ava a straw trilby to wear, but she’s hot and she’s fanning her face with the hat.

  The receptionist catches sight of Ava’s head and gasps.

  “Excuse me.”

  She disappears. When she comes back, she’s with a young, rangy man dressed in black with a studded belt and several earrings.

  “This is Sergio. He’ll look after you,” she says, flushing with embarrassment. I hope Ava didn’t see the expression on her face.

  We follow Sergio through to a chair at the back of the salon. He puts a gown over Ava’s shoulders and sits her down. Then we all look at her patchy head in the mirror, and her patchy cheeks, still red from crying in the taxi. I do as I promised and keep hold of her hand. Sergio doesn’t look very sure about this.

  “How short do you want it?”

  The message hasn’t gotten through. As calmly as I can, I explain again about shaving Ava’s head. There’s not much else we can do at this stage. Leaving any hair behind will just look patchy and silly. Sergio’s eyes widen, but he nods. He goes off to get clippers and whatever else he needs. Meanwhile Ava grips my hand tightly.

  “Stay with me.”

  I look at her in the mirror, where her frightened eyes seem huge. “Of course I’ll stay with you.”

  Without letting go of her hand, I pull up the seat beside her and sit in it. It feels so wrong that she should be losing what’s left of her lovely hair, whereas my rubbish bird’s nest is still sitting there on my head, looking as hopeless as ever. I’ve never liked my hair.

  Which gives me another idea.

  “I’ll do it with you.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll do it together. It’ll be easier if we do it together.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. But I can see something new in her face. Curiosity, besides the fear. Curiosity is a much better look. And I’m curious, too. And strangely excited.

  “Come on! It’ll be an adventure.”

  So when Sergio comes back, we send him off for another hairdresser and more clippers. He looks even more doubtful. The salon’s very busy. He disappears for quite a while and I can see lots of whispering going on among the staff. Other customers start looking around, wondering what’s going on. Then an older man appears behind us. He smiles at us both in the mirror. He’s huge — like a grizzly bear in a silk print shirt and gold jewelry. But his smile is pure honey and when he opens his mouth, his voice is rich and warm: like an American soul singer about to launch into a big number.

  “Hi, I’m Vince,” he says in an accent that is pure South London. “I’m the head stylist. Now, I understand you two beautiful ladies need my help.”

  Calmly and confidently, he places his hands on Ava’s shoulders, looking as though he deals with patchy-headed teenagers every day of his life. Sergio returns, clippers in hand, to stand behind me. He looks a lot more comfortable now that Vince is here.

  “Shaving a head is an art form. It’s a ritual,” Vince explains. “We should have incense and flower ceremonies. Instead we have coffee and this month’s Vogue. Anyway, let me show you what we can do.”

  He puts the clippers in front of us and shows us the difference between shaving the head completely, and leaving a millimeter or two of hair. I’m about to go for the gentler option, but Ava grips my hand and says firmly that she wants hers shaved off completely.

  “I hate it now. Get rid of it, please?”

  Vince can see the blackness in her eyes. He doesn’t argue.

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” I say. He smiles and nods. There’s a pause while we’re given drinks and magazines to take our minds off it. Then Vince flourishes his clippers like castanets.

  “Ready, beautiful girls?”

  We say yes together. We hold hands tightly. We’re ready.

  The clippers get going and our magazines sit untouched on our laps. Our drinks go cold. We’re mesmerized by what’s going on in the mirror. Slowly, our heads and faces start to change in ways we couldn’t imagine.

  The first thing that happens is that I notice how alike we suddenly look. Without our hair as a distraction, our features seem stronger. Our eyes are similar: different color, same shape. Our chins have the same dimple. And I have slightly nicer ears than Ava. Cool! As it gradually appears, I’m fascinated by my scalp. I’d always assumed it was smooth as an egg, but it’s actually bumpy. It’s a whole part of me I had no idea about. I know I’m going to spend ages examining it in the mirror at home.

