Chapter 4: Warm Bodies

I drive down Santa Monica with a hand in my hair, fluffing out the curls. Today I feel sleek and hot in jeans and a white halter. Its neckline plunges but the naked flesh is covered with a long gold necklace, a cascade of fine irregular links joined in many strands that covers the entire front. I only check once in the mirror before walking into the salon. I know I look hot.

Being born who I was has certain perks. I am a pro at faking confidence I don't feel. I breeze into the salon as if my palms weren't sweating. The fag must be on his lunch break, because a young girl is working the desk. She smiles, friendly.

“Hi. Clea Jaffee, I have a four o’ clock with Shane.”

“Sure, you can go into the changing room and get into a smock.”

I see Shane. She is giving a guy a shag cut, wearing a simple olive-colored wife beater. Still has the glasses, and they are adorable. She looks up to see me, and smiles. I enjoy the way her eyes slide down the hollow between my tits, down over my jeans.

“Hey,” I say, and turn away, causing my hair to fall over my bare shoulder. I didn’t come here intending to work it so much, but I find that I can’t help it.

She is going to think that I’m only here to get her naked, which is true, but not in the way she thinks.

I shut the door of the dim changing room and put my purse into an empty locker. The room is dark like a cloakroom one stumbles into for making out illicitly. I feel deliberately sexual as I undo my top, exposing my nipples to the cool air. Then I remove the cascade of gold links, setting them gingerly on the shelf. I reach for a silky smock, jet black, and slide into it. I feel slightly naughty as I come out into the daylight, and a shampoo girl directs me to Shane's chair.

Shane comes over, pocketing her last tip into her low rise jeans. “Miss Clea. How are you, honey?”

Honey? What the fuck?

“Great. I have a big show in a few weeks and I need a new cut.”

“You look fabulous as is.” She runs her fingers through my hair, fingers with short hard nails sliding from scalp to end, tousling it.

“Thanks.” She must say that to everyone. But I know she means it. I can see it in her eyes. Oh, yes, she is cruising the shit out of me.

Is it possible to try not to glow too much? Now her exploration of my hair feels more sensual, actually feeling its fine texture with her fingertips. I pray to god that my nipples don’t poke through the fucking smock.

“When was your last cut?”

“Six months ago. Super Cuts. I’m upgrading a bit here, so I hope you can make me look hot.” I give the sardonic grin that always helps me bluff my way through anxious situations.

She grins, and I melt. “If I recall correctly your curl isn’t natural?”

I swallow. If she recalls correctly, she could recall so many painful things.

“Curling iron junkie.”

“Explains the damage here,” she examines the ends.

“Yep.”

“So this show of yours - an art exhibit?”

“Yeah.”

“Black tie?”

“Hell no. No, not that, but not burlap sack either.”

“Do you know what you’re wearing?”

“Probably something white and sexy.”

“Okay.” She pulls my hair up and down, ruffles it, looks at it from different angles. I start feeling a little warm and flustered with all that scrutiny.

“Okay. Here’s what I’m thinking. We’ll take about two inches off the length. Throw in some layers. Little bit of bangs. You can keep this sort of sexy tousled thing you’ve got going on. You weren’t planning on nixing that curling iron habit, were you?”

“Yeah,” I say sardonically. “Right after I give up coffee and breathing.”

She grins, and I just have to fucking look away.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I’m not sure about the bangs, but hey, go for it.”

“Okay. Go get shampooed, we’ll do this.”

The shampoo girl is cute, with dyed jet hair, which is cut about an inch long, parted into sections with each section pulled into a rubber band and spiked. She's a pointy little goth. I close my eyes as she washes my hair, massaging my scalp deliciously enough to get me to relax, at least somewhat.

She wraps my hair in a towel, then directs me to Shane’s station.

.

I don’t know how I get through that haircut. Being the object of Shane’s eyes and Shane’s hands and Shane’s mind is exhausting. Add that to worrying about my hair and you have a mini meltdown.

“So what have you been up to, Clea?” she asks me, snipping away.

“Well, this show is in two weeks and three weeks ago they tell me ‘we need seven more paintings.’ So needless to say I‘ve been freaking out trying to get seven more finished canvases.”

“Where’s the show at?”

“Porter Wisneski Gallery on Sunset.”

“No shit. Bette Porter is a good friend of mine. Steve too.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t she great? She’s been very supportive.”

“You must be good, or she wouldn’t bother.”

I shrug. “Must be.”

She is looking at me curiously, and I get the sense that she wants to ask me things. She is trying, I know, to reconcile her image of Hollywood princess with talented artist. It pisses me off for a minute, until I think that I’ve been trying to reconcile those things for years.

I sit and close my eyes, allowing myself to drift and focus on sensation. Like most high-end stylists she seems to take the cue and stay quiet. I break down the moments into the tug of the comb and the snick of the scissors. Comb and clip, comb and clip. Occasionally, she will put her hands on either side of my head and straighten me out.

“So what have you been doing, other than this place? Which is fabulous, by the way."

Fabulous? Uggh, I sound so... uggh.

“Thanks. Um, not much. Bought a loft, fixed it up a little.”

“That’s cool. Unfortunately I can’t find a house with the light I need so I’m still renting.”

“You rent an apartment?”

