Posh Snippets
by
LicketySplat
Chapter 2: Knotty Tendencies
"What are you still doing here?! I thought I told you to go tell the photographer that we'll take another five minutes tops!"
Minako was feeling particularly short-tempered today, and the fact that it was her time of the month where she was as testy as a coiled serpent and ten times more homicidal didn't help things along either.
"I'm not going anywhere when we're not done. What are you- . . . you're curling her hair?!" the red-head's voice jumped up an octave, reaching a whole new decibel that irritated the shit out of Minako.
Her hand holding the hot-iron twitched as the younger woman continued.
"No, this isn't how you curl hair! You need to pull it tighter! Tighter! Gah, you're doing it all wrong!"
The only thing that was getting tighter was her grip around the hairstyling device.
"Argh! Give that to me! You don't even look like you know what you're doing. Come on, hand it over!"
"Wha- . . .?!"
How dare her!
And the hot-iron was snatched from her hand before she could crank the heat up and clip them over those unsightly chattering lips.
Minako's mouth drew into a thin line, her blood boiling, but she refused to butt heads with an ill-bred amateur. She had wasted the past ten minutes of her scheduled time quarreling over what bloody brand of hair mousse to use and she definitely wasn't about to start on how to do curls. She ran a salon for goodness sakes!
Never argue with a fool, she scowled, because people may not be able to tell the difference.
Something rational in her told her to back away with her dignity still intact, though her pride had taken quite a dent. So she stood to the side and folded her arms, furious and in desperate need of a steaming cup of Starbucks just as her head started pounding. Minako hated it. She absolutely hated disrespect. Did that woman even know who Minako was and just how high she stood on the ladder in her miserable existence? Well of course she did, how could she not? And knowing that just launched her anger onto a whole new level of potential murder – First-degree homicide. Premeditated.
Fuming, she watched as the amateur hairstylist, clearly a few years her junior, fluttered about the distressed January Cover Girl of Tweens on the high stool, hot-iron seemingly bent on singing off her eyebrows. The striking model looked to Minako with desperate eyes, pleading for her to do something, anything! She merely shrugged her shoulders and offered an apologetic, almost sympathetic smile which twitched at a corner as she struggled to keep her fury in check. If they could airbrush on a navel, I'm sure they'd be able to do the same for a couple of eyebrows . . .
On the bright side, she was getting paid for being here, and if anything went awry, she had the model as a first-hand witness (if not an unfortunate victim of incompetence).
In any case, the onus was on her to inform the photographer of the hairstylist's inexperience, especially since it was a cover shoot. She didn't know how or why they hired the bumbling red-head in the first place because it was painfully obvious that this was her first time on set. Minako barely repressed a disgusted shudder at the way the red-head – what was her name? Ah yes, Beryl – was raking her clawed hands into the model's gorgeous caramel mane. She'd be amazed if clumps of the model's hair didn't fall off from all the yanking and excessive hair products the maladroit moron was heaping on her head.
Beryl was done, eventually, and Minako placed a comforting hand on the model's shoulder as the red-head strutted off to announce that Cover Girl was ready. "I must apologise if it seemed as though I was the by-stander equivalent of her accomplice, but there wasn't much that I could do," Minako gave a guilty smile and tried to tame the explosive riot that now sat on the cover girl's head.
The model shook her head. "It's fine Aino-san. I understand. Though I must say you did a laudable effort in maintaining control of the hot-iron," she grinned teasingly, recovering quickly from the shock of her own reflection in the mirror.
Minako gave up on the frazzled mound of hair and stepped back. "Well I don't see myself as a hairstylist in jail," she chuckled and leaned on the dressing table. "Although a hot-iron would make quite an interesting murder weapon." She picked up the abandoned hair-styling device and gave it a few menacing clicks in the air.
"Quite," Cover Girl laughed and agreed. She looked at her reflection once again, raising a hand to her hair and scrunching up her face in abhorrence. "I look like I belong on the cover page of October than for January."
