Work Text:
"What made you decide to go into cosmetology?" Elle asked one early October afternoon, watching as Paulette expertly swept a layer of lavender varnish onto her fingernails.
Paulette shrugged.
"I didn't really decide," she explained. "It just kinda happened."
But Elle, her face bright and innocent, was looking at Paulette expectantly, waiting for more. So Paulette carefully removed some excess polish from one of Elle's cuticles with her nail, trying to find the right words to explain it all.
"I mean, even when I was young, I didn't look nearly as good as you," she explained. In fact, Paulette's daddy had always called her ugly and stupid, and because the rest of the family was too busy just trying to get by, no one ever bothered correcting him. So Paulette grew up with her eyes cast to the ground, too afraid to meet her own gaze in the mirror, her quiet voice stammering or clamming up completely if challenged. But she didn't want to explain such things to Elle, so she continued: "I couldn't change how wide my face was, or the size of my thighs or my waist. But I liked that, when I painted my fingernails bright colors, they were as pretty as any other girl's fingernails. It made me feel better about things."
Paulette faltered and picked up one of Elle's hands to check her nails. Not dry enough yet for a second layer, of course, and Elle knew that as well as Paulette did. But Elle didn't say anything, so Paulette gratefully used the silence to collect herself. As kind as Elle was, Paulette knew by now that the girl had grown up in a mansion in Bel Air, could call in favors with a Coppola, was a sorority president and a former pageant queen and as pretty and popular as Paulette had always dreamt of being when she was young. Elle had always had choices. Paulette, by contrast, had exactly one marketable skill, and so had painted her nails pale pink, sidled up to Neptune's Beauty Nook, and asked for a job with a voice shaking from nerves as she glanced nervously at the well-heeled Cambridge professionals having their having their hair and nails done across the salon. So, as much as Elle no doubt would sympathize, how could she really understand why Paulette had started painting her nails?
Because Paulette painted her nails to feel pretty, but she did it mostly when the world was throwing as much shit as possible at her. And as a teenager, Paulette had a new problem every other week—the schoolwork she didn't get done because of her second shift waiting tables at the diner, her parents screaming themselves hoarse at each other, one more lunch period spent alone and silent in the corner of the high school cafeteria. When it all became too much, she'd sit in her room late at night, looking through glossy magazines at all the goddess-like women with their flawless faces and their perfect bodies, her tongue between her teeth in concentration as she painted her fingernails and toenails with soothing, predictable sweeps of the little brush that came embedded in the cap of the bottle. Since then, painting her nails had become a small, personal ritual of mourning and of endurance. The first time Paulette had been dumped (a deep blue), she'd lost her home to her asshole prom date, whom she'd dropped out of high school to support through her salon work after he proved himself as wholly incompetent at securing employment as he had been at feeling Paulette up in the back of his car after prom. The second time (a vengeful scarlet), her then-boyfriend had absconded in the night to escape his creditors, taking the shoebox that contained Paulette's life savings with him and sending her to a coworker's couch as she rebuilt her life. And the third time (a vacant metallic turquoise), she'd lost the trailer and her precious baby Rufus to Dewey.
Elle hadn't said a word through the time it took for these thoughts to cycle through Pauline's head. But, sensing that Paulette was retreating back into herself, she smiled sympathetically.
"You wanna know why I learned to paint my nails?" she offered. "Well, for one thing, I bit them like crazy when I was a kid. And my mom started painting my nails to get me to stop, under duress. But I didn't choose to do it myself until after my grandma's funeral."
Paulette blinked in surprise. Elle was still smiling, but her expression had softened wistfully.
"She was an only child, see," Elle explained. "And her mom died when she was young. So she learned to do things for herself. The rest of us used to joke that she was glamorous as a movie star, stubborn as a mule, and tough as nails, old Grammie Woods. She always used to tell me, 'Elle, honey, if getting something done is important to you, you'd better make sure that you can do it yourself, 'cause you can't always assume that someone will be there to do it for you.' She always had the most beautiful French manicures, too. Even in the casket, her nails were perfect. She always told me that a good manicure could cover up most personal problems, and that if her nails looked flawless, then even she could start to believe that things were okay. And when we came home from the funeral, after I was done crying in my room, I promised myself that I'd learn to paint my own nails, just like her. So now, painting my nails makes me feel better about things, too, because it reminds me of how Grammie Woods never gave up when life threw her curveballs, even through the Depression and the War and two divorces and growing up so lonely."