“Yeah."

"Put your head down a little. So did you go back to school?"

"Nope. Self-taught."

"Well I can't wait to see your work."

I'm thankful that my head is down below a curtain of wet hair. It hasn't occurred to me yet that she will go to the gallery. Of course she will. Bette is her friend. Shit.

"You might not be seeing anything if I don't get another two models."

I feel the cool metallic shiver of her metal comb on my neck and try not to visibly shudder.

"What kind of models? Lift your head up."

"Any kind. I'm doing primarily portraits and at this point I'll pretty much take any warm body who is interesting enough and who can sit still for a few hours."

She spins me around and stares directly into my eyes. "I have a warm body." She pulls my hair down on either side, checking to make sure it's even.

She says it so nonchalantly that I almost think I imagined it. It has a definate effect on my body, adrenaline warmth floating everywhere.

Her eyes penetrate mine, and it's the visual equivalent of her fucking my brains out.

It takes every last bit of concentration I have to give her the cool, amused, raised-eyebrow and slight smile look. "Excuse me?"

"If you need a model. I've posed before."

"Sure." I shrug, as if it hadn't occurred to me. "That'd be great. That would be really cool actually. You have great eyes."

"Cool. When?"

"I dunno. Sooner the better."

"How about... tomorrow evening?"

"During the day would be better, if you can."

"Umm... Tuesday?"

"Umm, in the morning? That would be great."

"Okay. Leave your address on the way out."

"Great."

I stare at myself. If I ever get sick of art I could be a great fucking actress because I've become damn good at pretending not to give a damn. Sometimes I amaze me.

"You've got great hair," she says, running her fingers through mine. "Is this your natural color?"

"Yep. It's so fine though, it's really hard to give it any body."

"Well, you were smart not to get it cut right before your opening. You have time to play around with it." She reaches for the blow dryer and switches it on. I close my eyes. The noise drowns out my feelings as I feel her fingers running through my hair. For a good ten or fifteen minutes it's like heaven.

I keep my eyes closed even when she turns off the dryer and starts with the curling iron.

"You okay, Clea?"

"Yeah. Just chillin'."

"Can I get you any coffee or anything?"

"No thanks." I open my eyes and meet hers. We share a look so intense that I feel it viscerally.

Did she look at my mother that way? Did she lock eyes with her in the mirror?

It hurts to think about, and for no good reason the devastation of that time rushes back, the humiliation, the rejection, and I look away.

I look at myself and have a mild panic. I have bangs. Granted, they are long and sexy bangs, but they are bangs nonetheless. She quickly styles my hair in loose waves.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Just not used to the bangs."

"Hey, if you hate them, just get some product, and do like this." She pulls them up.

"No, it's cool, they're growing on me. Literally."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Are you positive?" She fixes me with a penetrating glance that feels like sex. "I don't want you to leave out of here unhappy."

"Shane, calm down. It's cool." I give her my patented shit-eating grin, and she buys it.

"Allright. I think you look great."

"Thank you."

Indeed, she has worked magic. This woman has a gift. She truly makes everyone look hot. She hands me a mirror and spins me around to check out the back. I have this recently-fucked look that I really like. The bangs make it a little kittenish, but not in the childlike way they looked back then.

I grin. "You fucking rock."

"You like?"

"Love it."

"Me too."

I feel lighter as I change back into my halter. The few inches of skin newly exposed by the cut feel somehow sexy. I shiver as I slide the cool gold necklace around my neck and clasp it.

Anthony the fag is back when I emerge from the changing room. "Very nice," he looks me up and down.

"Thanks."

Shane is standing at the counter, arms crossed, watching me with a smile on her face. It's unnerving to say the least.

"So, we're on for Tuesday?"

"Yeah, is nine too early?"

"No, that's great."

"Cool. Leave your number and I'll call you."

"Allright." I nod, as if I don't care much. She seems fooled.

I pay more for the haircut than I've paid for every cut I've had in the last three years combined, say goodbye, and walk out, knowing that Shane is watching me.

.

I can't sleep. Cannot fucking sleep. My muscles spasm and tingle from the jog I just took. Still, energy is coursing through me and my thoughts are racing.

Okay, there is no deluding myself now. I'm infused with lust stronger than almost anything I've ever known in my life. I have now officially Got it Bad for Shane. We should have a support group. Lovelorn Dykes of the L.A. Metro Area, Unite!

Dammit. I knew this was a mistake. I told myself not to get involved again. I hate the powerlessness of this desire.

But hey, I'm not the only powerless one, am I? I saw her eyes on me. I know that unless she's changed, I could have her in a heartbeat. Her actual lips on me. I want to kiss her more than I want to fuck her, and that's weird, but it's all the fantasy I need as my hand moves downward.

Hmm. Pressure there feels good. I imagine her from behind, rubbing against me. Her thin body pressed against my back, arms snaking forward to touch me, cup my tits, flat part of her hand teasing my cunt. Oh, good.

I could actually have this, I think, and that's how I come. I could answer the door on Tuesday, looking devastating, and just jump her. I could feel that mouth, that body.

I could finally taste her.

The thought raises me up higher than I've been in a long while, and in the quiet darkness I cry out.

After, I fall asleep quickly, before it can ache.