The Comeback, page 27
“A good-luck charm.”
“More of a reminder. When I touched it, I told myself I’d worked hard and I could do it. You can’t do anything about the luck, but you can control the effort.”
“Now you’re giving it to me.” He sits up as well, duvet bunching around his waist.
I look over. “You work hard, Jihoon. I know you can do it.”
His eyes flash between me and the hand, which has the fingers outstretched as if waving a cheery hello. “Thank you.” He gets up and puts it in his wallet, then gives it a small pat after he zips the pocket shut.
When he gets back to bed, I draw him in until we’re lying with our legs tangled together.
“How tired are you?”
He stirs with interest beside me, rolling up on one elbow and looking down. “I feel slightly more alert now.”
“Then thank me better,” I tell him.
He grins. “That I can do.”
And he does.
Thirty-Six
Hana and I spend a happy day wandering around Seoul and eating until we feel like we’re going to explode. Bindaetteok follows mandu follows bibimbap. Hana helps me find vegetarian options since a large portion of the food seems to revolve around pork belly.
It’s not until she’s with me that I understand what had been lingering in my mind since I arrived. It’s a shift to be in a city where most people resemble me because they’re Asian. I glance over as we sit on a bench in Hongdae, watching the buskers. “This feels strange. Everyone looks like us.”
“I know.” She sips her lilac-colored boba tea. “You get used to looking different back home.”
“Asian as descriptor.”
She laughs. “Yeah, your defining quality in a crowd. Here, it’s irrelevant. I get looked at for my nose shape or my shoes, not for being Korean. I like it, at least to visit. It feels restful.”
We finish our drinks and head for our next destination.
The next day is the special VIP show, and I wake to a selfie of Jihoon holding the hand talisman and making a heart with his fingers. Despite the dark night of the soul that brought him to Toronto, Jihoon is fully engaged in what he’s doing. A buzz of energy sparks off him.
I want that feeling, too. I got a glimpse of it when working on Alex’s music proposal. At Yesterly and Havings, I only have the satisfaction of completing the job and that’s it. I want more.
“Are you getting ready?” Hana’s voice is at the door.
I put the phone away, deciding to redirect my misgivings about work into a markedly more trivial concern, which is that there’s nothing I want to wear tonight. I have not a single garment that will kick-start the confidence I need to stand out among the multiple-step-skin-care gorgeous people who will be screaming for StarLune.
Hana comes in as I’m poking disconsolately through my boring clothes. She looks cute, I observe with resentment. Loving resentment. Envious loving resentment, even though I never saw the point in dressing with style since most of my day was spent at work and lawyers aren’t generally lauded for their fashion-forward approach.
“I hate my clothes,” I say. “I need to go shopping.”
She closes her eyes and bends her head. “I have waited years to hear you say that,” she breathes. “You’ve made me the happiest woman in the world.”
“Please stop. I want a bit of change, that’s all.”
“You never want change,” she says. “You want certainty. You eat the same thing. When a pair of shoes wears out, you buy the exact same ones as replacements and get upset if you can’t.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
She ignores that. “You haven’t even cut your hair in a decade.”
“I get trims.”
“You get trims.” Her eye twitches.
“Wanting a new pair of pants is hardly earth-shattering.”
“The pants are not the point.” Her eyes and mouth open wide as if she’s had an epiphany. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“This isn’t about the pants at all.” She points at me. “You’re in psychological terra incognita, and it’s driving you bats.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I dig through my clothes and toss a shirt—plain, black—into the suitcase.
“Nope.” Hana nods vigorously. “Here you are away from your Tuesday laundry and your meal prep and your predictable Steves and Garys or whoever you deal with at work. You, my friend, are in a situation you can’t regulate and you’re spinning.”
I go to the window and yank the curtains open to reveal the bucolic forest view even though we’re basically in the middle of Seoul. Being rich is nice. “You make it sound like I’m some sort of control freak who can’t function unless I’m standing on top with a whip.”
“I don’t kink shame.”
“Hana.”
She stands and lifts one of my—plain, black—shirts to her chest. “You’ve always had your life planned. Law school. Law firm. Live close to your parents. You never had to make a choice, Ari. Now you can and it’s scary.”
“I don’t know what this has to do with buying pants.”
She lifts her eyebrows at me. “You should think about it, then.”
“Sometimes pants are only pants.” I check the time. We’re getting behind on the schedule I have planned. I can make do with the clothes I have. “Anyway, yesterday we went all historical with Gyeongbokgung Palace and the museums, so today I thought a walk along Cheonggyecheon Stream. Then lunch at Gwangjang Market and a surprise for the afternoon.”
“Nope. We’re going shopping.”
“But…” I think of the itinerary I’ve set out.
“For an hour,” she wheedles. “The stream and all those cute places will be there after we shop. Think of it as an experience.”
“We can shop in Toronto.”
“Trust me, not like this.”
I catch sight of another one of my plain black shirts. “Okay. Only for a bit, though.”
Hana leaps out of my room, voice echoing down the hall. “Let’s do one of Jihoon’s ridiculously expensive masks before we go.”
