Читать книгу A Little Change of Face - Lauren Baratz-Logsted - Страница 18

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Apparently, Best Girlfriend was not best pleased with some of the life decisions I was making.

“Are you fucking nuts, Scarlett?”

Having reached nearly the end of my quarantine period, I’d decided to call her up, looking for a little support, a little support that seemed to be sadly lacking.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

“Fair enough. Maybe that was a little harsh. But do you realize that what you’re telling me sounds, uh—no, there’s no nicer way to put this—slightly crazy?”

“Which part are you referring to?”

“Well, most women, when they get to be our age, put their efforts into making themselves look better, not worse. I’d say that pretty much covers the ‘slightly crazy’ part.”

“I didn’t say I was definitely going to do it.”

“What then?”

“I said I was thinking about doing it.”

“Oh. Well, that’s radically different.”

“Come on, be honest. Haven’t you ever wondered?”

Best Girlfriend was the most beautiful woman I’d ever known who wasn’t in movies. I know it may sound elitist to say this, but there’s a real continuum of attractiveness. Someone has to occupy the high end; Best Girlfriend was at the very top, and I was close up there.

“Haven’t you ever wondered,” I asked, “what your life would be like, what your relationships with men would be like, if you didn’t look the way you do?”

“No. I haven’t.” She said it so simply that I realized it must be true.

“Oh,” I said.

“You never did say, Scarlett. Just what—or who—put this idea into your head?”

“Pam?” I winced.

“Oh.”

Pam and Best Girlfriend had met once or twice, when Best Girlfriend flew into town for her occasional visits. While I’d had high hopes for those meetings—who, after all, wouldn’t flat-out adore Best Girlfriend?—the meetings hadn’t gone as planned. Pam had insisted on spending the entire time talking about mutual acquaintances that Best Girlfriend, living clear across the country, had nothing mutual with. And Best Girlfriend, usually so self-confident and secure, had been uncharacteristically miffed. The resultant conversations that began with “I don’t know what you see in her” from both of them had been enough to keep me off the idea of ever willingly bringing the two together again. Maybe, if I ever finally got married, I’d need to have them both in the same place again. But until such a time occurred…

“Oh,” Best Girlfriend said again.

And then she changed the subject, and we talked about politics and Israel and books and movies, and men of course. It was our usual greatly fulfilling kind of conversation: we got to solve the problems of the world, trade ideas on popular culture and remember yet again why we were and would always be best girlfriends.

Naturally, none of that stopped her from obeying her in-grained instincts by getting in the last word. I mean, she was those few months older than me, after all.

“Just promise me one thing, Scarlett.”

“Shoot.”

“Promise me you’ll really think about it before embarking on this crazy road.”

“Okay.”

“‘Okay’ is not the same as ‘I promise.’”

“Okay. I promise.”

“Good. And one other thing?”

“Hmm?”

“Promise me you’ll think twice before shaving all your hair off?”