  Ava looks down to see what’s left of the curls landing in her lap, on her shoulders, and on the floor.

  I squeeze her hand again. “Watch your face. Watch mine.”

  She looks at me gratefully. “Wow, T! You’re like something out of Star Trek.”

  I am, but I rather like it. “Actually, I remind myself of Megamind,” I say, admiring my domed forehead.

  She stares at me. Then at herself. She smiles.

  “I look like a boy!”

  “A boy with cheekbones to die for,” Vince cuts in. “And the back of your head is divine. I’ll show you.”

  He picks up a handheld mirror and adjusts it so Ava can admire her profile. He’s right: It’s magnificent. She just needs loads of chokers and jewelry to show it off.

  We can’t take our eyes off ourselves. It’s as if we’re looking at different people. These girls somehow manage to be strange and scary, but also powerful and strong. I wouldn’t mess with the person I see in the mirror. But I’d want to know more about her. And I thought Ava would be fragile once all her beautiful hair was gone. Instead, she’s the opposite.

  “You look like a warrior princess,” I tell her.

  She grins. “I know! I look like you.”

  “Uh-huh. Two warrior princesses.”

  “Oh!” Vince exclaims. “Xena and Gabrielle. I adored those girls on TV. Did you ever watch that show? They were so crazy and strong and hot! You can be Xena,” he says to Ava, “and you can be Gabrielle. I see you now, fighting the gods, casting bolts of lightning. Add a bit of gold armor and you’re smokin’.”

  I love it. I’m Gabrielle — whoever she is. No, I think I’ll be Xena, too. And I’m storming across the … wherever they storm — I’ll have to get the DVDs — causing havoc and fighting with gods. It’s just how I feel.

  Once the hair is gone, Vince and Sergio go over our heads again with the clippers at their lowest setting, paying attention to every bump and hollow.

  Ava lets go of my hand to feel her scalp. She does it gingerly at first, then with growing confidence.

  “It’s so smooth and soft! It’s like stroking a baby.”

  So much better than the fluffy patches that were there before. She looks healthier now that they’re gone.

  I stroke my own head. My hair was tougher than Ava’s, and what’s left feels like sandpaper. There’s a shadow on my scalp where it used to be. It looks as if someone has drawn my hairline in light pencil. And I have a cute hairline. I never knew this.

  Vince and Sergio rub lotion into our skin. It smells of pears and sweet spring flowers. I can’t help twisting my neck, adjusting to the new freedom. I had no ide
a how heavy my bird’s nest was. My head moves differently now that it’s not there. I could swear my neck’s grown longer.

  Vince pats Ava’s shoulders. “Come on, Xena, we’re done now,” he says. “I love that look on you.”

  She looks at herself seriously in the mirror and nods. “It looks a lot better than it did.”

  I’m glad she thinks so, too. She looks very elegant now. Her Elizabeth Taylor eyes shine through.

  We take off our gowns and head for the reception desk. I reach for my wallet in my bag. Which is when I catch sight of the price list propped up beside a space-age flower arrangement. I didn’t pay for my last haircut here — Frankie arranged everything. So I didn’t know that an average stylist charges £75 for a cut and blow-dry. Vince charges £150 — each. Mum complains when a haircut costs £50, or at least she did. Now Dad cuts hers for her. I didn’t know you even could spend this much.

  Oh, goodness. I’ve done one measly modeling job and already I’m over £200 in debt. Ted would crumple at this point, but Xena just assumes that something will sort itself out, because warrior princesses are not defeated by mere hairdressing.

  And Xena is right. Vince follows us and has a quiet word with the receptionist before greeting his next customer.

  “That’ll be twenty pounds,” she says, surprised, punching numbers into the computer. “Vince says it was a simple job.”

  I try to look sophisticated and relaxed, not pathetically relieved, as I pay her with my debit card. But when I’ve finished, I look over to catch Vince’s eye so I can say thank you. He’s back at work, but he sees me in the mirror and gives me a flash of a smile. A sad one. I think he knew why we were here today, but he never let on to Ava. Vince is a hero.