"It's a good idea to start the New Year with a big bang . . ."
"Oh haha. Very droll."
"Alright, I suppose I do feel rather responsible for this mess. They didn't call me here to observe nuclear test results after all," Minako gestured towards the bomb site, which currently had a blast radius of a little more than a foot. She grabbed a spray bottle from the table and stood in front of the model, doing minimal damage control.
"You could always accompany me to the Countdown Party, if that'll help your conscience," Cover Girl suggested and gave Minako a wink. "It'll be a blast."
Minako groaned, throwing her arms in the air. "Ok, ok, enough with the puns already!" she laughed out loud before looking at the model thoughtfully. She had already been invited, the invitation having come a month ago already, and she hadn't given it much thought since then because there wasn't need to. These things hardly differed from their predecessors as with the hair styling appointments she always got a month in advance prior to a party and the dates with men she went along with just for the heck of it.
Minako looked briefly at the pretty model, taking in her large doe-eyes and sweet features. January Cover Girl had certainly taken her by surprise with her forwardness.
"Well, I've got appointments back to back on that day because of that menace. But alright, if I may redeem myself, I'll go with you" she nodded, impish grin on her face. "For now, I need to rat on that insolent brat, so if you'll excuse me . . ."
As she turned to pack her things into her equipment case, a hand darted out to catch her wrist, halting her in her steps. "So it's a date then. Eight at the front porch of Chiba's mansion?" the model cocked her head to the side in question, eyes sparkling in anticipation. Too eager, in Minako's opinion, but she decided to overlook the tiny hitch.
"Yeah, eight's fine."
"Can't wait. I'll see you then!"
And Cover Girl was called to the set just as Minako slid the last bottle of hair spray into her case.
She headed out of the dressing room, shaking her head all the while. She was completely out of it today, if the fact that she couldn't remember Cover Girl's name even after making a date with her didn't make it evident enough. But it happens, she supposed, because there were simply too many people in this industry, and in all honesty, if someone weren't useful in her network, they would be just another pretty face in the overly massive pretty crowd. Harsh, yet unfortunately clinical.
As she stepped out of the dressing room, Minako almost collided head-on with a scurrying make-up artist, and chances were, if that had actually occurred, she probably wouldn't have realized till she was laying spread eagled on the floor, equipment case on top of her face.
That was it. She was getting a tall latte with a shot of espresso at the first Starbucks she saw. The thumping music emanating from behind the studio doors as she approached only compounded her agony.
She pushed the thick door open and was immediately greeted by the loud pounding of heavy beats that pulsed through her with seismic forcefulness and rattled her bones. For a moment, she was convinced that she had unwittingly opened the Pandora's Box of all headaches, but she strode on in anyway, senses tolerating the assault but not quite adapting to it either.
A commanding voice, entirely female and pissed, seemed to split through the wall of noise with whip-cracking intensity. A rather miraculous feat, Minako thought.
"I need more emotion in the eyes! No, not like that. That's bitchy and stiff. Angle your head more to the left . . . I need a dramatic pose– there! Hold it!"
And amidst the flashes and glare from the gigantic floodlights, she made out the shape of the photographer, crouched on one knee with a Nikon in both hands at the front of the set, back facing her.
Cover Girl was on set, perched on a vintage chair of sorts, limbs extended in an aggressive manner but not quite what the photographer was looking for as hinted by a sharp shake of a head and wide gesturing. The model was quite pretty, Minako thought, although she wasn't exactly her type. Too delicate. But she was someone Minako wouldn't mind as a date to the largest countdown party in the area, hosted by Chiba Mamoru, the editor-in-chief of Tweens himself.
Minako idly played with a strand of blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail, sighing as she watched the photo shoot.
She would have to wait till after a roll of film, she knew, because the photographer and imaging artists would need to discuss and pick out the few good frames before proceeding with the shoot. Minako put her case down silently and leaned on a stack of crates, tucking her hands into the pockets of her cargos.
