Mrs. Fletcher(84)

Peggy patted Eve’s wrist. “You don’t need a coach. You’ve got us.”

“I could definitely use some help with my profile,” Eve said. “I always sound so boring. I mean, what am I supposed to say?”

“Just be honest.” Jane counted on her fingers. “You’re a good mom, a great friend, really good at your job . . .”

“See?” Eve slumped in her chair. “You’re making my point. I’m falling asleep just thinking about me.”

“Don’t stress about the profile,” said Liza, who’d been divorced longer than Eve, and had tried every internet dating site in the known universe, to no avail. “Trust me. The only thing that matters is your picture. You need to find a good photographer, and wear something tight and low-cut. That’s what I would do, if I had a figure like yours.”

“She’s right,” agreed Peggy. “Go to a salon and get a blow-out. Maybe hire a stylist to do your makeup. You only get one chance to make that first impression.”

*

Broadly speaking, Eve was happy with her hair. It was thick but manageable, and unlike some other parts of her body, it had weathered the transition into middle age without losing too much of its youthful bounce and luster. She had to color it, of course, but that was her only serious intervention. In her mid-thirties, she’d briefly experimented with a sassy, athletic bob, but it didn’t work, probably because she wasn’t a sassy, athletic person. She’d quickly returned to her tried-and-true collegiate hairstyle—long and straight, parted in the middle, a folk singer at the coffeehouse—unless she was at work, in which case she opted for the professional discipline of a bun or a scraped-back ponytail or a tortoise-claw clip.

It was a safe and familiar look, and she’d begun to wonder if that might be a problem. Because she understood on some level that Liza was right, that you needed to make a bold impression if you were going to succeed in the cutthroat world of online dating, especially once you’d crossed the Rubicon of forty. And Eve had a growing suspicion that the Joan Baez/social worker hairdo she’d been sporting for most of her adult life wasn’t going to do the trick.

“All right,” she announced, settling into the salon chair. “Let’s try something new for a change.”

Her haircutter—he went by Christophe, though his given name was Gary—was pleased. “What would you like?”

“You’re the expert. You tell me.”

He studied her in the mirror, nodding with quiet confidence, like he already had a plan.

“Nothing crazy,” she warned him.

He began by changing her hair color—it was naturally dark, mahogany bordering on black—to a luminous shade of golden brown that really brought out the hazel in her eyes. Then he shifted her part from the middle to the side and began to snip away, first crudely, to adjust the length, and then with more deliberation, framing her face in a series of artful layers that looked deceptively simple and natural, highlighting the graceful oval of her face and the elegant curve of her jawline—she’d had no idea that her jawline was elegant—while also concealing some of the less fetching regions of her neck. When he’d completed the blow-dry, Eve stared at herself in amazement.

“Oh my God,” she said, as Christophe undid the velcro fastener on her smock. “You’re a genius.”

He waved off the compliment.

“This was you all along,” he told her. “You just needed to come out of your shell.”

*

All that afternoon, Eve kept returning to the mirror, waiting for the usual post-haircut remorse to set in, but instead of the sinking feeling she knew so well—What was I thinking? Why do I even bother?—all she experienced was a renewed sense of pleasant surprise.

Just to make sure she wasn’t crazy, she took a selfie and posted it on Facebook, along with the matter-of-fact caption New Do. The response was instantaneous and overwhelmingly positive, twenty plus likes in the first ten minutes, and lots of supportive comments from her female friends.

It was gratifying, but only for a little while. Her mood darkened as evening set in, another Saturday night with nothing going on. What was the point of getting a fabulous new haircut if no one was going to see it except Brendan, who didn’t even notice until she hung a sign around her neck?

“I got my hair done this morning,” she said. “What do you think?”

He assessed her for a second or two, then gave a curt nod of approval.

“Nice,” he said. “Did what’s-his-name do it? The French dude?”

“Christophe.”

“He’s gay, right?”

“I think so. Does it matter?”

“Not in a bad way,” he said. “It’s just, the guy has a gay name and a gay job. It would be kind of confusing if he was straight. This way’s better for everyone.”

*

Brendan left around eight, climbing into a battered Toyota driven by one of his CrossFit buddies. As soon as he was gone, Eve went upstairs and changed into a tight skirt and tailored blouse and the one pair of special-occasion high heels she still owned. She took a selfie of her reflection in the full-length bedroom mirror, her mouth set in a sultry pout that didn’t look as ridiculous as she’d thought it would. Just for laughs, she undid two more buttons on her blouse and took a photo with the edge of her black bra showing, not that she would ever post an image like that on social media. It was just for herself—an ego boost, irrefutable proof that she could still be sexy if the occasion called for it.