You're trying to keep a smile on your face. Marie had tied two giant balloons onto your chair and now the bloated, gold helium-filled numbers '3' and '4' are bumping into the back of your head, buffeted by the ocean breeze that's rising as the sun sets. You look around the table at the figures silhouetted in the magic hour light and take stock: Marie and Pham have flown in to San Francisco for the night and are talking about their luxe hotel suite, a welcome respite from the kids whereas Julie-- sleeping on your couch -- is posting the dinner party, minute by minute, onto instagram. She taps "Nicole turns the big 34!!! #girlsnightout #happybdaygirl" into her phone while telling you all about why her lips look fuller. "Fillers, bitches!" she grins. You take a deep breath and realize how much things have changed since you all met in college. Between the four of you there are one husband, one wife, one cross-fit-obsessed boyfriend (Julie calls him Tyler, the love of her life; Marie and Pham just refer to him as “that motherfucker right there’), two adorable kids, and one betta fish. The fish is yours.
“Sweetie, are you okay? Was it the chicken? Do you want tums, I have tums—” Marie starts digging through her purse while tears start to roll down your face. Pham asks if your ex dared to call you. “No, no, it’s okay,” you insist. “I’m just so glad to see you—” your three friends huddle around your chair. “But this morning the supermarket clerk called me ma’am,” you wail.
Later that night Julie is braiding your hair like she used to during sleepovers while you watch reality tv. "Tyler says if you don't like something, change it," Julie breathes as she watches the reveal of the woman onscreen, glimmering from a makeover as she runs to a gazebo to get engaged. "I mean, Tyler’s cut his body fat to 15 percent. You just have to decide you want something bad enough, you know?”
Earlier you told Julie what you were too embarrassed to say during dinner: that the breakup wasn't mutual, that one day you were living with your boyfriend and looking forward to the future and the next day it was over. You felt like a dog that woke up and realized its family had moved and left it behind. So, you found a short-term rental while you figured things out. You thought about getting a new job but you weren’t sure. You looked into taking a vacation, but you didn’t know where and none of your friends could go. You got the betta fish, and you got back out there, but things had changed. Dating felt more like being on the stock market, like you had a value and it had unaccountably dropped. The worst was the date where the guy coolly looked you up and down outside the movie theater, said, "okay," and then didn't speak to you again until after the movie when his taxi pulled up to the curb. And the strangest thing was, you don’t feel like you’ve changed so much. You didn’t magically turn into a crone when you hit your 30s, you’ve always been smart and kind and a go-getter, and yet somehow everything feels difficult. Gray and cold and no fun. Meanwhile Julie has extended her eyelashes, her nails, and soon, she tells you, her breasts.
"What? Why? Your boobs are great. And isn't that expensive?" You know she can't really afford them.
"I’ve always wanted bigger boobs, so why not?” Julie takes another sip of wine. "Besides, I don't think it's anti-feminist or whatever. I'm happier now that I like the way I look. Manifest the things you want, and even more will come to you."
“But is it what you want? Or what Tyler wants?" you ask.
Julie shrugs, her eyes on the television. "Why can't it be both?”
That night, you look at yourself in the harsh fluorescent bathroom lighting. You look sad, and tired. You think about needing a new plan, a fresh start.
You pull your hair back and think, “Why not?”
Two weeks later, Julie seems astonished when she sees your new look. She's frowning, but you tell yourself that Julie's had a hard time. She went through with the breast implants and while she said she was happy it was harder to breathe. "But the doctor says that will go away soon," she said with forced cheerfulness. You smile and toss your hair extensions-- beautiful, wavy real hair that glints gold and honey and oak-- feeling like Cinderella. "Damn, girl, you look like you could be on tv. It’s like you're a whole new person," she says. She sounds worried, but you admire your gleaming acrylic nails and think to yourself that she's just in a bad mood, maybe even jealous. Luscious new eyelashes have been gently glued to your own, individual eyelashes by a tiny woman named Mia who has the dexterity of a surgeon. Your skin glows a soft, buttery gold thanks to Anna, who strips you down to your underwear in a small tent and sprays you with ice-cold tanning solution while you pose like a bodybuilder. You cannot wear white, use mascara, or sleep on your stomach, but your lashes flutter like a Disney princesses' and everyone at work compliments your tan. At every appointment you’re greeted with glasses of wine, delicate, fluttering hugs, and girl talk, like you’re just visiting a new friend instead of buying something. But the hair extensions-- stiff, two-inch long tapes with paper-thin layers of human hair-- are layered around your head like scales. When your scalp itches, you have to gently reach between the tapes and scratch with one manicured nail. The weight of the hair is immense.
