The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,114

I say and then cringe at the high-pitched fangirl tone in my voice. “Sorry,” I mutter to Noé without looking up at him.

“No problem, Dolly. She’s a legend and we get people in here acting like they’re about to be baptized. You’re tame. For now. Wait till you get done with your hair, you’ll be like one of those television pastors. It’s why our advertising budget is zero,” he says proudly.

I hand him the paper, and he frowns. He blinks up at me and then looks back at the paper and says, “Your name is Confidence?” he asks.

“Yes. I know it’s unusual, weird, whatever. But it’s mine,” I say.

“I erased your e-submission because I thought it was an error. What a fucking fabulous name,” he says.

“Thank you,” I grin.

“But, I’m still calling you Dolly ‘cause that is how I’ll always think of you,” he says.

“Fair enough. There are a lot worse things than being named after an idol,” I agree.

“Okay, come on back. Let me get you settled in Tanaka’s chair. We book our clients so everyone has thirty minutes where they have her exclusive attention. Since its your first time, she’ll have a lot of questions. I’ll get you some champagne to sip while you’re chatting,” he says.

“I was thinking more like coffee,” I say and then swallow down the saliva that floods my mouth at the word. “Or maybe something that’s more suitable for morning consumption,” I say.

“I’ll add orange juice to your mimosa,” he says and walks me back to the room where one chair sits facing a full-wall mirror. Next to it is a small stand cluttered with flat irons, brushes, and bottles of product.

“Have a seat. Tanaka will be here in less than a minute.” He pats my shoulder lightly and turns to leave. “I’ll be back with your mimosa. I squeeze the juice fresh, so it will be a few,” and then he disappears through a door in the back of the room.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Do I really look like Dolly Parton? I mean, I’m blonde, short, bigger-than-average breasts, bigger-than-average ass, tiny waist that I inherited from my father. My hair is unruly, but that’s because I haven’t washed it in two days and haven’t brushed it in a day. My bare shorts-clad legs dangle several inches off the floor, the toes of my Top-Siders barely skim it when I try to reach. My stomach grumbles, and I put a hand over it. I should have eaten breakfast. I wonder if I could bribe someone to run across to Sweet and Lo’s for one of their ridiculously perfect almond croissants.

“Hey, I am Tanaka,” a loud, lyrical voice sings, yes, sings at me just before a very tall, very beautiful woman steps through the same door Noé had left through. She looks like Tara from True Blood, even down to the black leather jeans hugging her endlessly long legs.

“Hello …” I do my best Adele impersonation.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she shakes her head. “Only I sing,” she says pleasantly, but firmly.

“As it should be,” I admit.

“Your hair is a disaster,” she scolds. “What a waste of beautiful cuticles. You do not take care of it,” she says and picks up a few strands of my hair. She pulls a little magnifying glass out of her pocket and holds my hair under it.

“What is this color at the end?” she demands, dropping the lock of hair unceremoniously before taking a step back to eye me closely.

“That’s my color. I’ve just got through growing out a terrible brown I got from some online company that has since disappeared.”

“Are you saying that’s your natural color?” she asks, disbelief plain in her voice.

“Yes, it is. Why?”

“I’ve been trying to mix a blonde just this shade for the last six years, and I’ve never managed to get it quite like this.” She picks the hair up again and strokes it. She slides her hand closer to my roots and says, “This color, though, it needs some help. I saw you want a color, cut, blow out?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Okay, well, you’ve got such heavy hair, I think we should cut about five inches from the back and maybe seven from the front,” she says casually.

“Um, no. I was thinking maybe half an inch off the ends,” I say.

“Well, if that’s what you want, there are about eight chain hair salons within two miles of here. Go there. They can do that. You do not need me for that,”