Page 11

Joely

There’s a strange kind of electricity in the air when word gets out that someone’s getting glammed up in this town. Maybe it’s the snow outside daring us to stir up trouble, or maybe it’s the way hope leaks through the cracks of these old buildings every time a local girl dares to shine. Glamboozled’s windows glow like a beacon, promising reinvention and just the right amount of gossip. Around here, a fresh blowout and a borrowed dress can turn more heads than a winning goal—and believe me, nothing travels faster through my streets than news of a makeover, except maybe the jokes when someone tries to walk icy sidewalks in heels.

Playlist: Confident by Demi Lovato

The heater in Lynsie’s car battles the biting cold that’s settled over Sorrowville, but the real frost is in the look she shoots me as I buckle up. In the back is what I call my “grief garb”—a sleek sheath dress that seems reserved for funerals or meeting my boyfriend’s parents, situations where you need to look serious but not memorable. Truth be told, I don’t need fancy dresses, so buying one would be frivolous.

“You can’t seriously be considering wearing that to the party,” she declares, nodding at the black dress I’ve tossed in the backseat, still on its hanger. “He’s seen you in it ten times.”

“It’s black. It’s classic,” I defend, hugging my coat closer.

Lynsie snorts, merging into traffic with a swift glance over her shoulder. “It practically smells like formaldehyde, Jo. You’re not wearing it. This is your big chance. You’re going to the Sammer holiday party with Brogan. He’s sitting next to you by choice.”

“Because he thinks of me as a sister,” I mutter, watching snowflakes hurl themselves at the windshield, dying on impact.

“He doesn’t think of you like a sister. And if he did, he won’t after tonight,” she counters with a smirk, reaching into the back to pull out a garment bag that looks far too fancy for either of our closets. “Especially not when he sees you in this.”

Peeking inside the bag, my breath catches—a cocktail dress, stunning and so far out of my league it’s practically got its own area code, the kind of thing only Gisele would wear. She’s Sorrowville’s one-woman glam squad, owner of the only salon in town and living proof that you can rock a designer dress while giving someone a perm. No way does a bartender like me deserve to borrow something this fancy, especially when my superpower is spilling drinks.

Lynsie catches my doubtful look, her grin widening. “Trust me, he won’t be able to peel his eyes off you. And who knows, maybe by the end of the night, he’ll forget all about seeing you as just a sister.”

My heart skips a beat, excitement and terror playing tug-of-war in my chest. “God, what if this just makes everything… weird? Should I—I don’t know—do I need to wax? Or shave? Do people even do that anymore? Jesus, do I need to buy condoms? I haven’t even thought about that in, like, years. It’s been so long, I think my vagina has a security system now.”

Lynsie cracks up, tossing her head back. “Girl, you’re talking to the president of the Hairy Bush Club. Don’t ask me, I haven’t seen a wax strip since Shep thought mullets were hot. I swear if I asked Gisele to handle it now, she’d need a weed whacker. If tonight turns into a naked emergency, just dim the lights and pray for the best.”

I snort, and just like that, the nerves ease off my chest a little. “Deal. If you tell me you’re growing it out for winter insulation, I’m sending you a trophy.”

“Go ahead,” she fires back, “but make it a gold-plated razor I can use as a doorstop. We’re pioneers, Jo. Trailblazers.”

“Pioneers usually die of dysentery,” I mutter, but my voice shakes just enough to give me away. I grip the steering wheel tighter. “God, Lyns, what if I mess it up? What if he doesn’t even see me that way?”

She turns down the heater as we pull into the parking lot of Glamboozled. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not looking—like you’re the first and last scoop of ice cream on the hottest day of summer. It’s your chance. Make the most of it, or you’ll always have regrets.”

As we step out into the cold, the icy air bites at my cheeks, a stark reminder of the risk I’m about to take. But with Lynsie by my side, armed with her unshakeable confidence and that killer dress, I feel a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this makeover could change everything.

The bell above the door jingles merrily as we burst in from the cold, shaking snow from our boots. The salon is a haven of warmth, and the air is thick with the scents of hair products and nail polish—a sensory overload that instantly sets my nerves tingling. The place is buzzing, packed with Sorrowville’s finest seeking refuge and a touch-up.

Old Mrs. Becker is getting her weekly blue rinse in the corner, two high school girls are giggling over prom swatches, and even Virgil’s poking his head in with donuts for the staff, claiming his beard needs a trim.

Gisele, glamorous as ever in a sleek jumpsuit that no one else in town could pull off, greets us with a wide smile and sparkling eyes that could light up the darkest winter day. “Joely, babe, you’re just in time,” she sings out, her arms open wide as if welcoming royalty.

Then she drapes a cape over me with a flourish. “You’re in good hands. Trust me, you’ll look fabulous.” She gently guides me from the chair to the shampoo bowl at the back, her hand steady on my shoulder. The salon’s hum gets louder—Marla and Theo, the resident comedy duo, are mid-riff on the latest town gossip, their banter ricocheting off the tile.

I tip my head back, closing my eyes as warm water and Gisele’s fingers melt some of my nerves away. She works in a fragrant shampoo, massaging my scalp like she’s got all the time in the world. For a second, I almost forget why I’m here.

