with successful relationships, but that doesn’t stop her from doling out sage advice to me. She usually tells me there’s no harm in looking for Mr. Right and Mr. Right Now at the same time. But today, it’s a different pep talk, so maybe she’s got that going for her.
“What harm could a little psychic reading do?” she asks in her country-girl accent that makes my twang look downright cultured, turning her attention back to the makeup mirror in the sun visor. She rubs her finger along her bottom lip, trying to get the look of her bright red lipstick just right. “You could use a good reading in your life right now . . . pun intended.”
I toss her a quick ‘don’t go there’ look and get a mischievous ruby red smile in return. Just my opinion, but I think Tiff needs to lay off a bit on the makeup. She’s pretty without out it, with her raven-black hair, luminous eyes, and pale porcelain skin, but I don’t bother saying so since I’m basically a walking billboard for L’Oréal and Estée Lauder.
Honestly, I wear heavy makeup for two reasons. Okay, I’m lying, maybe three.
One, Dolly Parton is my idol. Growing up with a cantankerous aunt as my only mother figure, I would often steal her Dolly records and listen to them for hours while studying the album covers. Sure, she was a bit old-fashioned even when I was a kid, but it didn’t matter. She looked awesome, this weird mix of cheap and classy at the same time. Dolly always pulled it off, no matter what, and owned her backwoods roots with no apologies. And so I modeled my look—hell my attitude—after her. Big hair, big lashes, big . . . well, maybe not her whole look, but I did what I could with what Mother Nature and Victoria’s Secret gave me.
Two, I’m a bartender and it kind of comes with the territory. You want to look your best every day for your customers, especially when most of your tipping clientele are men. The dim lighting of a bar requires a heavy hand since it doesn’t exactly lend itself to subtle barely-there natural looks. I need the extra volume of lashes to bat, the red lips to pucker, and the powder to look flawless as I work my ass off.
And three, I feel more confident with a layer of foundation on my face. I’m not sure why, but a part of me feels like it puts a barrier between me and whoever I meet . . . especially the men. I’m more comfortable when they see me but don’t see the real me, if that makes sense. So I never leave the house without my makeup.
It’s a habit that’s been impossible to break ever since . . .
Angrily, I steer my thoughts away from that mental trip down memory lane and press the gas as we pass a speed limit sign that says seventy, letting the hum of my engine act as a poor substitute for my mood. It’s times like these I wish I had something with a little more muscle . . . something that rumbled and screamed when I revved it up.
“Hey!” Tiffany presses. “Stop ignoring me! It could be fun, even if you don’t believe in it.”
“I’m not hearing you,” I reply, pushing the gas just a little more. “Besides, we don’t have time. Our shift starts in an hour. Stella will have our asses if we show up late.”
A slight smile plays across my lips as I think about Stella, our boss and owner of the restaurant and bar where we both work. A hard-working woman in her mid-fifties, she’s been like a mother to me ever since I went out on my own.
Tiff smudges her lips together and then lets them go with an audible pop. “Girl, please. You know those boys want to get their beers and whiskey from us. Stella wouldn’t know what to do without us. You need to live a little, loosen up, and have a little fun. Seriously, let’s do it!”
I grip the steering wheel tightly and feel an old, familiar ache in both of my wrists like a ghost as on the radio, Carrie wails about a cheating bastard who's going to get his just desserts. “I don’t know if I consider that fun. I’m just not into being told I’m going to die in seven days like that movie The Ring.”