With our skin fully hydrated, we go downstairs, where Hana enters an animated discussion with Yeong, who generously agreed to drive us around. The two of them check their phones like they’re planning a heist before Hana nods and we head off.
“We’re going shopping in Myeongdong.” She gives me an appraising look. “There’s a lot, so it might be a little overwhelming for a baby consumer.”
I let that pass. “I don’t even know what I want.”
She’s almost bouncing. “You want to look good for Jihoon tonight.”
“It sounds bad when you phrase it like that.”
“Jihoon’s seen you in sweats, and he likes you, but you want to blow his socks off.”
I do want to, but I don’t want to admit that out loud.
“You want to kiss boring black goodbye,” she continues.
“I like wearing black,” I protest.
“I said boring black. We can get you some interesting black.”
Interesting black seems like a contradiction, but I’m warming up to the whole idea. “I need new things for work. I don’t want to look like a lawyer when I go into Luxe. Or Hyphen.”
Hana glances over my hair, tied back in a smooth bun, and my nude lipstick. “Got it.”
During the rest of the ride, she pulls up various social media accounts to get a sense of what I like. It’s a frustrating exercise for both of us, since what I like and what I feel comfortable in are not the same thing. By the time we arrive at a bustling district filled with people and vertical shop signs, I’m certain this is a bad idea. Hana taps me on the shoulder. “It’s only pants,” she says.
Pants can be only pants. Me in new pants is still me. I cheer up.
Hana and Yeong map out a more fulsome plan of attack, alternately pointing or frowning at various stores. They turn to me and purse their lips, then Hana shakes her head. Yeong says something that makes Hana’s eyes widen, and they start nodding.
“This is so cool,” she whispers as Yeong gets on his phone.
“What is?” I’m suspicious because we have conflicting ideas on what counts as cool.
“There are salons that cater to idols, where they get their hair and makeup done.”
“No, Hana.”
“I don’t want to beg,” says Hana.
“Good. It’s demeaning for both of us.”
“But I will,” she continues, undaunted. “Please, please pretty please with a cherry on top, let’s go to Jeebie’s.”
“Hana.”
“I won’t let them do anything drastic, I swear.”
“Why do you want to go so badly?”
She blinks. “Because this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience with some of the top stylists in a country famous for its style? They’ll make us so hot.”
“We’re hot now,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but exceptionally hot. We’ll be hottified.”
“That’s not a word.” Despite my quibbles, I admit that sounds kind of appealing. Also, it will make Hana happy. “All right. We can go.”
She claps her hands. “Shopping first.”
Thirty-Seven
Hana sips her coffee as I stretch my shoulders, in pain from carrying about twenty shopping bags. I’m sitting with my back to the window because across the street is a huge billboard featuring StarLune dressed in jeans and white T-shirts. Jihoon has followed me around this entire morning, a ghostly presence that pops up on drink bottles, skin care, portable face fans, and digital advertising screens. Name any item at random and somewhere in the city, there’s a StarLune branded version or a StarLune ad for it. After the first seven or eight sightings, I’d become somewhat inured, but I draw the line at having his billboard in my face while I chug an iced matcha latte.
“I need to buy some luggage,” I say, nudging a bag with my foot.
She stirs her caramel drink. “Leave your old clothes here.”
“I can’t…” I trail off because I could. After dressing for the Yesterly and Havings ecosystem for years, it was pleasant to be able to contemplate buying a hot-pink shirt. I didn’t because it was ugly, but for so long, I’d simply not thought it was an option.
I like having options. Why had I let myself get so constricted? Phoebe might not have a lot in her bank account, but at least she’s had experiences. All I have is the memory of my billable hours.
“We’d better get going,” Hana says, waving to a black car on the street. We haul the bags over, and Yeong leaps out to help us load them into the trunk. They almost fill the back of the SUV.
“He says it looks like we had a successful trip,” Hana translates.
I already have my eyes closed. Shopping was exhausting. “Online from now on.” Or I think that’s what comes out, because I’m already falling asleep.
Hana shakes me awake when we arrive at Jeebie’s, its glass storefront lit with a pinkish glow. Walking into the salon is like entering an alternate world where very different standards of beauty apply and the norm is so far to the right of the bell curve, it’s off the graph. Dazzling people mill around. Perfectly applied eye makeup abounds. Hair is every color of the rainbow. Even Hana stops dead in the doorway to take it in.
Once we recover, we get our bearings, and Hana approaches the front desk, which is at least ten feet long but only a foot wide and made of some resinous polymer that shifts under the light like mercury. I expect the receptionist to be aloof and judgmental, but she gives us a wide smile and a bow as she greets us.
“They have an English-speaking stylist for you,” Hana says as a woman in a white robe leads us upstairs.
“This place looks very expensive,” I say, watching a guy with bone structure made of razors sleeping in a chair as a man bleaches his hair.
“Jihoon’s paying. He has an account here.”
Of course he does. A woman comes out with cotton-candy-pink hair tied into a high twisted braid that reminds me of a style I’d see on the Whos of Whoville. She’s dressed in matching pink, with pink lips and eye makeup, and looks confidently incredible. I have a momentary daydream of walking into Yesterly and Havings with that bubblegum look. Would Richard pretend not to notice, too well-bred to comment on my appearance, or would I be sent home to change like a rebellious high schooler?