Once she rinses and towels me off, she helps me back to the chair, wrapping me up again as she starts the blowout. Marla and Theo are still working their magic, curling and clipping and teasing their clients into higher hair and better moods. The place buzzes with laughter and the scent of hairspray.

Gisele catches my eye in the mirror, her smile gentle but knowing. “Ready to look like the main character?”

As the blowout wraps up and my hair falls in shiny waves, Lynsie leans in, flipping through a stack of magazines. “You know, making a big change can sometimes be the best way to catch someone’s eye. Not that you need any help in that department.”

“Is it that obvious?” I reply, trying for a laugh but it comes out more like a hiccup.

Gisele grins. “Time for phase two—manicure. Hands up, let’s see what we’re working with.” She guides me over to the nail station, and soon I’m sitting beside Lynsie, both of us getting our nails done while we swap stories and try not to knock over the drying lamps.

“Just wait until you try reading that magazine without ruining your nails,” Lynsie mutters, elbowing a stack of glossy pages that flutters to the floor. I reach to help, forgetting my hands are mid-manicure, and nearly tip over. Marla catches me with a laugh. “Easy, honey. Let’s not start a domino effect. You’re here to be pampered, not to perform slapstick.”

As my nails dry to a perfect finish and Gisele returns for makeup touch-ups, I catch my reflection and can’t help but feel a bit more like the woman I see in their encouraging smiles—a little more daring, a little more ready for whatever the evening might bring.

Of course, that false sense of security lasts about three minutes. The second I start nervously joking about “what if I actually have to take my clothes off tonight?”—Gisele and Lynsie pounce like wolves on a limping deer. Gisele just arches an eyebrow, says, “Oh, honey, we’re fixing that next,” and before I can protest, I’m being hustled past a row of shampoo bowls, Lynsie at my elbow, Marla blocking the exit, all of them cackling like they’ve waited their whole lives for this exact ambush. By the time I realize where we’re headed, Gisele’s already waving a strip of wax in the air like a white flag and Lynsie’s whispering, “Welcome to the club, sister.”

“Wait, are we really doing this? I thought we were just joking. Lynsie? You’re supposed to be the voice of reason! You said a full bush was okay!” My protest is met with cackling and a conspiratorial wink from Gisele—clearly, I never stood a chance.

Gisele snaps her gloves on with a dramatic snap, nodding at the tiny folding screen in the corner. “Alright, Parnell. Here’s the drill. Pants off, dignity optional. There’s a basket for your clothes and a sheet for whatever’s left of your modesty.”

I give Lynsie a wild-eyed look, but she just smirks. “Don’t worry, Gisele’s seen it all. And if she hasn’t, she’ll Google it.”

I mutter something about hazard pay and shuffle behind the screen, wriggling out of my leggings and underwear with as much grace as a one-legged baby deer. There’s always that awkward moment where you’re not sure if you should fold your clothes neatly or just stuff them into the basket and pretend this isn’t your life.

By the time I hop back out, I’m clutching the sheet around my waist, feeling exposed in ways that go far beyond skin. Gisele gestures me onto the table with all the gravity of a surgeon, while Lynsie queues up a playlist labeled “Pain, Party, Repeat.”

So with Gisele jokingly referring to this space as ‘the pain palace,’ I find myself lying on a stark white table, draped with a thin sheet that does little for modesty or warmth. Gisele, ever the professional, preps her tools with an efficiency that’s both reassuring and deeply, deeply terrifying.

She glances down at me, latex gloves snapping. “Alright, Jo, time for some real talk. If this night goes the way you want—and let’s be honest, with Brogan, there’s about a 99% chance it’ll end with his head between your thighs—you don’t want him to have to bushwhack his way through the Amazon, you feel me?”

My cheeks burn hotter than the wax pot. “God, is it really that bad? I mean, it’s not like I’m braiding it for winter.”

Gisele grins, all teeth and wicked cheer. “Babe, men like Brogan—himbo energy, gold medal in oral, but zero map-reading skills. The last thing you want is for him to get lost in a thicket and need a rescue flare. Because he’d probably call Shep to bring one on over. Let’s do us both a favor and make it a scenic overlook, not a national forest.”

I groan, clutching the edge of the table. “Fine, fine! Just do it before I change my mind. But if he makes one Tarzan joke, I’m blaming you.”

Gisele, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, holds up a spatula dripping with hot wax. “No worries. I’m giving you the hooker special,” she announces, which does nothing to calm my nerves.

“I’m not a prostitute, G. I’m actually a little insulted,” I retort, half-joking, half-mortified.

“Not like that,” Gisele laughs, miming a fish being hooked. “A hooker special.”

“So, I’m bait,” I conclude, the absurdity of the conversation momentarily distracting me from the imminent application of wax.

“Just have fun,” Gisele advises, her tone light as she begins the procedure.

The first application of wax is a shock to the system. My body tenses, and a sharp intake of breath fills the small room. Lynsie’s hand finds mine, squeezing in solidarity or perhaps in apology for her enthusiastic endorsement of this torture.