You call Marie and start to feel defensive as she asks about how you’re feeling, how much everything costs. “Don’t get me wrong, you look…great,” she says too carefully. “But you looked great before too. And what about your other plans? You were talking about taking a trip out of the country, that would be fun.”
You shrug. “I’m having fun now,” you say. “Besides, I changed my mind about moving. What if I meet someone amazing tomorrow and then we move in together? I just want to leave my options open.” Marie rolls her eyes and you tamp down the spark of anger that kindles inside you. “Nic, listen to yourself—” she says as you hang up. She doesn’t get it. Maybe you two are just too different now to understand each other. You check your makeup on your camera phone and scowl at the faint lines on your forehead. Your phone chimes as an ad for botox pops up, like magic.
You go back to Johanna, the Valkyrie hairdresser who did your extensions. Her salon glitters like a tiny Aladdin's cave as she hands you another glass of wine, asks how your mom is doing. She runs her hands through your hair and you close your eyes and sigh. It’s been a while since anyone touched you. Flipping a handful of swatches around in her hand as though she were shaking a tiny dog, she frowns.
"Honey, it's just the weight of the tapes. It's like getting braces, you'll get used to it after a while." You take another sip of wine and see a book lying on the table: The Rules.
"Are you really reading that?" you ask.
"Oh girl, yes. I know it seems retro, but I'm telling you, I've been using it on this guy who I'm really into and, you know, making him be the hunter? And it's totally working. I swear. He's texting me constantly now." You both laugh as you down the last of your chardonnay, and for a moment you feel like part of a secret club. Then you hand over your credit card for the last of the $2000 it cost to get your mermaid hair. You've never looked or felt better, you think. There’s a reason for everything, which is something you saw embroidered on one of Julie’s pillows. You just have to have faith in the universe, you think.
But now you can't sleep. At night you dream of chrysalises, delicate legs breaking out of even more delicate shells. An acrylic nail catches on a snag at work and it rips off, scattering droplets of blood across your desk. You suck your finger and taste the coppery, bitter tang of blood and plastic. You miss one spray tan appointment and are appalled when you get out of the shower and see your skin mottled a dozen different shades, peeling. You're molting, you think. The first time you wash your hair, it bristles and puffs up as if an angry cat is tied to your head. The next night you massage handfuls of rose-scented oil into your hair and braid it. After that it looks beautiful, but you wake up with your hands clawing at your hair, trying to peel away the scales.
You swipe on an app until the faces start to blur. You go on a date. He's a lawyer. His name is Josh and you've always liked that name. You have a good time. You're grinning as he walks away, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection. Your hair looks good but now your teeth look a little...dingy. Crooked. One tooth is chipped, you notice. You find a dentist and at his office, he shows you a photo album of gleaming smiles. They look like they could be porcelain, you say.
"Oh no, we stopped using that a long time ago," he says cheerfully.
The procedure is long and surprisingly painful. Your front teeth are sanded down and a veneer is placed over each tooth like a press-on nail. You are sent home with extra-strength painkillers. You fall into a deep sleep. When you wake up, your mouth feels awkward. You smile in the mirror. Your teeth are gleaming, all right. And they look large, so large. You bite down gently and wince with pain. They'll settle in, you tell yourself.
You meet Josh at a steakhouse where you both get salads, and you talk for an hour about favorite restaurants like two alcoholics reminiscing about their favorite drinks. He kisses you in the moonlight, and you flinch away as he caresses your hair, afraid he'll tell it's not yours. You laugh at all his jokes, just like it says in The Rules, even when they aren't funny. He suggests you meet again. You go online and find Josh's Facebook page, his professional website, his instagram. He's so handsome. You look at a picture of him and an ex-girlfriend, standing golden and happy on a beach. If you stare long enough, her face morphs into your own.
You start waking up with a gasp in the middle of the night, imagining a snake is wrapped around your neck. It’s just the extensions, you tell yourself. You develop dark circles under your eyes. You still aren’t sleeping, so you go to a very expensive doctor with a perfectly oval face who injects fillers into the shadows under your eyes. She numbs the skin with ice and then a cream, but you can hear the pop the needle makes as it pierces the skin over and over. The deep bruises take a week to fade, or maybe it's two weeks. Your boss calls you into her office to talk about an improvement plan, she believes in you, she knows you’ve had a hard time, but it’s time to show initiative. You nod and try to listen but your scalp keeps aching.