Paulette watched as Elle sighed, then jolted herself back into her usual peppiness with a small shrug.
"But, in spite of all that, I've still never been as good at doing my own nails as I'd like, which is why I'm glad that you're here to help me." She offered her fingernails to Paulette again. "I think they're dry enough now?"
Paulette took Elle's hands and cast a professional look over them.
"They sure are," she confirmed, and she took her time carefully adding the second layer of light purple, hoping that Elle knew how much better it made Paulette feel to be offering this already-pretty girl one more small gesture of beauty.
"Something's wrong," Elle announced halfway through her manicure in late November (a subdued rose pink). "How can I help?"
Paulette exhaled.
"It's just gonna be my first Christmas without Rufus since I got him," she lamented. "I miss him so much, Elle."
Elle nodded, her lower lip in a pout that Paulette could tell was completely genuine. Paulette thought that Bruiser was a real cutie, poking his head out of Elle's handbags, tolerating Elle's whimsy when she blew out his fur. She knew that Elle would be just as devastated if her own pup were abducted by her horrible ex and his new girlfriend, and she could tell that Elle was imagining exactly how hopeless and lonely Paulette must be feeling.
"Where'd you get Rufus?" Elle asked.
"Some MIT post-doc who spent her entire pedi worrying about being left with her dead dad's dog and a no-pets lease on her apartment. So I offered to take the dog, and she practically started crying, she was so relieved. And he was mine from then on," Paulette shrugged.
Because Paulette really had fallen in love with Rufus at first sight. He wasn't a stylish or beautiful animal, by any stretch of the imagination, but he felt right to Paulette—like he could be her dog, not pretty or elegant, but solid and dependable. And Rufus became the family that Paulette had always wanted: someone who was always thrilled when she arrived back home, someone with whom she could spend long afternoons at the park on her days off, someone for whom she could throw birthday parties (since Dewey clearly wasn't ever going to give her the children that Paulette had shyly expressed interest in having).
"And the stupidest part is, Dewey doesn't even like Rufus," Paulette continued bitterly. "He's never walked him, or bought him treats, or even scratched him between the ears when he's begged. When I first got Rufus, I had to tell Dewey that either Rufus was staying or I was leaving. And Dewey couldn't argue with that, since he spends ten hours watching football or WWE fights over a Coors and a bag of Cheetos, for every hour he spends dawdling around a temp agency."
"Well, why did he insist on keeping Rufus, then?" Elle asked, her cheeks flushed in indignation and her jaw set angrily.
"Oh, the new girl thought he was cute." Paulette sighed. She didn't entirely blame the girl, who was a dancer at a local club and had left her former boyfriend after he hit her; Paulette could understand that. But that didn't make it okay for Dewey to throw Paulette out on her ass to make room for his new squeeze. And even if the dancer girl was right about how cute Rufus was, she didn't have the right to keep him. Paulette could withstand being replaced as Dewey's girlfriend, but she really couldn't bear being replaced as Rufus's mom.
Elle, still blazing with righteous passion, held her hands perfectly still as she considered Paulette, her mind clearly whirring.
"You know, Paulette, a wise woman once told me to 'steal the bastard back,'" she said finally. "And I am not in any way implying that Rufus is a bastard, but why not take your own advice?"
Paulette's mouth twitched into half a pained smile.
"Just look at me, Elle," she said weakly. "There's no way I'm gonna be able to get Rufus back from someone like Dewey."
"Well, I don't know Dewey, but he's clearly an idiot if he let go of someone as great as you," Elle sniffed disdainfully. "I mean, if he's that stupid, who knows if he's even taking care of Rufus right?" Elle's face lit up. "This could be a case of animal neglect! I'm pretty sure that's a crime, right? Animal neglect with a mens rea of negligence or maybe recklessness, at the very least." She thought this over again and nodded in satisfaction. "Wow, I think I'm finally getting the hang of this."
