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“‘Ey! Makeup girl!” You heard someone call you from across the set.
“Yeah?” You called over your shoulder, still focusing on getting Joe Keaton’s eye makeup just right.
“Keaton’s askin’ for ya!”
Your brain stuttered for a moment in confusion until Joe laughed.
“Other Keaton. Buster.” He explained.
“But he does his own makeup.”
“So do I, but when there’s a pretty girl around to do it for ya…”
You shoved his shoulder gently but he just laughed some more. This was the first day of proper filming, but you’d known Joe Keaton just long enough to never take his teasing personal.
“You can finish the other eye yourself then.” You said, putting the pencil in his hand. “The boss is callin’”
You could think of no earthly reason why Buster would be asking for you, of all people. The crew was positively buzzing with activity in every corner, and he had to be the busiest person there that day. That he’d call for you in the middle of all that left a very foreboding taste in your mouth and you racked your mind as to what horrible thing you were about to get fired for.
You walked into his dressing room to find him leaning over the makeup counter, wielding a smoking curling iron and a panicked expression. His hair was past his ears and looked a terrible mess. He glanced at you in the mirror and collapsed into the chair.
“Somebody told me you do hair.” He said
“…ladies hair, sir.” You replied.
“Mine’s 'bout as long as a girls, ain’t it? I’ve been growin’ it for months.” He held out the iron to you and, stepping forward, you took it from him hesitantly.
“Can you make my hair look like that?” He asked, pointing to an old tin-type of a confederate soldier that’d been taped to the mirror.
“Um..” You leaned over to inspect the photo. The soldier in the photo had this luxurious mop of curls that seemed to glisten in the light. It was…a far cry from the half-curled half-fried locks of the superstar in the chair next to you.
“Sure, I can.” You said, full of hubris and unearned bravado. He breathed an audible sigh of relief. You’d seen him before, of course. In passing. From across a room. This was the first time he’d ever spoken to you, and you had every reason to believe it would be the only time. But there was no time to be starstruck, and frankly, the pig’s ear he’d made of his hair somewhat lessened the hollywood star affect.
“Your hair is…it’s naturally straight isn’t it?” You asked, surreptitiously working up the nerve to actually touch his hair before running your fingers through it.
“Sorta. Well, it’s kinda curly in some places. I don’t know, it flips up at the ends here.” He explained, flicking his fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck.
“Right. Well, uh…hey is there Brilliantine in this?” Your fingers had run across a slick spot at the top of his head.
“I thought it would help the curls hold?” He laughed
“Oh. No.”
“No?”
“No, we need to wash this out.” You said, fighting to keep the corners of your mouth in a calm, straight line.
“It’s okay, You can laugh. You’re not gonna hurt my feelings.” He said with a smile.
“Come on.” You said “Let’s get this washed out and start from scratch.”
With a bit of rearranging the two of you got it set up so that the back of the chair was up against the edge of the sink and, with a towel draped over the front of the civil war costume he was already wearing, he tipped his head back over the small sink. The sink was not at all suited for washing hair, it was hardly large enough to wash hands, but it would have to do. With no shampoo to wash out the oil you had to turn the water on nearly as hot as it would go. Buster’s jaw was set at first, likely due to the unnatural position he was sitting in, but after a moment or two he seemed to relax. His angular features softened and you thought you even heard him sigh softly when you dragged your nails across his scalp.
Soon (too soon) his locks were squeaky clean and you shut off the water and wrapped the towel around his hair as he sat up.
“Don’t I know you?” He asked as you squeezed out as much of the water from his hair as you could.
“Um. Just from here, I guess. You’ve seen me in passing.”
He shook his head minutely, narrowing his eyes. His famous eyes. It was still surreal to even be standing this close to him, let alone running your fingers through his hair.
“No, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere else,” he said
You shrugged. “I have a common face. I look like a thousand other midwestern girls.”
He looked suspicious but didn’t argue further as you steeled yourself for what you needed to say next.
“I’m going to need to cut your hair.” You blurted finally.
He jerked his head towards you, brows furrowed. “But I spent all winter growin’ it out for this! Do you have any idea of the trouble I’ve been in with my wife for doing this to my hair?”
“I’m not gonna cut it short. But right now it’s just a…longer version of your old haircut. The top’s gotta be a bit shorter to make the curls come out.” As his hair began to dry you could see a natural curl trying to form and you had a strong hunch that with a clever trim you could make it even closer to the picture taped to the mirror.
He pressed his lips together grimly and reached for a pair of scissors on the counter, handing them to you by the blade. “I’m trusting you.” He said gravely.
A fair bit of your earlier confidence had dissipated by then, but with great care you began to make small snips to the ends of his hair. When disaster didn’t strike, you relaxed into the task, referencing the photo often and trying to pretend this was just another bob cut for a friend and not a haircut that could very well determine your continued employment.
He was more or less silent during the trim, looking steadily more nervous as more snips of hair fell around his shoulders. As his hair dried more, though, you could see that the curls were coming out just as you planned. Suddenly, he spoke again, turning his head in a way that made you snap the scissors away in alarm.
“I remember now. You have a purple dress, don’t you? Well…lavender I guess. Light purple. It’s real twirly around your knees. Sparkles around here.” He gestured vaguely to his chest.
You froze as he described in detail the nicest dress you owned, wondering where on earth he’d seen you in it. He grinned at your expression, knowing he’d finally placed where he knew you from.
“I saw you dancing down at the music hall last Thursday.” He said, “Do you dance a lot?”
You weren’t sure how to answer that question. Coming from an employer, you didn’t want to give the impression that you stayed out late and were likely to be sleepy or useless at work in the morning. So, you shrugged and gave a non-commital “I suppose.”
The answer seemed to satisfy him and you finished your work on his hair with a flourish. In the end, it wasn’t an exact reproduction of the soldier in the photo, but it was darn close if you did say so yourself.
“I’ll be damned.” He said, turning his head both ways in the mirror “You’ve worked a miracle.”
“I wouldn’t say that much…” You murmured awkwardly.
“Take your modesty,” He said, pausing mid sentence to reach into his pocket and pull out a couple bills which he put into your hand “And this payment for your help, and get back to work on the others.”
“Oh, I don’t need–” You objected, attempting to give him his money back, but he just took your hand and curled your fingers around the bills.
“And hey.” He said “Save a dance for me next time you go out, alright?”
“Sure.” You laughed, doubting very much that he’d ever cash in on that promise, but appreciating the compliment all the same.
You hurried back out on set to see to it that everyone else was screen-ready. When Buster emerged from his dressing room in full costume with his hair fully dry and styled, almost immediately a veritable crowd of ladies had swarmed him to touch his hair and compliment him. He looked horribly uncomfortable, until he happened to look over one lady’s shoulder and caught eyes with you. Then his embarrassed expression broke in to a bright smile, the kind that had always been rumored but rarely seen. His eyes locked on yours, he struck a pose and preened for his admirers as you laughed and shook your head.