"If he needs to go out, he'll paw the door, " Regina replied. "Then I'll take him down in the elevator and find a patch of grass somewhere. What are the scissors for? Are you going to cut my hair?"
Barbie told Regina to sit in the Shaker rocker and be still for a moment. Barbie circled her most challenging project, taking in the overall scene and deciding that Regina's long frizzy dark hair with its split ends had to go.
"Let me see your teeth, " Barbie said.
Regina opened her mouth wide and curled back her lips, revealing yellowing teeth that, ironically, could very well belong to a minihorse, Barbie thought.
"I brought some tooth bleach, " she said with more optimism than she felt. "So let's put the bleach on now and give it a chance to at least begin working. As for your hair, dear, it has no color at all, really. I suppose it's sort of a brindle-a splotchy mix of brown and black. And I think the solution is to dye it black and cut it just below your ears, layering it, of course, and this will help to soften your nose and chin.
"I also thought to bring along a nice tanning solution that you'll put on after your salt scrub, Dead Sea soak, manicure, pedicure, and mud mask. You'll turn a nice golden brown without exposing your skin to even one ray of damaging sun. Isn't that exciting?"
Regina wasn't sure. For one thing, she had not anticipated that Barbie might expect Regina to strip completely naked and allow an almost-stranger to rub salt, mud, and lotions all over Regina's corpulent body.
"Now, I know what you're thinking, " Barbie said as she draped a towel around Regina's neck and began snipping away huge clumps of hair that reminded Barbie of tumbleweeds in old Westerns she sometimes watched with Lennie. "I'm aware from our counseling session that you have a very poor self-image and hate your body, and probably are just a wee bit nervous about being naked and having things rubbed, peeled, scraped, and scrubbed over every inch of you, but you'll be fine and just so pleased when you see the result. "
"Nothing you scrub me with will get rid of all this fat, " Regina candidly pointed out as more hair tumbled across the floor. Under ordinary circumstances, the idea of having her body so completely manipulated would have been secretly pleasant.
But Barbie Fogg wasn't Regina's type. Not at all. Barbie wasn't robust enough and struck Regina as the sort who could probably touch and knead another woman all day long and experience not the slightest tingle or desire for more. Regina doubted that Barbie had much interest in anything physical from anyone, and in that regard was probably similar to Regina's mother, who for as long as Regina could remember had been far more interested in collectibles, such as cast-iron banks, old coffee and tobacco cans, and trivets, than in wild, erotic same-sex or opposite-sex or even self-sex.
"We'll start you on a diet immediately, " Barbie said as she snipped, snipped. "Which means you'll need to stay clear of the buffet tables at the race, okay? A nice salad, and lots of celery, carrots, and radishes will have to tide you over, but in the meantime, don't be so negative. You know what they say, clothes are a girl's best friend, and I went to the trouble to pop by a sweet little boutique and pick out something just perfect for you. "
"What?" Regina was almost afraid to ask as Barbie began to layer strands of hair with a razor.
"Oh, it's just the cutest thing. To die for, really. I intuited what you might feel comfortable in and what suits your overall face, figure, and personality, and came up with this simply perfect denim outfit! I couldn't believe it when I found it! Now, hold still and try not to rock. Such a lovely rocking chair, by the way, but I don't want to cut you with the razor as I shave the back of your neck before we do a nice waxing of your upper lip and chin, and maybe clean up your eyebrows and sideburns.
"Anyway, what I found is a pair of stonewashed overalls that have a cute skirt instead of pants, and you can wear it with this darling long-sleeved silk shirt that's designed to look like a lumberman's shirt, only it's got a lace collar and will show off your bust, which will really be enhanced by the push-up bra I found. I had to guess, but you look like a forty-four D, am I right?"
"I don't usually wear a bra, " Regina replied through a shower of shredded hair. "I hate bras and wear undershirts most of the time because nobody really sees me through sweatshirts, anyway. "
"Well, people will certainly see you tonight, " Barbie cheerfully piped. "You'll have so much cleavage you could pack a picnic in it! As for shoes, because no outfit is complete without them, I found an adorable pair of bright red patent leather high-top tennis shoes. Can you imagine? They have a Converse seal on the ankles made out of sequins, and white leather laces, and you'll wear them with designer socks that are supposed to look like old-fashioned tube socks, but these are made of silk! Now let me guess, your shoe size is a twelve? And your dress size is a sixteen?"
"Men's or women's?" Regina asked, holding very still as Barbie worked away with the razor, cleaning up the back of Regina's neck. "I always wear men's stuff, so I don't know what size I wear in women's. "
"Don't you worry for a minute. I'm very good at guessing people's sizes, " Barbie promised as she stepped back to admire her work. "I suppose it's because, as a professional counselor, I have to be good at sizing people up. There. "
Barbie held a hand mirror so Regina could admire her new hair style.
"I don't know, " Regina said with misgivings. "It's shaped exactly like one of those helmets the race-car drivers wear. "
"The newest rage, " Barbie beamed. "It's called a NASCOIF Isn't that just too chic? And you'd pay a pretty penny if you got one in a salon, assuming you could get an appointment or even on a waiting list during the race season. "
"If it's so chic, then why don't you have a NASCOIF?" Regina wanted to know.
"Oh, my features are far too delicate, " Barbie said. "Now let's get you in the tub. "
Thirty
Hooter was also devoting the day to getting ready for the race. She had spent hours unraveling her dreadlocks and processing her hair, which this minute was cooking under a snug head-rag as she glued on new acrylic nails that looked like long, curled American flags. Then she struggled into skin-tight black imi-tation-snakeskin stirrup pants, and over these she pulled on a pair of puffy silver boots that fastened with velcro and were designed to have an astronaut look.
Completing the ensemble required much careful deliberation, and she decided on a simple black tube top, and for the piece de resistance, the beaded jacket with Kodak, DuPont, and Pennzoil logos in bright colors that she had found in the NASCAR section of a knock-off fashion boutique on East Broad Street, between the Affordable Gun Store and the Nocheck Check Cashing and Pager Shop.
Andy was paying close attention to his attire as well, but not for reasons of vanity or sex appeal. He had never been to the Richmond International Racetrack and wasn't exactly sure what a drunk NASCAR fan might wear, but he figured the less conspicuous and more heavily protected and armed he was, the better. So he put on scuffed cowboy boots and baggy jeans that easily concealed a pistol in an ankle holster he fastened at a boot top, and over his body armor he wore a Redskins sweatshirt and leather jacket. He had been smart enough not to shave this morning, and with his stubble, ponytail wig, mirrored sunglasses, and a nine-millimeter pistol tucked out of sight in the back waistband of his pants, he felt secure in his appearance. Smoke wouldn't recognize him. In fact, nobody would.
He had just begun the process of splashing himself with beer when his doorbell rang.
"Who the hell…?" he muttered, slightly alarmed, because he certainly wasn't expecting company. "Who is it?" he gruffly said through the locked front door.