"Elle," Paulette asked hesitantly, "I can't pay you anything, but... but would you be my lawyer, if we go make Dewey give Rufus back?"
"Of course," Elle promised grandly. "This is what we call work done pro bono publico. Which is Latin for... something, because everything in law school is in Latin, just to sound impressive."
"Are you sure this isn't gonna make you fall too far behind on your work?" Paulette fretted.
"It won't." Elle grinned impishly, her shoulders bobbing up and down with glee. "Honestly, Paulette, I'm not supposed to represent anyone until after I pass the bar, unless a barred attorney is supervising me. But Dewey doesn't need to know that, and if I go say a lot of legal stuff to him and make it sound authoritative and official, is he really gonna call me out for unauthorized practice of law?"
"Oh, Elle, I don't want you to get in trouble..."
"For you, it'd be worth it," Elle said seriously. "For you, and for Rufus. Let's go steal him back from that bastard, just in time for Christmas."
And Paulette didn't have a clue what "mens rea" or "unauthorized practice of law" were, but as she watched Elle admire her rose fingernails with a pleased smile, she trusted that if anyone could get her dog back, it was going to be this curious woman, who managed to be so worldly and yet so naïve, who was at turns so vulnerable and yet tougher than anyone Paulette had ever met before. Elle Woods was a walking contradiction. And Paulette was proud to be her first unofficial client, but even more proud to be her friend.
Elle went back to California for winter break, but when she returned in January, she was delighted to find Cambridge covered in snow.
"I've never lived somewhere where it snowed like this!" she exclaimed, unbundling herself from three layers of brand-new scarves and sweaters and jackets. "The second we landed at Logan, I realized we were going to freeze to death unless we went straight into Boston and did some heavy-duty, post-Christmas shopping, isn't that right, Bruiser?"
Bruiser, wearing a little red beret and a matching knit scarf, yapped his agreement from Elle's handbag, then leapt out to greet Rufus as the bulldog waddled quickly out of the backroom upon hearing his canine friend.
Neptune's was about half an hour from closing, and Elle had dropped by more to say hello than anything else, but she gamely agreed when Paulette invited her to stay and have a beer after things officially closed up.
"Want me to do your nails, too?" Paulette offered. "Start the new term off the right way, and all."
"Only if you want to!" Elle quirked her head to the side, examining the color options before choosing a Merlot red. "Hmm, 'new term.' Very gender-neutral. How was Christmas?"
"Best one I've ever had," Paulette declared. "Me and Rufus stayed up all night watching Hallmark movies and drinking rosé—well, I did, at least. No worrying about stupid boyfriends forgetting to buy anything nice as a present, or, later that night, trying and totally failing to... y'know. Anyway, now that I've got my precious baby back, I'm feeling like getting kicked outta Dewey's trailer was one of the best things that's happened to me all year. Hell, maybe in ten years!"
Because, when Paulette looked back at her life, much of it had trundled along with the same unchanging monotony for the past twenty-some-odd years: her days a predictable assortment of varnish and nail files and listening to the various gossip and confessions of her clients; her evenings spent bringing more beer for one good-for-nothing boyfriend or another with his eyes glued to the TV, the couch sagging under his weight. When Dewey had thrown her out, Paulette was startled and terrified to turn around and see behind her all the time she'd lived, and just how few substantive memories she had to show for any of it.
But her life had changed so much since mid-September, when a petite blonde woman with mascara streaking down her cheeks had stormed into Neptune's Beauty Nook on a sunny Monday afternoon and hurled herself into the seat opposite Paulette. And, as she'd gotten to know Elle better over the past months, Elle's sparkling optimism had rubbed off on Paulette. Maybe it was simply being close to Elle's brash fearlessness, or maybe it was because Paulette was actually taking to heart Elle's kind and supportive words, but for the first time since her childhood, Paulette once more felt like she had potential.
"Well, here's to getting rid of useless boyfriends," Elle said, raising her beer in a toast.
"And here's to getting the good ones back," Paulette added, tapping her beer can against Elle's.
The smallest of frowns crossed Elle's face, but a genuine smile snapped back into place a moment later, and she sipped her beer in tandem with Paulette.
