I’m doing to your face what Michelangelo did to the Sistine Chapel, I tell her. I dot on some concealer to hide the bags, the dark circles, the benders, and the past mistakes.

Whatever we once were, we no longer are. Friday has come around and once again, we’ve been made new creatures. There’s something about the last day of the work week that awakens a peculiar kind of carnality within us. The beast, if you will. If Sunday is the day for virtues then Friday is the day for vices. It’s the day for greasy, silver spoons, sweaty discothèques and going a little too fast on the freeway. It’s the day for letting your hair down and shedding your corporate skin long enough to feel some sun on your skin.

We’re in the thick of a sweltering hot July. Even at quarter to seven, even inside this air-conditioned Soda Springs beauty shop, all I can feel is the sun’s hot and angry, infrared glare. But I don’t dare complain. It’s finally summertime, goddamn it, and I’m planning on riding this heatwave until it comes crashing down. My client Polly on the other hand, well— she would wish away the sun if she could.

“This weather, I tell ya,” she says.

“Sheesh, Polly. A little sun never hurt anyone.”

“I can’t be sweating up a storm,” she says. “He’s got a lot of money, this one. I need to look good.”

I reach for a tube of sweat-proof foundation. “Tell me, Polly, have I ever failed you?”

She shakes her head.

“Exactly.”

Polly’s a call girl from the driest part of a sleepy, seaside town plagued with rambling gossip. She’s come to Soda Springs in search of white picket fences, trophy husbands and rings with rocks so big you could see them from space. So far, she’s come up with nothing.

Stories like hers are all too familiar in these parts of town. I’ve heard them countless times from different customers who come to Soda Springs for richer and happier lives. They all have dreams of big, fat RRSPs, suburban dinner parties and family vacations in Copacabana. Some strike gold but most dream on.

The ones who hit the jackpot live like Stepford wives in the glitzy pads of north Soda Springs while the rest end up in crack and roach infested complexes south of the city.

As I rouge Polly’s cheeks with blush, she tells me about the Northside John she’s planning on seeing this evening.

“He’s something of a silver fox,” she says.

“I’m starting to think you have a type.”

“What can I say? He’s a wonderful man— dapper as ever. Charming too.”

“And rich.”

“And rich,” she repeats, “Acres and acres of land rich.”

“So, country club rich?”

“Something like that.” She gestures at the diamond-brilliant rhinestone on her finger. “If I’m able to snag him, I’ll be set for life.”

“No more cubic zirconia for you.” 

She nods. “I’ve just got to play my cards right.” She sets her sights on the eyeshadow palettes in front of her. “I’m not sure what colour he’ll like best.”

I watch her eyes, shimmering green like dew on fresh-cut grass, shift back and forth between shades. There’s dusty pinks and muted purples, steely silvers and bronzed golds. One by one, she tests them out until her forearm becomes a jewel-toned rainbow. You almost can’t see the track marks. Almost.

She agonizes over the colours for a bit longer before throwing her hands in the air.

“Your call,” Polly says.

I smear her lids with a shock of silver. The shade lives in the mythical place between flashy and muted. Lots of women from the North and the South leave the shop singing its velvety, long-lasting praises.  

She opens her eyes and lets out a little gasp. “Pretty,” she breathes out.

“What’d I tell you?”

“Woman, you’ve done it again.”

I open my mouth to say something and then close it again. Polly won’t hear me, she’s got this dreamy, faraway look in her eyes. There’s no doubt she’s fantasizing about the possibilities of life on the other side of the fence.

How does the grass in Soda Springs grow? Depends on who you ask. The Northsiders will tell you that it comes in lush, thick and deep green. Manicured emerald hedges and leafy bougainvillea line its well-lit residential streets. It’s a bonafide suburban paradise.

You’ll hear a completely different story if you ask the Southsiders. They’ll tell you that what is left of the grass is dry, patchy and yellow. What was once green turf has dissolved into marsh littered with beer bottles, syringes and dog shit.

Soda Springs sits on the edge of two extremes. I can feel Polly buzzing with the hope that she’ll go from one to the other.

I mist her face with a spritz of setting spray before sending her off with well wishes and a new lease on life. 

“I’m moving on up to the North Side! Finally got a piece of the pie!” She sings in a faux low register.  

I can’t help but chuckle.

I’m a kaleidoscope of emotions as I watch her leave the shop in search of greener pastures. I hope she gets her deluxe apartment in the sky.