  The two Xenas make their way out into the legendary landscape of Covent Garden. They are proud and brave (and not in debt), and all they need is some golden armor to complete the look. And leather bikinis, but frankly, there are limits. Wherever we go, people turn and stare. Normally I hate this, but today I think it’s only natural. Who wouldn’t stare at a couple of warrior princesses, striding through their domain and acknowledging the loyalty of their subjects? We smile at them regally. A few of them smile back.

  I may — to some people — look like an alien life-form. But I know how I feel. Even aliens can be hot.

  As soon as we get home, we rush into the kitchen to tell Mum what we’ve been up to. She takes one look and gives a sudden shriek of her own. Her knees buckle underneath her. Oh, no. I hadn’t thought about this. To have one bald daughter might seem like carelessness, but two …

  Dad comes out of the bedroom, where he’s been writing, and turns pale. He goes to Mum to hold her up, glaring at me. He’s shocked by what I’ve done and angry at the effect it’s had on Mum. But already she’s pulling herself together.

  “Ava, darling! You look wonderful! Ted, too. Well done. Come and give me a hug.”

  She hugs both of us to her, tight. I think it took her a second to work out what had happened, but she’s our mum: A second was all it needed. She sniffs and takes a deep breath.

  “I knew this moment would come and I’ve been saving things up. Come into my room. I’ll show you.”

  For a minute, I felt more Megamind than warrior princess, but thanks to Mum, the moment has passed. She may be tired and cranky at the moment, but when we really need her to be amazing she summons it up from somewhere.

  We follow her into her bedroom, where she pulls a box out from under the bed. It’s an old boot box, from the days when she could afford to buy boots. And in it are silk scarves, folded between layers of tissue paper.

  “I used to have quite a collection. I’m sure there are enough for both of you. Why don’t you pick out the ones you like? I don’t want your heads getting cold.”

  We sit side by side on the edge of her bed, in front of her dresser, and check ourselves out in her mirror. We pile the scarves wherever we can and try different methods of tying them around our heads.

  Ava finds some long turquoise and violet scarves in the softest, most delicate Indian silk, and winds them into a knot to one side of her neck. Their tassels hang past her shoulder. Now she looks more gypsy princess than warrior princess. Mum uses an eyebrow pencil to beef up Ava’s eyebrows. Somehow she’s kept most of her eyelashes, and with a bit of soft eye shadow and some eyeliner, she’s back to Jesse-ready total glamour again.

  I try out all sorts of looks, from “the Queen out riding” to “crazy Victorian palm reader.” The key is to look cool and abandoned, not like Grace Kelly on a shopping trip. The scarves feel fabulously smooth and soft against my head, but they slip around and nothing’s quite right. I miss the simple, bold shape I had before. In the end I settle for a couple of Mum’s dangly earrings and nothing else.

  Throughout supper, Mum keeps staring at me, and she can’t help looking anxious, bordering on freaked out. I sense she really wants me to go with the scarf option. Dad can hardly look at me at all. I’ve never done anything that my parents didn’t like before — at least, not that I can remember. But something has changed, and it feels good.

  It’s not as if I’m breaking any laws or anything. I’m just being who I am. This is me. I am bold; I am scary; I am strong. I am a rebel and a warrior, like my brave and beautiful sister sitting here beside me. A warrior who really likes the cassoulet Mum’s made tonight and can’t get enough of it. Also, two helpings of blackberry-and-apple crumble for dessert.

  I am Xena. Deal with it.

  After breakfast the next day, I borrow one of Mum’s berets and Dad’s bike, and go for a long ride as far as Richmond Park. It feels exhilarating to be out in the fresh air, surrounded by my favorite greenery, with the wind in my face and the sun on my skin. I could have done this before — Dad wouldn’t have minded — but for some reason it never occurred to me. Apart from cartwheeling on the “beach,” I haven’t had enough exercise recently. Over the last few weeks, life seemed increasingly complicated. Now I can’t believe I ever worried about my fat ankles.