As Gisele starts, I grip the edge of the table like I’m about to take off for space. She’s talking—something about Sorrowville’s latest drama and a rogue squirrel at the bakery—but all I can focus on is the molten-lava-wax she’s smoothing onto my most sensitive skin.

“Ready?” she asks, way too chipper.

“Define ready,” I manage, squeezing my eyes shut.

The first rip is biblical. Stars explode behind my eyelids. I bite back a scream and instead let out a strangled, “Mother of—!”

Lynsie laughs from her perch by the mini fridge. “Told you it was character-building, Parnell.”

Gisele’s hands are quick, but that doesn’t mean it’s not torture. I’m sweating, legs shaking, clutching the sheet for dear life. She keeps going. And each time, the sting makes me question every life choice that led me to this moment.

But Gisele’s still talking, her voice a soothing backdrop as she works with the efficiency of a woman who’s seen it all and probably owns three separate first aid kits. By the end, I’m limp, my dignity somewhere under the table, but at least the pain has started to fade into a weird kind of pride.

“You’re doing great,” my friend encourages as she applies another strip. The conversation turns to the holiday party, and for a moment, I’m just another woman preparing for a special night out, not someone lying on a table questioning her life choices.

The session ends with Gisele applying a soothing lotion that cools the burning sensation. As I sit up, slightly wobbly and feeling a type of clean I never knew I needed—or wanted—I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“See? Not so bad,” Gisele says, helping me off the table. I pull my pants back on far more gently than normal.

“Not so bad?” I repeat, arching an eyebrow. “Remind me to redefine my standards for bad.”

As we leave the room, Lynsie throws an arm around my shoulders, her laughter ringing out. “Welcome to the world of high maintenance. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

“You know you’re not really supposed to, uh… you know… right after a Brazilian, right?” Gisele says, wagging a finger as she finishes.

I groan. “Seriously? Gisele, you could’ve told me before you ripped off half my soul.”

She grins. “Consider it my public service announcement. Use protection—and maybe some aloe.

Lynsie holds up her phone. “I’ll write your eulogy: ‘She died as she lived—chasing the perfect O and ignoring all the instructions.’”

I roll my eyes. “At this point, if Brogan’s willing, I’ll risk it. If I die, avenge me.”

And despite the waxing ordeal, as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—hair done, nails perfect, feeling like a brand-new version of myself—I can’t help but think she might be right. Just maybe, this was exactly what I needed to see myself in a new light, not just for Brogan but for me.

In the final moments at Glamboozled, I stand in front of a full-length mirror, the quality lighting now seeming to cast a soft glow around me. Lynsie and Gisele hover nearby, their faces brimming with barely contained excitement. They’ve seen this transformation dozens of times with others, but this time it’s personal. It’s me.

I hardly recognize the woman staring back. Gone are the traces of the tomboy who could skate and shoot with the best of them, replaced by this... elegant stranger. My hair, now blown out and styled into loose waves, frames my face in a way that accentuates features I usually hide under a baseball cap. The dress—a stunning black-sequined cocktail number borrowed from Gisele—is a far cry from my usual jeans and jersey combo. It clings in all the right places, hinting at curves I forget I have.

“Holy crap,” I mutter, my voice tinged with awe and a hint of fear. “I look like I’m going to the Oscars not a team function.”

“You look amazing,” Lynsie insists, her grin infectious. “Brogan’s not going to know what hit him.”

Gisele adjusts the strap of my dress, her touch reassuring. “It’s not just about looking good, Joely. It’s about feeling good. Seeing yourself in a new light.”

I meet her gaze in the mirror, her words sinking in. It’s not just about impressing Brogan or anyone else. This is about shattering my own perceptions, daring to embrace a side of me I’ve kept hidden.

Lynsie’s hand squeezes my shoulder, bringing me back. “You’ve always been this swan, Joely. We just helped you fluff your feathers a bit.”

Their laughter fills the room, easing the tightness in my chest. But the nerves are still there, coiling in my stomach as the reality of the evening ahead sets in.

“Okay, pep talk time,” Lynsie announces, her tone shifting to one of seriousness. “You’re walking into that party not just as Brogan’s friend but as a knockout who can hold her own. You’re not there to make him see you differently. You’re there because you finally see yourself, and that’s the only vision that matters.”

Her words are a lifeline, a beacon against the doubts that threaten to cloud this moment. “And what if I trip over my own feet? Or spill something?”

“Then you’ll be the most glamorous klutz they’ve ever seen,” Gisele chimes in, winking. “But seriously, just enjoy the night. Let them see the Joely who can laugh at herself, who’s strong, kind, and freaking beautiful.”

As we gather our things, their encouragement wraps around me like a warm hug. I take a deep breath, steadying myself for the evening ahead. The reflection in the mirror nods back at me, a small, confident smile playing on her lips.

Stepping out of the salon, the cold air hits me, but it’s different this time. It doesn’t chill; it invigorates. With Lynsie and Gisele at my side, I feel ready. Ready to face Brogan, the team, and whatever the night holds. Because tonight, I’m not just Joely the bartender or Joely the tomboy.

Tonight, I’m just Joely, and that’s more than enough.