Paulina & Fran

15

Fran stared at the Post-it where she’d copied down the address. On her work computer, she looked up what subways were near there. What did Paulina want with her anyway? Fran wasn’t going to fly all the way to New York just to have Paulina insult her and make her promise never to see Julian again. Paulina was like that. If you took something of hers, it was never forgotten. You were never free.

“Fran, we need more questions about art careers. Jane wrote a few good ones, but we need at least ten for the standard,” Meryl said, leaning over the divider of Fran’s cube. “There’s a bunch of books that might help in the library, but this should help too.” She handed Fran an overstuffed folder of printouts and pamphlets.

Fran wouldn’t give Paulina the satisfaction. Instead she’d be in Julian’s arms somewhere near Lancaster on a romantic getaway, which must mean “sex in a new place.” In the cube across from her, Ray, who worked in the history department, was bragging to another man about a streak of “hits” he’d had. A hit was a test question that was conceived, written, and accepted for use in one pass.

“I had like twenty hits, my longest streak, in ’97,” Ray said. “Do you remember that?” The other man murmured. Ray whistled. “You know what? Crazy thing is that was right in the middle of my divorce.” The men were silent.

“Hits can be like that,” the other man said. “The brain works better in times of upheaval. Men are at their most creative.”

Fran rolled her eyes. Levrett-Mercer was filled with the most boring men alive. People who took too much pleasure in being right. “Let’s look it up!” they exclaimed at the first sign of disagreement.

Jane poked her head into Fran’s cube. “Aren’t the career questions weird?”

“How do you mean?” Fran asked. Now that Fran knew Jane liked girls, it seemed obvious. But why didn’t Jane like her? Fran couldn’t help but envy her. Jane went home to her girlfriend every day. Jane went to her art studio. She no longer invited Fran to hang out after work, and now Fran wanted to. Fran wanted to see Jane and Deena, what kind of life they made together. Did they have a beautifully designed apartment, with modern furniture and dustless surfaces? Or did they live in a kind of lesbian squalor, with ratty tapestries on the floor, bras by the bed, and weed on the table?

“Just, like, how this is a career in the visual arts — writing questions at L-M. It’s sort of meta,” Jane said.

“Ha. Yeah. I guess I don’t think of this as a visual arts career,” Fran said. “It’s just a job with a visual arts theme.”

“Well, look through the pamphlet. Let me know if you find something better,” Jane said.

“I will!” Fran got excited. Levrett-Mercer was paying her to research a better job! She opened the folder. There were a series of flyers with grim statistics. She flipped through a few photocopied articles. One of them, titled “Before You Choose a Visual Arts Career,” was a cautionary tale written by a self-important watercolor artist.

It was someone’s birthday in the Math Department, and from across the hall Fran could hear a small crowd of voices going through the dragging birthday song. She found a packet called Careers in the Visual Arts. In the back was a list of all the possible art careers.

Advertising Editor

Animator

Architect

Art Auctioneer

Art Critic

Art Historian

Art Restorer

Art Teacher

Art Therapist

Bookbinder

Calligrapher

Candlemaker

Caricature Artist

Ceramist

Costume Designer

Enamelist

Fabric Draper

Florist

Gallery Owner

Gift Wrapper

Glassblower

Graphic Designer

Hair Stylist

House Painter

Illustrator

Industrial Designer

Interior Decorator

Jeweler

Letterer

Makeup Artist

Medical Illustrator

Muralist

Museum Curator

Paperhanger

Parade Float

Photographer

Printmaker

Sculptor

Set Designer

Silversmith

Stained Glass Restorer

Stone Mason

T-shirt Designer

Tattoo Artist

Textiles Designer

Theater Director

Weaver

Window Decorator

Woodworker

Parade Float? What the fuck. How was that an option? It seemed like an insult, a spectacle of failure and self-promotion. Decorating oneself lavishly like a fool, or getting fat and dropping out of society. Also—gift wrapper?! That was not an art. Where was painter?

“Look at this! It’s so fucked up,” Fran said, shaking the pamphlet at Jane.

Jane scanned it, amused. “I don’t get it. Glassblower, graphic designer. Looks okay to me.” Jane handed it back.

“No, here,” Fran emphatically circled Parade Float.

Jane cracked up. “That’s just a typo. They mean ‘parade float designer,’” Jane said. Fran sighed. “What? It’s a real thing.”

“It feels demoralizing. Everything is hopeless. I’m going to quit today,” Fran said. She stared at Jane and imagined she was Jane’s lover, lying with her under the covers, going grocery shopping. Whatever Jane and Deena did together — hosting game nights? watching awards shows? — Fran would be good at that. Or, better yet, she could be Deena’s lover. Lie in Deena’s arms. Brush Deena’s long straight hair away from her face.

“Are you sure? You’re probably just having a bad day. Tell Meryl you’re sick and go home early.”

“I’m a painter. Not a writer of test questions. I hate tests. I hate questions.” Fran ran her hand through her hair. “Ugh! This job has ruined my hair. It’s like straw, touch it.”