The voice boomed again, sounding loud and somewhat familiar above the chaotic dissonance. Minako frowned and straightened up instantly, her gut suddenly feeling strangely twisted as her eyes traced the outline of the female photographer, making out a head of raven-hair . . .
"No, I've told you before. You can't smile with your mouth, short of looking like a freak show with that hair! You need to give it to me with the eyes! I want it intense! Dramatic! Yes, that's it!"
And within the span of time that one took to snap a shot, she was behind the stack of crates she was leaning on previously, case gripped in clammy palms and her eyes wide with shock. Apparently, her body was fast enough to react but her mind was not quite fast enough to digest the visual information her eyes took in. So she hid in the shadows of the crates – for reasons which her cluttered head had yet to comprehend – and stared, openly, blatantly, shamelessly at Rei, hoping that somehow she would be able to find an answer as to why she was hyperventilating.
Oh . . . my . . . God!
She sunk to a crouch, as though mimicking the photographer, as her mind raced. Now she knew where had seen her name before! It was either being inconspicuous at the tiny corner of a glamour photo, or completely glanced over and forgotten on the staff page of Tweens. After all, photographers were barely mentioned where the famous faces of Japan's top models and stars were concerned, in the public eye at least, and more often than not, putting faces to said photographers hardly interested anyone. They barely appeared in the limelight, only their subjects did.
But how could anyone not want to know this gorgeous face behind thousands of photos?! This is completely ironic.
Someone else could go kick up a fuss about Beryl, because she sure as hell wasn't going to waltz over with the knowledge that her mouth wouldn't be able to form proper, coherent words. And why on earth was she even hiding?!
It had been roughly two weeks since that day that Rei swept into her salon with the impact of a hurricane and all the grace of a breeze. Minako hadn't seen her since then, but with the way she was spying on Rei now, clearly she had yet to wipe the memories of that day from her head. She had begun to think that Rei wasn't going to turn up, hair mask recipe in hand. But then again, loathe as she was to admit it, she wasn't as keen on receiving a slip of paper as to be graced with the photographer's presence again. Even her stylists knew that, no thanks to her occasional fumble and spacing out. The teasing had lasted throughout the weeks whenever she dropped into the salon, relentless and unyielding till she had to threaten them with a can of hair spray and a lighter.
"You're looking like a mannequin. I need you to loosen up! Bend that elbow a bit. Give me a face-on . . . – Hold it! Just a few more . . . There! That's a wrap for now!"
Minako stiffened, and shrunk back into the shadows as Rei rose to take a look at the shots in the array of monitors on a table to the side. It should be a crime to look that good in only a shirt and jeans.
From where she was and with the music, she only heard snippets of the conversation between the chiseled image artist and the photographer.
" . . . this is no good, Yukito. See how her arm disappears at this angle? I can't have her looking like an amputee! And what's with the afro?! . . ."
She figured they would find out about Beryl eventually and deciding that this would be a terrible time to interrupt either way, Minako stood up as silently as possible, cringing when her case banged noisily into the crates. For once she was thankful for the outrageously loud music. As much as she would like to continue staring, admiring the proud posture and attractively professional air the photographer exuded, she really should be going. Besides, Rei looked really pissed, and Minako did not want to be in the range of her flaring aura. She snuck stealthily towards the door, casting quick glances over her shoulder and a last look at the fashion photographer of Tweens and slipped out unnoticed, her head still reeling from the discovery.
In the suddenly stifling quiet of the car park, her headache seemed to increase tenfold without the accompanying pounding of the music in the studio. Minako all but fell into the car seat with a groan. Resting her forehead on the steering wheel of her Mini Cooper, she found that she was failing horribly at erasing Rei's perfect profile from her mind.
She screwed her eyes shut.
Forget Starbucks. Vodka will do so much better.
--
"Good afternoon, this is Venus Vogue, Tenoh Haruka speaking. How may I help you?"
"Good afternoon. Is Aino-san in today?"
"She will be from five onwards. May I know who's on the line?"
"Hino Rei."