People keep complimenting you, except your friends. But they can’t understand your life, what you’re going through, you think. You’re taking control of your life and making positive changes. If feelings were colors you had been blue and drab, endless gray. But now you’re surrounded by gleaming hair, sparkling nails, flattering, and swishy dresses that are delivered every day as if by magic. You tell the mailman that he’s like the helpful mice in a fairy tale but he just rolls his eyes. You go out with Josh two times, or maybe three. "You look beautiful," he says. He kisses you by your car. His lips are soft and sweet. You nearly bite them. He asked if he could come over. You almost say yes, but then stop yourself. You haven’t had time to get ready. He's so handsome, so nice, you think. You want everything to be perfect.
That night you run screaming out of a dream where you were chasing someone--or something-- on all fours. Your scalp hurts, your mouth hurts, your muscles hurt, your very bones are throbbing. You hobble to the bathroom and gulp water straight from the faucet, like an animal. You breathe deep and look in the mirror. Your brain stutters in confusion for a second before you recognize yourself. "Oh," you say. "That’s me." You grimace in the mirror, inspecting your new teeth, and for no reason you growl at your reflection.
Marie and Pham call you. You see their shocked faces and are proud of how far you've come. "Glow-up!" you trill. When they don't start smiling, you drop the phone on the ground and walk outside and stare at the trees, mesmerized by the way the branches thrash in the rising wind. That night you dream that you're chasing something again, and you wake up teeth bared and hands clawed, triumphant. You caught it that time. When you go to feed the betta fish, who you never got around to naming, you see that the tank is empty. You look around and can’t find a trace of it.
Your cards are all declined at the next week's appointments. You panic, shouting that you have to look good, you have to look perfect, you have a date. Johanna pulls her boss from the back of the jeweled cave and you are escorted out. You hiss at the closed door and walk away. You walk all the way back home, crossing a highway and dodging cars. You tell yourself you’ll freshen up at home, but you end up falling asleep, exhausted, outside your front door curled up on the welcome mat.
When you wake up, it’s time for your date with Josh. Your fingers scrabble to pick up the bottles and brushes. You impatiently pull off some of the nails so your hands are free as you ignore the blood coursing down your hands. You pull on a dress and notice with satisfaction that it's even looser than it was when you bought it. "John will love this," you say as you twirl in the mirror. "Or Josh, that's right, his name is Josh."
Josh has made reservations at the same restaurant you had your birthday at, months ago. He even reserves the best table-- the same one you had before. It's perfect. You're both perfect, you think as he takes your arm.
"Why are your fingers bandaged?" He asks.
"Oh, just a little accident!" You laugh, maybe for too long. You sit down and toss your beautiful mermaid hair and feel tension snap like a string. Several lengths of hair fall and you hastily kick them under the table. You fix your eyes on Josh-- John-- Josh and ask him about his day. One of your acrylic nails drops off into your soup with a plop, followed by the patter of eyelashes, falling like snowflakes. Josh's voice halts.
"Nicole, are you alright? You don't seem like... yourself."
You sniff and swipe a hand across your face, smearing your makeup and he hands you a napkin. He's so nice.
"I think I'm just tired," you say, and you take a bite of your steak. As you put your fork down Josh gasps.
"Nicole, your teeth! What is wrong with your teeth?"
Your head whips around to your reflection in the giant glass window. Your veneers are coming off, leaving pointed fangs and nubs. Your mouth is red with meat and blood. You gasp, and as your hands touch your face, you stare and stare and suddenly grin. You turn around and Josh is backing away with his hands up.
"Look, let me call an ambulance or something. You're not yourself, you need help, Nicole."
You howl with laughter-- he's so funny! You rip hanks of hair from your head and drop them to the ground, relieved as your headache finally, finally fades. You feel that spark of anger again but this time, you let it rise up, up, up until you feel like you’re burning from the inside.
"How do you know I'm not myself, Josh? How do you know this isn't the real me?" You look at your figure in the glass, silhouetted in the twilight. You feel your head beginning to clear, finally, now that the pain is gone. As you leave, you walk by a glowing young couple. They could be on a dating show, you think. You lock eyes with the girl, and take in her glowing deeply tanned skin, her shiny, plump lips and long lashes, and wince as you remember how it all felt. She stops in her tracks nervously, eyes darting towards her date. You lean in close, until your hair tangles with hers.
“Boo,” you say.