Southern Belles

Three ladies, all probably about the same age-upper-twenties-but at different points on the path to middle age stepped onto the elevator to the parking garage, a slow old thing that shook and shimmied its way down through four stories worth of terrain.  The alpha female, and also the prettiest-no coincidence, that-remarked to her two friends, one more so than the other, about her eyebrow lady, the one that manicured the eyebrows of all of the local celebrities, and through whom Raven had met them.  Raven’s eyebrows were not unattractive, though normal-looking, which was a fair summary of her in the entirety.  A glossy brunette with a few “tasteful” highlights and a permanent tan, Raven was attractive enough to take home the tomcat of her choice from any of the local bars.  She cast her brown eyes, despite the weight of her eyeliner and mascara, at Shanda, her number two.  Shanda, also not unattractive-though less not unattractive than Raven-nodded mutely, as her role required.  Shanda had the great distinction of being terrifically undistinguishable: a man-even one with the elephant’s memory-would inevitably forget her features immediately after she left the room.  Nonetheless she was passable enough to scrape by on Raven’s leftovers at the end of a long night.  As usual, Rosaline was being ignored-not actively, mind you.  Rosaline stood at five feet three inches if she rose up on her toes.  Her body had already begun to put weight in the places that women will, though she hid it well by wearing mostly black print sundresses in the summer-which, in turn, caused her to sweat profusely at times-and slacks and jackets in the winter.  Compared to the other two, Rosaline was unkempt, though not slovenly by any means.  She simply suffered from split ends, a pasty complexion, and moles on her neck.

Raven went on, “You wouldn’t believe who was in Cari’s shop,” going on to name some minor celebrity that was either past his prime or had never had one, depending on the definition of prime.  Carolyn’s, or Cari’s to the familiar or pretentious-often both-was indeed a spa of some distinction, in fact, the best in Wilmington, North Carolina.  It was true that most celebrities in Wilmington frequented the shop when not shooting; when in-production, the producers would have the appropriate people flown in from Hollywood.  The Wilmington celebrity, typically from a spin-off sitcom or made-for-television movie, was lower rate than that among the Angelinos or New Yorkers, but the locals were thrilled regardless.  Raven’s connection, through Carolyn, was crucial to her self-esteem.

As she prattled on about the peculiarities of some male semi-celebrity, Rosaline felt neglected and began to grow desperate for some acknowledgement from Raven, or Shanda if Raven was unwilling.  “I’m going to dye my hair,” she blurted.

“You’re going to color your hair,” Raven corrected.

Rosaline, wide-eyed, trembling at the acknowledgement, “No, I’m going to dye all of it.”

Raven slipped, as she was prone to do, into irritability, “No, you mean you’re going to color all of it.  Dying is what it is called when it’s done poorly.”

The elevator buzzed, indicating that it had reached its destination.  The doors slowly opened as Rosaline admitted, “Well, I’m going to do it myself, so…”

Raven shook her head and stepped off of the elevator, giving up.  Shandra, seized her opportunity, “So, what color are you going to color it?”

The elevator’s doors shut behind them and the carriage was empty and still, smelling faintly of discount perfume.