"A-ah . . . it's nice to hear from you again Hino-san, would you be making an appointment with us today?"
"Yes. With Aino-san, for six in the evening. I trust she's available then?"
"Hold on, let me check her schedule . . . six o' clock . . . (damn she's booked) Er, yes she's free."
" . . . Wonderful. Do let her know I'll be dropping by to fulfill my end of the deal."
"I will- wait . . . deal? What deal?"
"Ah, this is between her and I, Tenoh-san. But what I can say is that she has very skillful fingers."
"Fing- . . . ok, do I want to know?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It all depends on how open she is with you. You should ask her yourself."
"Oh, now I see what this is all about. She should be glad that she took my advice then."
". . . what advice?"
"Never mind. As part of my job, I have to respect the privacy of patrons. For Aino-san however . . . that's an entirely different thing altogether. She rarely keeps the beans on her Sapphic affairs and-"
"She swings that way?"
"Yep. Wait . . . I thought you knew that alrea- . . . Oops."
"Interesting."
"I-In any case, we'll see you at six then. Drive safely! Obey the lights! The roads are very slick now, I almost skidded off a bend just this morning, but what can I say, I love the speed and I've always thought it an over exaggerated cliché but you have no idea how my life flashed past my eyes and-"
"Tenoh-san."
"Yes?"
You're rambling."
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
"A-Aino-san will be ready for you-"
"Oh she'd better be."
"Eh heh heh . . . Hino-san you sound really predatory now."
"You're hearing things."
"I suppose so. Well, have a good day Hino-san."
"Same to you too."
--
"Haruka, what are you doing?"
The woman with an unruly mop of dirty blonde hair looked up at her lover innocently. "What does it look like I'm doing?" she smirked, placing the phone back in its holder and tidying up the counter.
"You just cancelled Minako-san's appointment for six," Michiru folded her arms, narrowing her deep blue eyes at her partner. "Why?"
"No I didn't. She does have an appointment for six, a more important one if I may add."
"You will tell her, at least?"
"Nuh uh. Not a chance," Haruka shook her head firmly. She grinned mischievously, teal eyes sparkling as she strode past the frowning stylist for the back room. "I'm gonna go get my video cam ready. Oooh . . . the countdown begins! Five hours to dramaaaa!" The tall blonde spread her arms and threw her head back, cackling evilly.
"Haruka."
The bed-headed blonde paused mid-step and swiveled her head to the side at the soft yet arresting voice that addressed her from behind a customer.
"I trust you know what you're doing," Setsuna looked up at her in the mirror, garnet eyes fixed steadily on her as hands effortlessly snipped and cut without interruption. "Although it would seem terribly asinine of me to even talk about trust around you . . ."
"Tsk. Have more faith in me," Haruka smiled confidently, hands on her hips. "And of course I know what I'm doing. Just sit back and enjoy part two of the show you missed the other day, which was a shame, really." She darted into the back room and returned with the broom, sweeping in large, excited arcs. "You should've seen Minako-san! Sputtering and fumbling like a pubescent school girl! Not to mention the characteristically angsty hissy fits afterwards."
"So what you're doing is very post-puberty then?"
Haruka scowled. "Oh you're such a killjoy, Setsuna."
The tanned woman tilted her head to the side, as though amused though her face betrayed none of that emotion. "I don't want to be the unfortunate civilian caught in the middle of your puerile shenanigans and Minako-san's hidden talent for pyrotechnics."
"Come now, you don't think she'd torch her own salon do you? They're all empty threats I tell you!"
Just then, the front door burst open and a haggard Minako stepped in, a frigid gust of wind heralding her arrival and jangling the bell violently.
"Speak of the devil . . ."
--
There was a pregnant silence as the employees waited in bewilderment as Minako stood dazedly to her spot, seemingly adjusting to the sudden warmth or realizing only then that she was back at the salon. With a grunt, Minako trudged on into the salon, heading straight for the seat tucked behind the counter.
"Good afternoon Aino-san!" the stylists chorused.
"Rnnhh . . . afternoon."
