The makeover on Mulberry Lane

Turn 41 of 44

Mist Ruth's whole pageboy with a whole bottle of hairspray like Vivian did with you and you did for Carol until the hair shines and the set becomes permanent like every single housewife. After you hear a knock at the door, you two leave the bedroom and head downstairs to answer it. It’s Vivian and Carol. They start to say in 50s slang how good Ruth looks after her makeover.

"Now hold your breath, honey," you say, and reach for the hairspray on the vanity — a whole fresh bottle, pink and gleaming, like it was stocked there for just this night. "A gal's first brush-out is one she remembers her whole life. Let's make it a set that lasts." You mist her all over — the sides, the back, that deep S-swept front — wave after wave until the whole bottle sighs empty and the room smells of it, sweet and sharp, like your own bedroom did, like Carol's. The pageboy settles into itself, glossy and lacquered, swinging and springing back into place when Ruth shakes her head no and no and no again. Permanent. Just like yours. Just like every gal on the street.

"It *won't move*!" Ruth cries, delighted, patting it with red nails and watching it spring right back.

"Land sakes, Margaret, it's like wearing a helmet made of *dreams*."

And then, downstairs, the doorbell — two bright chimes, and a knock behind them for good measure. You and Ruth descend in a rustle of petticoats, Ruth's new heels still a little careful on the stairs, and you open the front door onto the porch light and two gals in their finest.

Vivian stands there in her orange swing dress, auburn poodle cut lacquered to a mirror shine, pearls at her throat and her smile already wide. Behind her comes Carol in her green coat dress, chestnut bouffant gleaming under the porch lamp, black heels clicking up the step.

"Well, *hiya*, gals!" Vivian sings out, hands clasped.

"We heard the most *divine* rumor that somebody on this street got the works tonight, and we simply couldn't sit home another minute!"

"Oh, Ruth!" Carol breathes, taking in the polka dots, the pearls, the shining dark pageboy.

"Look at you, honey! That hair — why, it's *jolly good*, it's simply dreamy! You look just like a magazine ad!"

"Just like all of us," Vivian says, stepping over the threshold — she never does that, you think, and then the thought smooths over like a made bed — and taking Ruth's small white hands in her own. "Just like me, just like Carol, just like Margaret. Oh, honey, Dick will be *tickled pink* when he hears we got Ruthie Kessler done in a single evening. Why, back home—" and there she stops, the way she always stops, and laughs it closed, bright as a bell. "Well! Land sakes. Isn't it a *lovely* night for it."