Turn 27 of 44

Brush out Carol's pin curls into a 1950s bouffant, saying a gal's first brush-out is one she remembers her whole life. You brush slow to allow her to enjoy each brush. You finish and tell her to look which She does, the gasp at how jolly good she looks. You then grab the hair spray and spray it all over her hair, making the hairstyle permanent like yours, Vivian’s and all the other housewives.

You seat Carol at the tri-fold mirror and unpin the first curl, and the brush goes into your hand like it grew there.

"Now hold still, honey," you tell her, "because a gal's first brush-out is one she remembers her whole life." The words come out of you warm and familiar, and you don't wonder where you heard them first — you just know they're true.

You brush slow. Each stroke runs from her crown down through the chestnut set, long and even, the bristles whispering so she leans back into it with a little sigh, eyes shut, savoring every pass like a treat saved for Sunday.

"There now," you murmur between strokes. "Isn't that just heaven?" "Oh, Margaret," she breathes. "It's like being sung to." Curl by curl the shape rises — backcombed soft and tall, the bouffant building with every pass, the sides swept and glossy, the front rolling into a wave that belongs on a magazine cover.

When the last curl is brushed out and teased to its perch, you step back and set the brush down.

"Look," you say. Carol opens her eyes.

The gasp is genuine as a wedding. A 1950s housewife sits in the mirror, bouffant gleaming under the vanity light, pearls at her throat, red nails folded, dark red lips parted over white even teeth, and her smile — permanently, blissfully Carol's — curves just like yours.

"Oh my stars," she whispers, both hands rising to touch the height of it and not daring to. "I look *jolly good*. I look — land sakes, I look like one of the gals on the street. I look like I always meant to." "You *are* one of the gals, honey," you say, and reach for the spray bottle.

"One more thing, so this beauty never lets you down." You mist her whole head — one pass, two, three — the scent sharp and sweet, like a beauty parlor in a town you've never been to, and you work it through with your fingertips, coating every curve of the bouffant, just as Vivian once did to you. The shine rises. It blooms along the swept front and down the smooth sides until her hair gleams with that impossible lacquered luster, identical to yours, identical to Vivian's, self-restoring and set for good.

Carol turns her head and the whole shape moves as one, like a lacquered cap of glory.

"It doesn't even muss," she marvels. "Not ever?" "Not ever," you say, patting her shoulder, and somewhere below, the doorbell rings — two dainty chimes, three-thirty sharp, and a smile you'd know anywhere waiting on the other side.