Pop Tart

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‘You hit her?’ I asked, feeling her embarrassment for her.

‘Well, kinda. I mean, she went on and on about freedom of speech and then she started explaining “blind item” to me in a very condescending way–I know what a blind item is for Christ sakes–but it wasn’t very blind if you ask me, that’s for sure…’

‘What do you mean you kinda hit her?’

‘Well, she was getting all sassy and in my face and she kind of raised up her hand–Dana later told me that she had started to wave her credit card to the waiter, like a “get me the hell outta here” type of thing, but I just reacted instinctively and popped her right in the nose…I was trying to defend myself. But enough about me. Are you okay to go to the gig by yourself today? Can you represent?’

‘Sure. Street Cred,’ I laughed.

‘That’s an energy drink! Remember that! If they ask you if you want one, say yes! Even if you’re not thirsty!’ And with that, she hung up the phone.

I was feeling a bit nervous by the time I reached the eastern end of the San Fernando Valley, where I quickly whipped into the studio’s parking lot. I was my own worst enemy, obsessing over every little thing that could possibly go wrong all morning. Forgetting my makeup case had been one of those recurring nightmare scenarios and, because I had made a point to triple-check its contents beforehand, I was running steadily behind schedule.

Encompassing nearly 100,000 square feet, the studio loomed ahead. Adjacent production offices that looked unused for the past decade only complimented the mottled eighties signage outside, making the facility look depressingly outdated. Once inside, however, its sound stages buzzed with life. Men in T-shirts and dirty jeans, who looked as if they’d been busy preparing the shoot for hours already, lugged cables back and forth and double-checked the PA systems.

‘Hi,’ I smiled, approaching two men who were busy fussing with one of the cameras, ‘I’m looking for Steve Green?’

Not turning away from his work, one of the men simply shrugged before the other piped up, acting as if my question was a huge burden.

‘Don’t know ‘em…you might want to ask someone back there,’ he said waving his hand to a small hallway lined with doors a short distance away. I maneuvered past the production assistants struggling to lug props and set pieces through the narrow space when a tall, slender man practically hissing into his cell phone caught me off guard.

‘What a fucking bitch! I don’t need to explain myself to a Nickelodeon development exec–I can’t even believe I even just spent time on the phone with her…She was like, “blah, blah, blah…” and I’m like…’ The man stopped as he noticed me staring at him and slowly pulled his phone away from his ear and frowned.

‘Hi, I’m Jackie, I’m here for the job…?’ I said, more like a question than a statement.

‘And what job would that be exactly?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘I’m, um, I’m here to do makeup for, uh…’ I fumbled, grasping for the call sheet in my purse, ‘Brooke! Brooke Parker.’ I smiled at him weakly. Throwing the phone back up to his ear, he barked, ‘I have to call you back.’ He studied his phone for another second, and wrinkled his nose in disgust, presumably disturbed by another message that had just come in. He was a fairly attractive man in his late thirties with evenly tanned skin, though its texture was conspicuously, almost unnaturally, wrinkle-free. He had Tony Curtis hair, expertly shaping a curled coif on his forehead thick with pomade, while his sleep-deprived, wide-set eyes bore heavy, dark lids. He looked up at me suddenly, almost inquisitively, as if he had forgotten that I was still standing there.

‘Now, what exactly are you looking for?’ With his head cocked he acted as if I had just asked him when the next spaceship left for Mars.

‘I’m doing Brooke Parker’s makeup…Sheryl Lane, my boss–she was going to do it but she…well, she can’t,’ I stammered, thinking fast. ‘So she sent me…I’m Jackie,’ I said extending my hand. In lieu of a handshake, he just kind of stared at my awaiting grasp, and then he spoke again.

‘Robert. Robert Bernstein. I’m Brooke’s stylist,’ he said. This took me by surprise, considering his style: a distressed long-sleeve rugby shirt fresh from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, cheap-looking blue jeans, and Adidas tennis shoes. I then remembered that, for a makeup artist, I only wore makeup a couple days a week at best, though I’d managed to swipe some mascara on my lashes before taking off this morning.

‘Well, nice to meet you, where should I set up?’

‘The dressing room is down two. The dancers are taken care of, so we need you, obviously, to pay full attention to Brooke. And you’ll do her hair as well I’m assuming?’ he asked bitchily, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah–yes, of course. Of course I know how to…’ I stuttered, afraid he’d call someone else if he knew that the extent of my experience actually doing hair was limited to helping Lauren flatten her impossibly curly tresses before dates. But really, how hard could it be? Brushing, teasing, curling–I knew how to do all of that.

‘Great,’ he cut me off, turning on his heel, off to his next drama.