“I’m Nayeon,” the stylist says before leading me to a chair in a small room. She sits me down and leans on the counter, head to the side like an intelligent bird. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m not sure,” I say honestly.
She purses her lips. “We can work with that,” she reassures me. “Is this for an event, or do you want a change?”
“I have an event tonight, but I also want a change.” I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry. I’m not helping.”
Nayeon laughs. “It’s hair and makeup. It can seem like a huge deal, but it’s not. It’s transient, a way to play. You can wash your face later. You can grow out your hair or wear a hat.”
I never thought of that before. Slowly, I nod. “I want to look like me,” I say. “But…different. A bit different.”
“Sure.” She walks around me, her face assessing as she runs her hands through my hair. “To confirm, no blue hair?”
“No.”
“Green?”
“I would prefer not.”
“Got it.” She winks at me. “You want to watch me work, or you want to do the classic makeover surprise reveal?”
“Surprise.” My answer astonishes me.
She swings the chair around. “You got it.”
Nayeon talks to me as she works, chatting about living in New York, where she went to college at Parsons before working as a stylist for some K-pop bands. “The schedule was too much,” she says. “I had no life. It was even harder for the idols.”
“How so?”
Nayeon lifts my hair with both hands. “Too much scrutiny, and they have to be cautious of every single thing. One step out of line and it could be the end of your career or even your band. The pressure is enormous.” She starts snipping again. “What’s the event tonight? Do you want to be super glam?”
“It’s the StarLune concert.” There’s no harm telling her. I bet all the stylists here are sworn to secrecy, and I’m on Jihoon’s tab anyway.
Her eyebrows raise. “Lucky. You’ll need staying power because those shows are intense. Who’s your bias?”
I know what this is now—my favorite in the band. Might as well be honest. “Min.”
“I like X, so it’s good we don’t have to fight,” she says. “We want Min to see you from the stage so he can fall in love and run away with you, and that’s not going to happen if you’ve got mascara running down your face.”
Nayeon is careful about asking me for input—do I want curls, light lipstick or dark, how much hair trimming will I allow?—and ends with a shoulder massage that almost has me purring.
She does a final dusting on my face and steps back with a big smile. “Tell me what you think.”
She swings me around at the same time as a beat drops on the speakers as if to herald the new and improved Ariadne Hui.
Nayeon is a magician. My hair is down but has more presence, if you can say that about hair. I stayed clear of bangs ever since the school photographer kept calling me China Doll on my grade eight picture day, but I now sport a thick line of bangs that frame my face and make my eyes pop. I love it. She takes a mirror and shows me how she’s cut layers to form the back into a pointy shape.
Then there’s the face. I look nothing like my usual professional made-up self, which is designed to make me less memorable, not more. My cheeks are faintly flushed, and my lips look like ripe summer cherries. My skin is creamy, if slightly freckled, glass. Nayeon explains how to recreate the look, and I barely listen as I turn my head from side to side to watch my hair settle. Despite the high gloss on my lips, not a strand sticks to them. Nayeon grins and grabs a tube out of a drawer that she holds up. “Lip varnish,” she says before tucking it into my bag with a wink.
“Very nice.” Hana comes in with a big grin, and my painted mouth falls open. Her hair is shorter, a bob that comes under her ears, and her look is sultry. She looks like she can go croon some jazz hits while lying on a piano in a red satin dress. “Worth spending Hoonie’s money.”
“I’ll pay him back.”
She snorts. “As if he’ll let us.”
We thank Nayeon, who is beaming with pride at her work, and head down to the reception area. I strut with a little more swing than usual and am self-aware enough to be embarrassed even as I toss my hair. After all, lawyers aren’t sex kittens. Strong, confident women aren’t sex kittens. Then I pass a guy so ethereal he glows, and when he does a double take, eyes wide in appreciation, I preen a bit.
I decide I can be all those things if I want.
Yeong is waiting, and he gives us a bow.
“He says we looks lovely,” Hana translates after he speaks.
We get in, me shaking my hair because it feels so light and smooth, and I reach into my bag, already red in the face at what I’m about to do. “Can you ask if Yeong is free to drop something off?”
She eyes the box. “A present?” She speaks to Yeong and nods. “No problem, he says.”
I pass over a little box, tied with a ribbon. “It’s for Jihoon. Can Yeong bring it to him? I’m not even sure where he is right now.”
Yeong hides a smile, and he takes it as Hana dies with curiosity beside me. I don’t know why I bought him a pair of earrings—I know the stylists usually pick out a selection for them to wear—and they’re only simple hoops but with a design of little watch faces etched on the thick metal. I thought of him when I saw them.
Hana doesn’t say anything about it.
Tired but looking phenomenal, we stumble back to the condo and dump our bags on the floor before grabbing some fancy water from the fridge and collapsing on the couch. I look at my haul with satisfaction. It’ll take me time to sort through my new clothes, which have green and red and blue among my beloved but now strikingly cut black, and even longer to get used to wearing them.
