Bebe first realized it on the hair dye aisle at the drug store. No matter what she went there for—from batteries to specially flavored chips—she always gravitated toward the rows and rows of naked-from-the-shoulders-up women. She told herself it was because of the various hairstyles, which blew in nonexistent wind, and shone, and curled into delicate ringlets—nothing like her own hair which, depending on how she slept on it, looked like the ass of a poodle, a blonde variation of Marge Simpson's 'do, or the kind of fake 70's afro wigs you can buy at the Halloween Super Store.
But Bebe really knew she was there for the faces: rows and rows of gorgeous woman sending sultry/coy/flirtatious/saucy looks her way. She could stand there and soak up their appreciative, promising expressions, and anyone that passed her by would simply assume she was making another failed attempt to style her hair and was in the process of deciding on a color.
And there was another reason Bebe returned to the aisle again and again, another patron: Henrietta, whose hair was never black enough, and who was always searching for a shade darker than 'charcoal,' 'ebony,' 'raven,' or 'starless.' Bebe watches her through her peripheral vision and wants to tell her her hair is beautiful the way it is; wants a smile that can turn into a kiss; wants to be brave enough.