"Any New Year's resolutions?" she asked. "Vices to give up, now that you've checked Dewey off that list? Vices to acquire, even, since you're already the nicest person imaginable?"
"Nah, not really," Paulette responded, a beat too late. Elle leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, fine. You know, um..."
"The UPS Guy with the short shorts and the cute little ass?"
Paulette blushed and looked down at the fingernail that she was painting. The real cute little ass, she thought, and the gorgeous jawline, and that smile that makes my heart flutter whenever he shoots it my way...
"Well, you gonna finally ask him out?" Elle pressed.
"Oh, god," sighed Paulette, "the second you say it out loud like that... no, no, I'm not gonna."
"Paulette," Elle said gently, "has it ever occurred to you that maybe he likes you back?"
"Him?!" Paulette snorted. "Why on earth would he?!"
"Because you're a kind, interesting, beautiful person!" Elle insisted. "And if I were him, I'd like you! But I'd be waiting for some sort of signal that you were interested..."
"He's too good for me," mumbled Paulette.
"No one is too good for you, Paulette," said Elle, on the verge of clenching her fist emphatically before remembering that her nails were wet. "And you have to stop telling yourself that! See, this is how you keep on ending up with losers like Dewey who don't deserve you, because you think that you're never gonna be good enough for anyone who actually deserves you, and..."
Elle's voice suddenly broke off in a sob. Paulette passed her a tissue, which Elle used to blot at her eyes, her fingers held out stiffly to avoid smudging her nails.
"I'm never gonna be good enough for Warner," she admitted in a small voice. "I realized that months ago, but I kept on telling myself that, if I worked hard enough, maybe he'd start seeing me as a smart, accomplished future J.D., and not just some air-headed blonde Delta Nu party girl. But why have I been kidding myself?"
Paulette stared at Elle, who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and could be infuriatingly clueless, but who had such a good heart and such a kind soul. She didn't deserve to be hurt like this by any asshole.
"Elle, I don't know Warner, but he's clearly an idiot if he let go of someone as great as you," she said finally. "Are you really telling me that, in all of Harvard Law School, there isn't a single catch better than him?"
Elle thought about this.
"There is this one guy, but I think he's a 3L? He sits in the back of our Crim class sometimes, though. Not quite sure what his deal is, but... I don't know. Something to investigate next semester—next term, maybe."
"Well." Paulette raised her beer. "Here's to finding ourselves men who actually deserve us, in the new year."
Elle raised her beer to Paulette's with a smile.
"And here's also to good friends," she added.
Elle Woods was the most courageous person Paulette knew. So she was beyond rattled when Elle appeared in the salon one spring afternoon, fingernails scrubbed bare, face melancholy. And what could she really say, when Elle explained in a heartbroken voice that no one was ever going to take her seriously, that no one saw her as a lawyer, that she was a joke? Paulette saw Elle as a lawyer, and as a serious person (who ever said "serious" couldn't go hand-in-hand with "glamorous"?). And the only joke that Paulette could see was the scumbag who called himself a Harvard Law professor and had made Elle feel any less worthy than she was.
Elle, can't you see how you've helped me? Paulette asked her silently, unable to find the words she needed and offering Elle a hug instead. Can't you see that your toughness has made me so much better than I ever was before? If a girl like you can't hold onto her dreams, then there sure as hell isn't any hope for the rest of us.
But then, just as Paulette was steeling herself to let Elle go for good, just as Elle was about to retreat to California to slip back into everyone else's modest expectations, a terrifying woman rose from the chair behind them and gave Elle exactly the one-sentence scolding she so clearly needed.
"Who was that?!" Paulette asked.
"Stromwell!" Elle exclaimed, still stunned. "My Civ Pro professor! She cold-called me on diversity jurisdiction in my first 1L class ever and sent me outside and made me cry! God, I'm scared of her!"
"I think she's right, though," said Paulette quietly. "And Elle? I'm not letting you go back into a courtroom with your nails looking like that."
Elle glanced down at her nails—a bit ragged on the right-hand index, where she'd been gnawing at her unvarnished nail in misery as she packed her room—and laughed through her residual tears.
"Yeah," she sniffled. "Yeah, let's do this!"