As I located the dressing room, I nearly head-butted a boy bounding out of it. A bit shocked as I was, I jumped back, clutching my set bag as tightly as I could, but he smiled at me. Though I’d never seen their picture, I was able to peg him as one of the Emerson Brothers. From what little I knew about them, compliments of Sheryl, they were a pop sensation trio that had made it big with the ‘tween crowd when their song, ‘Let Your Body Do the Talkin”, appeared on a Nickelodeon sitcom. Now they were traveling the country, much to the delight of twelve-year-old girls everywhere, performing songs like ‘Girlfy,’ and ‘Break-up Box.’ The boy standing directly in front of me appeared to be about eighteen years old and was dressed exceptionally trendy–a shrunken twill blazer over a v-neck T-shirt that accented a black-and-silver lariat necklace, skintight slub denim pants, and argyle-printed Vans–thanks to the styling of Robert, I guessed. He exchanged a knowing look with an older, heavyset Latina woman who was standing next to one of the makeup counters before taking off in the opposite direction.

‘Boy! You are a troublemaker, I tell you that,’ she called out after him before letting out a gregarious laugh from deep inside.

Unzipping my rolling duffel, I timidly rifled through a mess of compacts, tweezers, and small spray cans of Evian mineral water as the woman turned to me and smiled.

‘I’m Sasha,’ she laughed, placing a fleshy hand on her chest before nodding her head toward the door. ‘That one runnin’ out the door there was Jesse, but you probably already knew that,’ she laughed.

‘Yeah, I recognize him. He’s one of the Emerson Brothers–quite a talented family, huh?’ I mused as she wrinkled up her face as if she was puzzled. ‘Jesse and the others I mean…’ She suddenly let out another boisterous laugh.

‘They ain’t brothers, at least not by blood…that’s just what the band’s called. The other two that ain’t here, are Landon and Nolan. It’s Jesse, you know, that’s sweet on Brooke so that’s why he’s roaming around. Came to watch her shoot her first music video.’ She smiled.

‘I’m Jackie, I’m here to do Brooke’s makeup,’ I said, realizing I hadn’t even introduced myself. ‘Do you work on the music videos?’

‘Heck no,’ she said laughing again as if the question were unheard of. ‘I work for the label.’

‘Sunshine Records, right?’ I asked nervously.

‘Close–Sun Splash.’

‘Oh. I didn’t–I didn’t know. I was hired out of Steve Green’s office.’ I muttered foolishly as the PDA that was clipped to Sasha’s belt began to chime. Looking down at the waist of her jeans–first to the left as if she had forgotten just where exactly she had attached it–she seized it from the magnesium case on her right hip. ‘Damn things be clipped all over me,’ she told me with an exaggerated frown. ‘Hello?’ she barked before quickly snapping, ‘Uh-uh, no way. I told them they can schedule those little meetings another time. Folks in A&R be hustlin’ me before we even got time to get the promos out the damn door.’ She put a chubby digit up to her other ear to drown out the background noise, listening to the person on the other end for a moment before continuing. ‘I told them I wasn’t trying to rush, rush, rush all the time. Well, tell ‘em, please.’ Flustered, Sasha hung up the phone, clipping it back into place on her belt.

‘Sounds pretty intense,’ I said, breaking the silence.

‘It is. Believe me.’ Shaking her head back and forth, she soon changed gears, cracking a smile once more. ‘I should probably tell you a little bit about myself–I’m one of the label’s publicists–I work the younger musicians mainly. Basically, when the big guys give me a go ‘head after decidin’ a performer is ready I put the publicity wheels in action.’

‘Setting up interviews and things…’ I offered.

‘Yep, yep…that and a combination of marketing, helpin’ to create an image for the musician that the label can use as a brand communication tool.’

‘To be honest, I wasn’t really filled in too much about Brooke…or her image,’ I admitted. Was that something I was supposed to know? And if so, why didn’t Sheryl download me?

‘Don’t you worry yourself, she’s comin’ right off this dinky little mall tour, so we haven’t done much with her yet. They’re adding her to the last leg of the Emersons tour now though, that’s actually why I’m here…gotta start plannin’ the press kits.’

It was suddenly clear to me that Sasha–the label’s ‘image maker’–had the power to make or break my career and many others like me. ‘Is there anything in particular you’re looking for from me? You know–image-wise?’

Sasha started laughing uncontrollably again. ‘No pageant stuff–she likes all that sparkly, spangly garbage. Think fresh-faced–it’s all about youth these days you know.’

As if on cue, Brooke breezed through the door with a stocky man in his mid-forties following behind her. Because the only image I’d ever seen of Brooke was thanks to a quick Google search–which only led me to a few tiny thumbnails of a girl wearing a tiara–I fully expected her to be the quintessential pageant girl. And she was, to a degree. Platinum locks, toned and tan with green doe eyes and dressed in several shades of pink: she was the antithesis of a girl like me, a girl whose skin never saw the sun in order to keep freckles at bay, and who, if forced into a gym, wouldn’t know the first thing to do there.

‘Hi!’ She grinned, looking around the makeup trailer. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening–a real music video–sorry, I’m such a nerd.’ I watched as she chomped down on the wad of gum in her mouth before blowing a bubble that exploded on her face as she leapt into the makeup chair. ‘Oh my gawsh!’ She laughed so hard that she made a faint snorting noise, which made her laugh even harder. This was Miss Teen Florida? I thought to myself, any predetermined stereotypes I had of her suddenly fading away.

