The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

“Every Sunday for the last four years. Ten till noon.”

“I signed up for the same hours but I have a wedding to go to today, so I got here at nine and Diane sorta gave me a quick orientation. But I guess we’ll be working together.”

I nodded. “Guess so.”

He glanced at his watch, then fished his car keys out of his pocket. “Well, I gotta run and get cleaned up. See you next week.” He headed for the hallway.

“Yeah. See ya.”

So much for that.

He stopped, turned and looked at me. “Hey, maybe we could go for lunch afterward.”

I said, “That would be nice,” before I even had a chance to think about it.

He pointed at me. “Belinda, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m bad with names. Just wanted to make sure. See ya.”

I’m bad with names too. We had something in common.

But for some reason I wouldn’t forget his.

He disappeared down the hall, obviously having no idea about the superhero known as the Brass Cupcake who prowls the streets of New York making life safe for women and children while repelling the hell out of men.

Meanwhile, I just got asked out to lunch looking like absolute shit.

Now I’m totally confused.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u0f047d89-72cd-5982-915a-978341715d31)

The salon was dimly lit and quiet, as Roxanne had opened it up on Sunday afternoon just for me. (I always thought “Foxy Roxy’s” was kind of a throwback name, with the term “babe” having replaced “fox” sometime back in the eighties. On the other side of the coin, I believe “skank” has serious staying power and could be eternal.) Tomorrow being Memorial Day and a day off since Harry doesn’t waste me on slow news days, I was to be dragged kicking and screaming by Ariel and Serena for shoes, clothes, contacts, makeup and God only knows what else. But I was in a good mood, as a seemingly nice guy who liked cats had asked me to lunch despite the fact I was wearing the spring collection for the homeless. Still, after I related the story to Roxanne, I was confused about what had happened.

“It’s a subconscious effect,” said Roxanne, as she worked the thick conditioner into my hair. I caught a faint whiff of avocado, which Roxanne said made this the perfect conditioner for someone with hair that could be used by someone playing the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, my head leaning back in a royal-blue sink. It was kind of odd looking at her from that angle, and gave me a new perspective on her terrific eyes and flawless creamy skin.

“It means that what happened last night sank in to a degree, and you were so tired you didn’t have time to think about it. You were in a situation where you didn’t expect to be asked out, so you didn’t have your force field and death stare at your beck and call.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask. Is the death stare really that bad?”

She stopped working the conditioner in for a moment. “Honey, when you use that thing on a man you look so possessed I think I need to call a priest.”

“Hmmm.” I closed my eyes as she resumed the scalp massage.

“Okay,” said Roxanne, “I think that’ll do it. Geez, I got sandpaper burns.”

“Funny.”

She turned on the faucet and began to rinse out the conditioner, as she ran the warm water and her fingers through my hair. “When’s the last time you wore your hair down?”

“Eighth grade, I think.”

She finished the rinse, then wrapped my head in a thick, fluffy red towel and began to dry it. She finished drying it as I sat up, ran her fingers through my hair to fluff it out, stood back and flashed a sinister smile with a gleam in her eye. I knew that look as her being “up to something.”

“What?” I asked, as I looked in the gold-framed mirror behind her and saw a drowned rat.

“I’ve got so much to work with. You’re like a blank canvas. This is gonna be fun.”

“Don’t do anything drastic.”

She waved her hand. “Pffft. Honey, drastic is already in the rear-view mirror.” She led me out of the shampoo room and over to her station, where I took a seat. It wasn’t the typical black-lacquer-everything you see in many salons that resembled a hangout for a coven, but rather a cheery sea foam green cubicle always accented with fragrant fresh roses. The large mirror was bordered with photos of celebrity clients.

My picture wasn’t up there. Geez, I wonder why.

She draped a purple smock over me and clipped it behind my neck. Then she did something that scared me to death.

She swung the chair around so my back was to the mirror.

“Hey, I wanna see what you’re doing,” I said.

She shook her head. “Sorry, no backseat driving on this.”

“Roxanne, if I come out of here looking like some freak on the subway … I do have to work on TV, you know.”

She kneeled down and looked at me. “Will you please trust me? Half the movie stars in this town do. And I’m going to make you look like one of them.”

***

Two hours later she shoved the comb into a pocket in her smock, stood back, crouched down, and moved her head side to side as she checked out the finished product.

“Well?” I asked.

“Shhhhh,” she said, putting one finger to her mouth. She moved around behind me. I felt her fingers lightly touch the back of my head, fluff my hair a bit, then she walked around where I could see her. She looked at the top of my head, then the sides, without ever looking in my eyes. Like I was some inanimate object. She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “My work here is done.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

She leaned forward and swung the chair around so I faced the mirror. She stood behind me, then handed me my glasses.

I put them on and my vision cleared. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.

My hair shone like a beacon, with shimmering highlights amidst my strawberry red. The soft tangles lightly dusted my shoulders. I lifted my hand and touched it. It was as soft and thick as the Persian I’d petted this morning.

It had never looked so good in my life. Sorta slutty, but really good.

“You like?” asked Roxanne.