Tightwire, a novel by Amy Kaufman Burk
Characters: Caroline: a child, a psychologist-to-be, growing up in a film industry family Leah: Caroline’s mother Derrick: Caroline’s older brother
Chapter 14 “Haircut”
Leah lounged on the floor of her daughter’s room. Caroline sat on her bed, giving a glaringly blonde Barbie a trim.
“Don’t you think she’s pretty?”
“Her hair hangs down past her butt. She looks absurd.” Caroline lined up the scissors and snipped. “She’ll look prettier when she’s more real.”
“When I was a girl, I always wanted blonde curls like Shirley Temple.”
“Why?”
“That’s what was considered prettiest at the time.”
“But that makes no sense. You have straight dark hair. Why did you care about the millions of strangers who worshipped Shirley Temple? Didn’t you want to just be you?”
“I guess not,” Lean answered slowly.
“You must have been a sad girl.” Caroline glanced at her mother. “I only want to be me. My hair’s mine. Like my signature.”
“I never liked my signature,” Leah admitted. “Too flowery.”
“Dad told me he doesn’t like his signature either. He has the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen. He once told me he can’t read his own name when he writes it. And you always write your name wrong.”
“I do?”
“You always write Mrs., never Doctor.”
Leah laughed nervously.
“Do you and Dad have identity problems?” Caroline asked delicately.
This time Leah’s laughter was genuine. “We’re fine, but thanks for checking.”
“Are you and Dad sad adults? Or did you grow out of it?”
Leah stared at her daughter. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Well, when you were a kid, you didn’t want to be you. That’s pretty sad. And Dad’s parents gave him away. I mean, I know it was because they were poor, and his uncle was rich. But I’ve met his uncle, and he’s brainless. Sweet, but lost without a trace. Dad must have been sad. And now you have a signature you don’t like, and Dad can’t even read his own name, and you don’t use your title. A signature makes you who you are. I just wondered if you still don’t know who you are, because that could make someone sad, and…”
“We’re both fine,” Leah cut in.
“Good. I always wondered.” She became quiet, concentrating to cut a straight line. Two inches of neon gold cascaded to the floor.
“Nice haircut,” Leah firmly changed the subject.
“It’s the least I can do for her. I can’t change her legs or her boobs.”
“Caroline!”
“It’s true, Mom! If she had a real body like this, she’d be eight feet tall. Her boobs are so big, she couldn’t balance to walk. She’d topple right over. She’d need to see Dr. Davenport.”
“That’s true, but…wait a minute. How do you know about Dr. Davenport?”
Caroline grinned. “Plastic surgeon for the stars. Implants, reductions, enhancements, lifts tucks. You name it, he does it. Everyone has room for improvement.”
Leah stared at her daughter. “That’s exactly what Millie Charlemagne said when she came for dinner, nearly a year ago, when she finished filming Dad’s picture.”
Caroline nodded, starting on Barbie’s bangs. “She gave me this doll, and Derrick the Battleship game. She brought you a bouquet the size of a small planet. I think she wants Dad to recommend her for the lead in his next picture.”
“Do you remember everything anyone ever says? Every word?”
“Of course,” Caroline glanced up. “Doesn’t everyone?”
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