Manic Attack

XII. Much Aldo About Nothin'

The lady with the exquisite yellow ropes for hair had quite a firm touch. She gripped my collar and, for a second, it seemed like she was going to punch me in the face. I liked it.

"Monica!" Rodney's voice pulled me out of my reverie. His mentor had left the room, leaving him frowning like a child with separation anxiety and a tendency to talk to closing doors.

"She's gone, dude," the lady pulling my collar said over her shoulder. "The energy in this room has shifted. My chakras are spinning."

"Do you mean the ceiling fans?" I asked. Chakra did seem like a fancy name for the genius cooling systems.

She stopped fidgeting and glanced up. "Not again," she said with a sheepish laugh. "I tend to get them mixed up a lot."

"Sometimes, I can't tell whether it's the fan or my head."

Her eyes softened in what could only be sympathy. "Like right now?"

In the entire week I had spent with men and women more invested in my hair and clothes than me, I had finally found someone, probably a few years younger than Rodney, truly understanding of my situation. I wanted to wrap her up in shiny paper and preserve the empathy her eyes brimmed with. An anomaly in a world that was riddled with ever-changing dualities. "I didn't catch your name," I said.

"I never threw it at you."

My neck reddened as she smoothed her fingers over my stiff collar using the same firm touch I appreciated. Her hands moved away from my neck, down my shoulders, and squeezed my upper arms.

"Man, you're built like a machine," she muttered, "Oh, and I'm Esme." I squirmed as she held onto my arms for many more seconds before stepping back and giving me an endearing smile. "If it wasn't for objectification, I would positively say that you look like a thousand bucks."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Esme," I said with a smile. "Thank you."

The reflection in the mirror was someone else. Hair stiff with gel and scratchy new clothes fitting an unrecognizable silhouette, I looked like the many unsmiling people adorning the billboards on Time Square. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the trousers threatened to pop a stitch. I would never understand the charm behind tight clothes. A tired breath escaped my pursed lips. "Rodney, where's the washroom?"

After understanding the directions which he relayed in a manner more complicated than necessary, I left the styling room in need of some peace and quiet. The raucous workers bustling around the wide hallway made sure I wasn't going to get it. Pushed and brushed past, I tried to forge my way to the washroom. I walked past a corner with nothing but a sheet of pale pink wallpaper running from the ceiling and carpeting a square part of the floor. Women in lush robes stood with their hips jutting in painful angles, tapping away on cell phones or engrossed in animated conversations with other men and women in wacky outfits. With a force fiercer than hurricane Katrina, it hit me what exactly I had landed myself into- a world so alien to mine, I might as well be visiting Pluto.

As I tried to answer random people who came up to me, inquiring whether I was ready for the shoot and not even staying long enough to hear my answer, the high-pitched voice of a woman rose above the din and demanded attention. People around me began whispering, the suppressed glee of witnessing a scandal lighting up their features.

I tried to follow the voice until it lowered and everyone resumed working on their own- or someone else's-  hair, face, or body. The mirrors lining this part of the floor were unusually bright, surrounded by bright amber bulbs. Before them lay a wide table on which rows of fascinating tools and containers were displayed. At the dressing table standing towards the end of the room, sat someone I knew.