She flung herself into the seat across from Paulette's and seized a tissue to dab her cheeks dry.
"French again?" Paulette asked, perusing her rack of polish.
"Yes, please," replied Elle, grinning. She'd decided that a French manicure was going to be a part of her battle armor throughout the Windham trial—sleek, professional, classic, and a tribute to Elle's Grammie Woods, who would have applauded her granddaughter for not letting one stupid prick ruin her life.
Paulette returned to her seat with the nail polish and smiled a bit to herself as she buffed Elle's nails.
"Didn't want to mention it when you were feeling so down, but... I did it," she announced.
Elle blinked.
"Oh my god, you what?!" she shrieked. "Tell me every last detail, Paulette!"
"So, uh, I don't think I used the 'bend and snap' quite how it was supposed to be used," Paulette blushed. "But it worked! Turns out you talk about things that you wouldn't usually talk about at work, when you drive a guy whose nose you just broke to the hospital and sit with him for an hour or so in the waiting room."
"So?" Elle pressed. "You asked him out... and I assume he said yes?"
"We're supposed to meet for lunch tomorrow," Paulette grinned.
Elle bounced up and down in her seat until Paulette reminded her to keep her hands still.
"Okay," Elle said, "well, assuming Brooke wants me back on her team, I'll be in court until mid-afternoon tomorrow, but I'll come by afterwards to hear all about it."
"You'll be in court?" Paulette hesitated. "Can I come watch?"
"And miss your date?" Elle scoffed. "Absolutely not!"
"Well, can I bring him with me?" Paulette argued.
"If he's interested, and if you go out for drinks together afterwards," Elle compromised. "Actually, it'd be nice to have some friends in the room, cheering me on. I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Oh, Elle," laughed Paulette, "I've seen you drag those huge books around with you, and the way you read them even while you're getting your hair done. You're smart, but you sure as hell also put in the hard work to make sure you know what you're doing. Maybe you don't think you're ready, but I certainly wasn't ready to ask out a man I've had a big, fat crush on for over a year, and..."
Paulette shrugged and grinned. And when Elle started dancing in her seat again, Paulette scolded her again for moving too much, then stuck her tongue between her teeth so she could paint a good, sharp line of white across the top of Elle's thumbnail.
A few weeks later, Elle stepped into Neptune's and was greeted with wild applause from all of the beauticians.
"Oh my god, did you tell everyone?!" Elle laughed, hugging Paulette.
"I couldn't help it," Paulette said sheepishly. "It was just so exciting to see you win like that! I was so proud of you. We talked about you during drinks afterwards."
"I hope you talked about more than just me," Elle said pointedly.
"Well, yeah, of course," Paulette grinned. "But... how did he put it? He said he'd found that, if a girl could make and keep a really good friend, then that was a sure sign that she was a keeper herself."
Elle tossed her hair proudly, smiling at her friend.
"Well, that goes both ways," she reminded Paulette. "By the way, Warner asked me out again. Before even breaking up with Vivian—who, by the way, has turned out to be surprisingly nice and actually way too good for Warner? At any rate, I would've turned him down, even if I hadn't been planning to ask Emmett out. What a creep."
Elle rolled her eyes, and Paulette couldn't help but think back to their first encounter, all those months ago, when Elle had tearfully poured out all of her Warner-related woes to Paulette (who had long ago embraced her role as beautician qua therapist). Getting dumped was always rough, and although Paulette didn't know what a "Harry Winston" was, it sounded designer and thus like something that a girl wouldn't want to have snatched away. Still, she had been thoroughly annoyed by the Barbie-like girl with a Dreamhouse to match, who sobbed over how tragic it was that she had gotten accepted to Harvard Law... until she interrupted the girl's ranting with a bitter interlude on her own recent troubles and the girl actually listened. Unlike so many other self-important Cambridge girls from elite backgrounds and wealthy families, Elle had seemed genuinely struck by Paulette's hardships, her face growing earnest. She didn't even dive back into an explanation of her own sorrows until Paulette asked her directly, giving her implicit permission to continue with the unofficial therapy session. And, when Paulette spilled water over her hands upon the arrival of the UPS delivery, and Elle pragmatically helped pat dry the table with a towel instead of complaining, Elle went from being yet another entitled client to someone Paulette respected. Now, with each other's support, they both had grown so far beyond who they were that September afternoon.
