Page 20 of Dante

“Gina, what’s wrong with your hair? It’s beautiful.”

“I just want to try something different. A new look.”

She narrows her eyes. “As in?”

“I’d like to dye my hair black. We could do that today, can’t we?” I turn to the receptionist.

She shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. We’re totally booked. But we do have some wigs you might like. It will give you an idea of what you’ll look like when you have the full treatment.”

“Wigs? Aren’t they heavy and uncomfortable?”

“No, not the new ones,” she assures me. “You’ll love them. Let me go to the back room and have the wig girl come out and show you.”

She disappears for a moment, and Angie turns to face me. “Now you’re getting a wig? And why black?” Her voice is laced with suspicion.

“I have to try this,” I explain. “You told me the secret is starting the courtship, so consider the courtship started.”

Her face changes. “Gina, I’d rethink this if I were you. Sure, play with black hair if you want. But if you’re thinking Dante will like you better if you look like Mary…”

I shake my head. “Just stay out of it, Angie.”

I sound cold, even to my own ears.

Angie means well, I remind myself.

But as much as she pretends to know everything about Dante, I’m getting the sense she doesn’t know him at all.

A woman I presume to be the wig stylist appears to greet me. “I’m Jenny,” she says, and shows me three different wigs.

“You’re really going to do this?” Angie asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “I guess I’m just glad it’s a wig and not dye.”

A half hour later, after lots of pins and teasing, I have long, dark hair. Maybe it’s not exactly like Mary’s, but it’s pretty close.

“I can’t wait for Dante to see me with my new hairstyle and dress,” I tell Angie when we’re back out on the sidewalk. “I bet he’ll love it. Now let’s stroll a bit while the sun’s still out.”

As we walk down Broadway, I’m surprised by how many men look my way. I’m still the same girl, but my long black hair seems to give me extra allure.

And when I glance at myself in the reflection of shop windows, I sometimes think I’m seeing Mary’s reflection instead of my own.

Maybe now Dante will love me the same way.

“Hold up. I need a breather,” says Angie, sinking onto a bench after we’ve been walking for a while.

“Sure. Do you mind if I take out my pad?”

“Your what?!”

I laugh. “My drawing pad. I’m a caricaturist.”

“What the hell is that?”

“I capture people in their truest state.”

“Sounds fancy. Sketch me.”

“If you’ve never seen a caricature, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Why?”