  Just as I’m freewheeling down the longest hill, my left hip starts vibrating. I pause and get my phone out of the pocket of my shorts. It’s Ava, sounding wistful.

  “Hi, T. You’ve been gone for a while. Is everything OK?”

  I tell her about the fresh air feeling and the faintest hint of autumn in the whispering leaves this morning. I love the changing seasons. Even the breeze seems to know that summer is nearly over.

  “Jesse just texted,” she says. “I sent him one last night, telling him what we did yesterday, but I didn’t think he’d get it for ages. He’s in Saint-Tropez, by the way.” Long sigh. Like me, she’s probably imagining the endless selection of ripped-abs, Red-Bikini Babes in Saint-Tropez. “Now he wants to know all about my hair. He knew it would be a big deal.”

  “And?”

  “And … I’m not sure what to say.”

  She sounds back to being timid and nervous, not her old self at all. Also, her old self would have called Louise, not me. Ava and I have been talking more ever since … well, ever since everything that’s happened this summer. But I’ve never known her go out of her way to call me.

  “I’ll come home now,” I tell her.

  “Except … I liked what you said about the breeze, T. I need to get out, too. Shall I meet you in Wandsworth Park?”

  I agree. Wandsworth Park is nothing like Richmond Park, despite the name. One is a glorious expanse of countryside in the city. The other is a little patch of green beside the river, not too far from our flat, where I’ve been practicing photography recently. But it’s much easier for Ava to get to, so I race back there on the bike, as fast as I can.

  When I get there fifteen minutes later, panting, she is sitting elegantly on a bench by a long, wide stretch of grass, wearing a simple cotton summer dress, delicate makeup, and one of Mum’s blue silk scarves wound expertly around her head like a turban, with the ends trailing over her shoulder.

  “You look wonderful!” I say
before I can stop myself, because it might sound corny, but she does.

  She smiles and looks embarrassed — but not incredulous, which is a good start.

  “What you said that time about the photo for Jesse … can you take one now?” she asks. “While I’m feeling brave enough? It’s easier than trying to explain to him.”

  “I’d love to. Except I don’t have the camera on me.” I shrug apologetically.

  She looks even more embarrassed. “I do. I brought it with me. Just in case. I know you said that thing about making our room into a studio, but to be honest, I hate our room right now. I hate everything about that flat. Just because … bad associations. You know.”

  I do. I hate it, too, a lot of the time. I bet she hates the bathroom the most.

  “Outside is good,” I agree. “I’ve been practicing here quite a bit. And Nick — that boy, you probably don’t remember — anyway, this guy, he said that outdoor light is good. Style bloggers use it all the time.”

  She grins at me. “I remember Nick,” she says. Then she grins at me some more.

  I go pink. I can’t imagine why she’s looking at me like that. He’s just some boy who mentioned interesting types of photography. No big deal. I haven’t heard from him all summer, and I didn’t expect to. What does she mean? I thought we were talking about style bloggers.

  “Hand me the camera,” I demand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  If my test shoots have taught me anything, it’s that you rarely get a great picture by just waving the camera around and pressing the button. If Jesse’s going to see Ava at her best, the background has to be right, and I have to capture the best angle of her face, with the most flattering light and shadows, and she has to be smiling just enough, but not too much, and not doing that stupid thing with her fingernail.

  I put myself in Xena mode and explain to Ava how I need her to sit. I wish I could fiddle with depth of field, like Greta did on the pebbly beach, but Ava’s camera isn’t that hi-tech. Instead, I concentrate on getting her in a decent pose and composing the picture so she’s surrounded by green, with the blue of her scarf showing up brightly against it. Certain angles make her face look too round, thanks to the steroid regime, so I avoid those. Others bring out her lovely cheekbones and her pretty nose. It’s looking OK, but it’s only when I do an impression of Vince — “A bit of gold armor and you’re smokin’!” — that her face comes alive, her violet eyes sparkle, and I get the shot that will compete with the Red-Bikini Babes.