Mila finds Sara yanking the pins out of her hair and growling at the bathroom mirror in frustration.
"Would you like some help?" she asks.
"Please," Sara says, sighing. "I don't understand, it never gives me any trouble, but today I've redone it three times and it won't stop falling apart."
"One of those days?" She takes the comb that Sara hands her and runs it down the length of the glossy black strands, stick-straight even after having been coiled into a bun.
"Usually, I'd have Mickey help put it up if I couldn't. He always got it perfect, and he didn't pull on it." There's a wistful tone to Sara's voice, and Mickey is not here right now.
Or rather, he is here, but either Sara has gotten better at telling him to keep some distance, or Mickey is getting better at staying away. He's probably in the stands, right now, anxiously awaiting his sister's emergence, ready to clap louder than anyone when she's finished skating. (Louder than anyone except Mila, perhaps, who can clap very loudly.)
Mickey is not here right now, but Mila is, and she draws the comb down Sara's hair, indulges herself in a few extra strokes even after it is clear that there are no tangles – they have the time. Sara has beautiful hair, the kind that could and probably does star in hair-care commercials, long and soft and shiny. Mila once tried to grow her hair out like this, when she was a pre-teen, but it never looked that good and got in the way too much, so she cut it short. Sara, though, she looks wonderful with her hair up, her hair down – she would look good if it was short, or softly curled around her cheeks, or pulled into an elaborate updo like the women in the fantasy movies she likes.
Today, though, she wants it in a simple bun. Mila follows her directions, re-parts her hair and takes the hair pins as they are handed to her, winds it around and around like a flatter version of a ballet bun. It seems a lot easier to do this one someone else than on herself, she thinks, remembering how she struggled to pin her own hair up before her ballet lessons when she tried growing it.
She spends a last few moments adjusting it, tucking in stray hairs, moving a pin slightly, then smooths it all down. "How did I do?" she asks, reaching over for the hand mirror on the counter so she can show Sara the back.
"It looks good," Sara says after a few seconds of looking. She gestures for Mila to step to the side, which she does, and then Sara shakes her head violently. Then she does it again. Nothing has moved; it looks perfect. "Wow! Thank you so much, you're a lifesaver." She gives Mila what was probably supposed to be a quick kiss, but which turns into a lingering one. She runs her fingers through Mila's hair as she draws slowly away, smiles. "There, now you're ready, too."
They walk back out to the rink together. It's bad to be distracted before a competition, and in a few minutes Mila will force herself to refocus and ready herself to skate, but for the brief time that she has, she lets her mind wander to what they'll do after their programs, after the interviews, after they're in one hotel room or the other.
Mila will pull the pins from Sara's hair, this time, and comb it with her hands when she kisses Sara's bare collar, let it go when Sara's hands wander low enough, because otherwise she can't help but pull, and Sara doesn't like that. But if things go well, Sara might just tug on hers instead.