The Unintentional Alpha

The Salon

After riding in not only the nicest car I had ever been in but actually the nicest car I had ever seen, we arrived at Juliana's salon so she could, to put it nicely, put lipstick on a pig. I don't get a laugh from Bridget this time. That’s okay. I will get finely attuned to her sense of humor eventually. I can feel her roll her eyes, but at least I’m entertaining myself.

Juliana’s assistant, who I think is named Claire, or maybe Clara, hands me orange juice in a flute as I sit down in front of a very large and very unforgiving mirror. I take a big swig of juice, and become immediately aware that this is an alcoholic mimosa, and not plain orange juice, as I spit half of it back over myself. My eyes dart around the room in terror but mercifully, Claire/Clara has her back turned and my mother and Juliana are nowhere to be found. It is a good day to be wearing a black shirt.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Juliana whips a smock around my neck and spins my chair to face her. She’s only inches from my head, and she smells like cinnamon gum. I can hear my mother’s voice trilling in the other room as she laughs with Claire/Clara and the receptionist whose name I absolutely missed.

“What were you thinking?” she muses, as she picks random strands of hair off of my head and observes them in the palm of her hand. I freeze, but remember that earlier she found my curtsy at least slightly amusing, so I attempt what I hope looks like a nonchalant shrug and say “You’re the expert! I trust you completely.” She beams. Apparently, this is the right answer.

She croons over the details of the party with me, which is one thing I know I can confidently talk about, as my mother has hammered the details into my brain so thoroughly that I could recite both the wording of the invitation and the entire catered menu from memory. Soon I’m on autopilot, chatting about the live band and the flowers for the centerpieces and the exact shade of green that my dress is, while Juliana meticulously shampoos and conditions my never-been-touched-by-a-professional-before hair.

She is equally as thorough as she brushes and blow-dries it straighter than I ever thought possible. The trim was not significant but she must have employed some type of hair care magic because my normally oily, regular brown hair seems healthier. I stop myself before I say the word radiant. That just seems conceited. I look at the clock, and despite the ride over and the very thorough job on my hair, I'm extremely surprised to see that it's nearly noon. T-minus 6 hours until the party and my hair is done. 

Juliana looks at me smugly. She knows that she has a gift and she's waiting for my praise. I look in the mirror again and it seems like someone else's hair is on my body. "It's incredible," I murmur. "Thank you so much. I feel so beautiful." And honestly, it's not a formality. I can't stop running my fingers through it. It's so incredibly soft and just feels so... healthy? For lack of a better word, radiant? Bridget chuckles. Got her again. I run my fingers through my hair again and they don't even catch once. Amazing.

"You gotta stop touching it, honey," Juliana says as she swats my hands away from her work. "Sorry," I mumble, but she's already out the door, bringing in my fawning mother, who is, in her own words, 'absolutely astonished.' Bridget and I collectively sigh. 

"Cleo is actually going to be doing your makeup," Juliana calls her into the room. Oh, Cleo. Well, at least I was close. Cleo struts in on a pair of red heels, wheeling a full cart of more makeup products than you would see in an average department store. "Happy birthday, honey! I'll see you at the party! Don't touch your hair!" The first two sentiments are sweet; the last, not so much.

Cleo starts asking me questions about my skin type that I most certainly do not know the answers to and she seems exasperated about 5 minutes in. She clearly does not find me even slightly amusing. So, I fall back into party details and Cleo takes the bait. Soon, she's chattering away about her own 18th birthday party not too long ago. I hadn't been invited and it had been a while ago but I could tell by the way she talked about it that she was seeing it as clearly as if it had been last night.

Soon enough, I've had my face beaten to oblivion and my heart punches into my throat as I check the clock and it's 2. The party is only four hours away and even though I look the part from the neck up I am feeling increasingly not ready. I thank Cleo without really registering the words I'm saying and I intentionally block out my mother's slightly hurtful praise of the incredible wonders she has worked on my face as I'm ushered back out into the car. I stare blankly out the window as my mother goes on and on about my hair and makeup, nodding and smiling every so often so she thinks I'm listening, but if I'm being honest, she doesn't need much encouragement. She loves to hear herself talk.

As we pull back up to the house, I wish desperately that I could hop into a warm bath for the next four hours and not have to do anything else, but I know that's not possible. If I get dressed now, I'll really just have to sit still for the next four hours. I can't trust myself not to ruin the dress. If I wait to get dressed, I'll have to find something else to do until then. God, (Goddess?), how I wished I could just let Bridget run things right now. Why did I have to get my hair and makeup done so early? I sat on my bed and tried to not touch my hair or face and failed at both. Juliana and Cleo were not going to be thrilled with me. I couldn't even lay back comfortably, so I gently brought the waves of hair around the front of my shoulders and rested my back against the wall without letting it touch my head. I was extremely uncomfortable. I pulled out the book I had been reading for fun, back when I had free time, and tried to engage myself in Tudor England. My thoughts kept going back to the party, and I anxiously checked off everything in my head again. "Please, Moon Goddess," I whispered, "Please don't let me f**k this up."