"Oh, Elle," Paulette smiled. "I'm so glad you're ready to move on."
"Me, too." Elle dropped into the seat opposite Paulette. "Oh, and speaking of creeps? Stromwell called me into her office a few days after the trial ended and told me that she had filed a disciplinary complaint against Callahan for sexually harassing a student. The odds look pretty good that he'll been formally barred from the Harvard Law faculty moving forward, and his firm won't be able to recruit Harvard students on campus. And Emmett's planning on leaving the firm, too. Serves Callahan right, ha!"
"Good," said Paulette with a firm nod of her head. "Well, what'll it be today, since you're done with court for the moment?"
"You know what? Let's go with pink. It's my signature color, and finals are over, and a girl deserves to celebrate!" Elle paused. "Although, now that I think about it? The next time I'm back in court, I'm gonna keep my nails pink. If they don't take me seriously by now, I don't think they ever will... and if they never will, then screw them."
Paulette returned to the table with a bottle of vivid red-pink polish and slid it over to Elle for her approval.
"What do you think?" she asked. "It's a new OPI shade. Thought you might like the color, and the name."
Elle tilted back the bottle and grinned at the name Madam President on the side.
"That sounds just perfect," she told Paulette, sliding the polish back across the table to her.
"Oh, Paulette," gasped Elle. "You look gorgeous!"
"You sure my ass doesn't look too big?" fretted Paulette, turning in the mirror. "Or does the veil cover it enough?"
"Your ass looks great, and so does the veil! Also, your soon-to-be-husband thinks you're amazing in every possible way, and don't you dare convince yourself that any dress would ever change his opinion." Elle clapped her hands, holding back tears. "Oh my god, this really is the most beautiful end to my 2L spring term that I could possibly imagine! Okay, go change so I don't accidentally spill nail polish all over your dress."
Paulette nodded and retreated to the bathroom in the back of Neptune's so she could change back into her everyday clothes. When she emerged back into the salon, her wedding dress safely stored under plastic, Elle was balancing doggie treats on Bruiser's nose and laughing as Rufus ate each of them off before Elle could tell Bruiser to do any tricks.
"This color, right?" Elle confirmed, holding up a bottle of nail polish in the shimmery delicate pink that Paulette had always loved best, and Paulette nodded.
"It's really nice of you to do this for me," she said, holding out a hand for Elle. "You didn't need to."
"One, no bride should have to do her own nails, even if she probably could do them better than anyone else," Elle said. "Two, if you can't ask your own maid of honor to do your nails, who can you ask? Three, Paulette, after you've done my nails for so long, and vicariously lived through all of my little melodramas and victories, this really is the least I can do."
Paulette took advantage of Elle's concentration to study her young friend. When Elle had first stormed into Paulette's life, not quite two years ago, she had radiated all the physical confidence and internal panic of a very pretty girl, straight from the pages of Cosmo or Vogue, who had just been informed that looks might no longer be enough. Now, Elle still projected confidence, but it was something much subtler, much more controlled. She still clearly knew that she was an attractive and stylish woman, and she clearly was proud of that fact. But Elle's sense of power was grounded in something deeper and more intense now, a self-worth that would exist even if Emmett weren't such an excellent and thoughtful boyfriend. Paulette had been right that Elle had always had choices in her life; and Elle's current groundedness came from having made the choices that were right for her. She wore her newfound confidence beautifully, Paulette thought.
"Hmm," she said, looking at her left hand as Elle released it and moved over to her right. "I don't know what you were talking about when you said you never got the hang of doing nails as well as you'd have liked."
"Doing my own nails," Elle corrected her. "And, okay, maybe I'm not bad at this, but I'm still not a pro, like you are. Besides, you don't make any new friends when you always do your own nails. That's really why I came in here that first day, you know, and why I kept coming back after I realized how wonderful you were."
And Paulette held still while Elle finished painting the nails on her right hand, because there would be plenty of time to give her brilliant, kind, thoughtful friend a proper hug, well before the wedding but after the polish was good and dry.