Jane touched it. “It’s not that bad, Fran.” Tears waited in Fran’s eyes. “You can’t quit,” Jane said, but Fran was already walking to Meryl’s desk. In no time at all, she had quit Levrett-Mercer, signed the forms, and handed in her key card.

Fran stood triumphantly outside Levrett-Mercer in a drizzly rain. She was like a bug who’d been trapped in a window for days, but had finally located the tear in the screen.

“Fran, wait,” Jane called, walking out the door without a jacket.

Fran, wait, I love you, Fran thought. I’m very attracted to you. Me and Deena both. We’ve been meaning to ask you. .

“What will you do for money?” Jane asked.

Fran looked at the bus stop a few yards away, where she’d spend the next thirty minutes waiting on a metal bench. “I’ll live with Julian. I’ll borrow money from Paulina.”

“Who’s Julian?” Jane asked.

“My boyfriend,” Fran said. “He’s taking me to Lancaster this weekend,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Wow! I had no idea you were seeing someone. Since when?”

“Junior year of college.”

“Oh my god, Fran! You’re practically married,” Jane said.

“What? No. It’s not like that.”

“We should go on a double date. Me and Deena will cook you dinner.”

Fran smiled at her. “I would love that. I really liked Deena.”

Fran hugged Jane. She liked how Jane smelled. She imagined a perfume called Lesbian Squalor. Maybe that’s how Deena smelled. Maybe she’d find out.

The hairdresser touched Fran’s hair and recoiled. “I know it’s really dry,” Fran said. “That’s why I came in. Can’t you give me a strong conditioner or something?” The salon had that plastic smell of vanity and fear. It was decorated with black-and-white photos of models. Silver blow dryers sat out on the counters like big flamboyant guns. Fran usually cut her own hair.

The hairdresser was a thin European. He furrowed his brow. His accent made Fran feel ordinary. He fluffed her hair with distaste. “Well, I can use these new products we just got in,” he said, pointing to a bottle labeled SUPERCURL. The logo was written in scribbly letters above a line drawing of a woman’s wild curls. Below her was a drawing of a man who looked exactly like Marvin. Fran examined his sweet, sweet face. They had captured it and now it was everyone’s.

Fran stared at the sleek, simple hair of the models in the photos on the wall.

“Can you just straighten it? That’s what I want.”

“Are you sure? We have a chemical called KillKurl, but it’s permanent. It’s harsh on hair, and yours is already so dry. The SUPERCURL deep conditioner would revitalize it. You’ve got such beautiful curls—”

“Straighten it.”

The hairdresser looked at her with disdain. His own hair was tightly cropped to his head, but he moved with inherent style. “It’s a long, intense process. I’d have to apply it, let it sit, do my eleven o’clock, and then rinse it off. It breaks the natural bonds of the hair. It erases your hair’s memory.”

It smelled like burning. Fran sat under a dryer, her hair bundled and clipped in foil, fighting nature. Looking at the glossy fashion magazines on the table, Fran was stunned to see Paulina on the cover of Hair Monthly. Paulina had grown into the sophistication of her face, like it had been her face’s great plan all along. Fran ducked under the dryer to reach for the magazine. She found the article and started to read.

Paulina Hermanowitz, 26, is the young entrepreneur behind the curly hair revolution. The past two years have seen SUPERCURL double in revenue and become a salon favorite. SUPERCURL has deviated from industry standards with their new male campaign “Curls aren’t just for girls,” which has introduced their products to the other half of the population. Graphic designer Gretchen Peterson designed SUPERCURL’s new curlyboy logo.

Things haven’t always been easy for the new company. Hermanowitz was widely criticized last fall when she donated SUPERCURL products to the homeless in lieu of a monetary contribution.

Fran didn’t want to know any more. Things had wound themselves together too tightly. Fran flipped to the next article, detailing the ways hair changes during pregnancy. She spent a few minutes looking at an illustrated timeline of the history of braiding.

The dryer droned on. It warmed her ears until they stung. Fran could feel the chemical working. It was undoing all the senseless coils. Unconsciously, she started to compose a montage of hair memories — boys in middle school playing with her curls, pulling them and letting them bounce up, strangers stopping her on the street telling her how jealous they were.

Fran felt deserted under the dryer. The salon filled with gaudy suburban moms. The European hairdresser drifted about, teasing everyone, kissing customers good-bye on both cheeks. His eleven o’clock arrived — a teenage girl with thick, unruly curls. The hairdresser applied SUPERCURL Deep Conditioner while the girl’s mother looked on, relieved.

Finally the hairdresser raised the dryer’s head, took off the plastic shower cap, and led Fran to the sinks. “Rinse her, Amy,” he said, and the water started. The woman’s hands caressed Fran’s scalp. Fran remembered the time in the bathroom in college, exhausted from dancing. She thought about what train she would take, the J or the 6. Then it was back under the dryer. The hair dryer worked its anger at her. Don’t go to New York, it said. She had already quit Levrett-Mercer. Quitting Julian would leave her with nothing.