‘Brooke, love! You really need to lose the gum.’ A familiar-looking man with an even more familiar-sounding British accent behind her scrunched his face in mock disgust, as if he were trying to mask his amusement, before turning in my direction. ‘Hi, I’m Steve Green, Brooke’s manager,’ he said, hooking a pair of sunglasses over the opening of his salmon-colored collar, before extending a hand to me. Grasping his palm with a firm shake I suddenly realized where I knew him from. He had been a longtime manager and constant companion of the heavily photographed eighties music phenomenon Krizia. He had discovered her himself, spotting her on the dance floor at a London hot spot, Annabel’s. This earned him a reputation in the business as a serious hustler, and before long both Steve and Krizia found themselves among L.A.’s glitterati. As time passed Krizia’s star power dwindled, and though she was a pop culture legend, Steve knew she’d be unable to compete with the new generation of film, T.V., and video game vixens. No longer pulling in the paychecks that had made them both fabulously wealthy, they both disappeared from the public eye. And here he was now standing right in front of me with fresh blood–a girl he hoped to mold into the next big…star, paycheck, it was all the same. Clad in a crisp pair of Levi’s that he wore with a sport coat and an outdated haircut, he might’ve appeared ‘washed up’ if it weren’t for his pompous self-importance and busy charm.

‘I’m Jackie O’Reilly, Brooke’s makeup artist.’ I smiled, relieved by his seemingly affable nature.

‘Great.’ He winked as his BlackBerry buzzed abruptly. ‘Well, let’s do this–go ahead and get her ready.’ Handing me a card from his wallet that read ‘Green Management’ in embossed lettering, Steve motioned to the phone perched between his ear and shoulder. ‘It’s a call from Paris, doing big things over there–closing some deals…I gotta take this.’

Halfway through her makeup, Brooke handed me a bag stuffed with bits of hair, smiling sweetly as if I knew just exactly what to do with it.

‘Here ya go, for my hair,’ she said taking her shoulder-length hair out of its ponytail holder. I was immediately dumbfounded. Makeup for me was a slam-dunk, but hairpieces? I had never even seen anyone put extensions in before!

‘Oh, your hair is so beautiful already, you don’t need these.’ I shrugged, trying to play it cool–I thought I had covered every possible disastrous scenario in my obsessing earlier on–but this was something I hadn’t thought of. I didn’t want her to think I was an amateur, because at twenty-two years old, I was barely her senior–I didn’t want her to know that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

‘No, I have to have them, they complete my whole–my whole, well you know, my “Pillow Talk” vibe or whatever you want to call it,’ she said.

‘Pillow talk?’ I asked, forgetting to reference my call sheet once more.

‘That’s my first single–have you heard my album? It’s the song about being best friends forever…do you know it?’

Ignoring her question I looked down at the bag of hair again. ‘Your hair has so much body the way it is, you really should try wearing it the way you have it now.’ I winced, hoping she would just go along and agree with me.

‘I really need them…I can’t shoot “Pillow Talk” without them,’ she pleaded, wide-eyed. I imagined that any other girl in her position would’ve either thrown a fit or fired me by that point, but Brooke stared up at me like a child begging to stay up past her bedtime. In all honesty, it would’ve been easier if she wasn’t so sweet, and I realized that there was no getting out of it.

‘All right, you’re the boss,’ I said, trying as hard as I could to appear upbeat as I plunged my hand into the bag full of hairy little extension pieces in disgust. Here goes nothing, I thought as I struggled with one of the snap clips.

‘Oh here,’ Brooke, seeing my struggle, said. As I watched her miraculously pop the clip open by simply applying pressure to the ends with her fingers, I knew I had blown my cover–I couldn’t even open the damn things. To my surprise, she handed it right back to me, thinking nothing of it.

‘So, who usually does your hair?’ I asked her sorting through weft pieces of varying widths, contemplating which ones to use.

‘Oh, sometimes my ma does it, or my friend Hayley. I had been using this one lady from back home for a while. She was supposed to come up here with me today but she has…arthritis real bad?’ She posed the bit of information to me as a question, as if she was suddenly scared she had confused arthritis with algorithm, or another word starting with the letter a that she didn’t quite understand.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ I answered, signaling that she had used the correct term.

‘Yeah, I don’t know much about it but her wrists and stuff swell up pretty bad–it’s hard for her to grip things…’

‘Oh man,’ I hummed unenthusiastically, hoping our conversation was distracting her from the disaster that was slowly becoming her head. To create a ‘fuller look’ (or at least that’s what I told myself I was doing), I had stacked the pieces on top of one another. Clipping in the last piece, I stepped back to survey my work, which to my horror resembled a stacked perm with hair of entirely uniform length.

‘You did that fast! I’ve never had anyone put them in without straightening my hair first–it saves so much time,’ she squealed, the color draining from my face as I realized I skipped a vital step. She swiveled around in her chair and I braced myself for tears–hers following my own. Now, face-to-face with my new ‘head creation,’ she pondered her reflection in the mirror for a few seconds before erupting into a big smile.

‘I look just like Cleopatra in that one movie!’