Fran’s new hair fell flatly away from her face. Instead of clinging together, it feathered out, escaping her. The hairdresser tried to act enthusiastic, but even he seemed to know that Fran had been condemned. “Give it a few days. The hair needs time to recover from the shock.” His phone chirped from his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, laughing quietly. He unsnapped the salon gown from Fran’s neck, releasing her from his responsibility. He talked cheerfully with the other customers while she fumbled with her wallet. The worst part was, she had to pay him for it. She had to tip him!

The next morning, Fran woke up hung over, thinking of Julian. Gradually, she recalled the small details of her life. It was Friday. She didn’t have to go to Levrett-Mercer. Fran wanted to rejoice! She got out of bed and started her morning routine. She would take an early train to Pittsburgh. If she got there early enough, she could cab to Julian’s and surprise him before he started work around lunchtime. This energized her. She started to throw socks and underwear into the old patchwork backpack. What was the weather in Lancaster this weekend? Fran didn’t have time to check.

The mirror stilled her. She took Paulina’s hair clip from her bureau and pinned back a section of limp hair. It didn’t improve it. Fran undid the clip and put it in her pocket. She wanted to scream. She wet her hair in the sink and it hung even straighter. She’d figure out something on the train.

Fran stood in front of the long bathroom mirror in Pittsburgh’s Penn Station. On one side of her, a young girl expertly applied lipstick. On the other side, a homeless woman rinsed her mouth. Fran tried ineffectually to twirl her damp hair into curls. The young girl watched with interest, before following her mother’s voice away from the sinks. Fran wet her hair down again and combed it out with her fingers.

She looked like an animal that had fallen in a pool. This was not ideal for a romantic getaway. She would have to get a perm somewhere. She had to get a perm now. She wandered through the station, pausing to think under the stunning rotunda, looking for a stranger who would let her use his phone. Strangers walked in every direction, but Fran hesitated, unable to stop them. They passed her silently. Some turned back to look at her, sensing that she wanted something from them. Couples passed hand in hand. Fran would never interrupt a couple. Couples were on their own journeys.

Finally, Fran saw a teenage girl pulling a rolling suitcase. The girl had short spiky hair. Fran approached her smiling. The girl listened reluctantly.

“I’m sick,” Fran said to Julian.

“Oh, baby, that’s horrible. What’s this number you’re calling me from?” She could tell she’d awakened him. She pictured how the light hit his bed in long stripes at this time of day.

“It’s the doctor’s office phone,” Fran said. The girl stared at her in disbelief.

“What’s wrong?”

“The flu, they think.”

“I’m going to come out there and take care of you.”

“No, no,” Fran said quickly. “Let’s just see each other next weekend. I’ll rest up for it.” The girl gave her a resentful look. Fran turned away from her.

“I have to wait a whole week?” He sounded forlorn.

“I’m really sorry. Maybe I’ll get there a day early.”

“What about work?” Julian asked. The girl sighed impatiently.

“I’ll take a sick day. I’m taking one right now.”

“Sounds like a plan, Fran,” he said with labored cheer.

“Can you get a refund on the room and the car?”

Fran pictured a cool, relaxing lake, a little white house with blue shutters, and a garden with gray, weather-damaged statues. Next to it sat an old rented Buick covered in sunlight. Her mind even conjured up a good-natured mutt, running toward her through the grass.

“Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourself,” he said. Fran felt a burst of love for him.

“I love you.” The girl put her hand out for the phone.

“I love you too,” Julian said, only a few miles away.

Fran handed the phone back to the girl. The girl studied her, as if deciding her age, or where she came from, or what would become of her.

“It’s not usually like this,” Fran said. “My hair, I mean. It’s usually curly.”

“Whatever,” the girl said and quickly wheeled her luggage away.

Fran would go back to Ohio. A train to New York would cost $150 and take nine hours with all the stops. Back at her apartment she could look for jobs — maybe a job in Pittsburgh. She pictured herself living harmoniously with Julian, like she’d done that one summer. Or maybe Jane would get big in the Art World and ask Fran to be her assistant. She imagined Jane and Deena in bathing suits at Art Basel. Maybe one night they’d include her. .

Fran found herself in line at a deli, heard herself ordering a sandwich. She saw her hand give the cashier a handful of bills. She felt herself chewing the sandwich. She floated above herself like one of Chagall’s friendly women, lifted with sentiment and hope, except hers was more a detached feeling. She thought of Paulina from the magazine. Fran wouldn’t allow herself to touch her hair, even to worry about her hair. Some people didn’t even have hair! Some people were just heads! She wandered toward the ticket window. She would sleep and wake up in New York and everything would be different. She would let Paulina fix her hair. She would surrender. Anxiety fluttered in her stomach. She sneezed and strangers blessed her. She handed over her credit card and the Amtrak people restored her power.