"Minako-san, how was the photo shoot?" She vaguely registered the question directed towards her from one of her employees but deflected it, unwilling to dwell on the incidents of the previous few hours. Minako sunk into the chair as Michiru started towards her.
She hadn't been able to grab even a cup of cheap coffee from a vending machine considering the killer traffic and the appointment she had in a scant fifteen minutes. The day couldn't get any worse, really. There was stock-taking to be done, auditing awaiting her . . . and she was hungry.
Where her co-workers had expected the usual lowdown on a magazine shoot came something utterly random and off tangent.
"I'm hungry. Where's my lunch?" Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum . . .
Michiru, who had stepped up behind Minako to loosen up stiff muscles with a massage, raised a brow. "We haven't had lunch yet. But someone could go get it now . . ." the aqua-haired stylist informed her, kneading knuckles into tense muscles as Minako flipped through her appointment schedule.
Minako snapped her head up, spotting the lanky blonde sneaking towards the backroom. "Haruka! Go get our lunch!" she barked, startling the hair stylist.
Upon the order, Haruka spun around looking sullen, broom in hand. "Me? I bought lunch yesterday already!"
"So go get it again today then," Minako shrugged and relaxed as the knots on her back loosened steadily. "Thank you Michiru," she glanced up gratefully at the aqua-haired stylist before turning her attention back to the unhappy blonde.
Haruka raked a hand through her dirty blonde tousles and pulled a long face, crossing her arms. "Why can't Michiru go get it? She's free."
Minako gestured in frustration at the aqua-haired stylist behind her, her patience wearing thin. "Michiru is attending to my poor, afflicted being. You, however, are the one who's tangoing with a broom."
"Well, Setsuna hasn't gotten us lunch in a while now. Tell her to go. I need to sweep up the floor."
The addressed stylist merely rolled her garnet eyes, pausing momentarily with her scissors poised in the air and motioned to the customer in front of her, a silent 'Duh'. With her emerald tresses pulled into a French braid, the stoic stylist looked every bit as professional as Minako would wish Haruka would be, that and the fact that she was polished and smart in contrast to the boyish blonde's brashness. But ah, Haruka brought a certain level of cheer to the salon that Minako liked on days where it wasn't inappropriate - today definitely not being one of them.
Minako pinned Haruka with a particularly scalding death glare. "Setsuna has a customer. And why are we even having this conversation? Go get lunch. I. Am. Hungry," she drew out the last few words, as though speaking to a three-year old.
"A hungry woman is an angry woman," Michiru chirped helpfully, smirking as Haruka threw her a mock wounded look.
The blonde marched to the door haughtily, grudgingly, and tossed her aqua-haired lover a dirty look. "Boot-licker."
"Slacker," she sang, affectionate smile on her face instead of the expected annoyance.
Haruka batted her lashes at her. "You know you love it."
"Aw shut up already! Go! Shoo! I've got an appointment in ten damn it!" Minako growled. "And I want Subway!" she hollered after the blonde just as the door slid closed. Minako tilted her head to speak to Michiru. "Seriously, you guys are so sickeningly sweet it makes me nauseous," she shuddered for good measure.
The stylist behind her only laughed and finished off the massage with a meaningful pat on the shoulders. "Hopefully that hasn't undone all my efforts then. This'll have to tide you over till six."
Minako looked up at her quizzically. "Six? Why?" she asked and looked at her watch, brows furrowed. It took her a few seconds before the words sunk in and she flipped open her appointment schedule again, scanning the entries till she reached six o' clock.
'Appointment' it read, with large, obnoxious exclamation marks trailing behind the sole word. Clearly Haruka had taken this down. Usually the name of the client would be written, but whatever name that had been written before had been slashed out in bold streaks of black pen ink. She was just about to question Michiru when a customer entered.
The poised stylist walked briskly to tend to him, looking back over her shoulder to see the confused expression all over Minako's face.
She smiled gently, offering her sympathy with no further explanation whatsoever.
"I get the feeling you'll need another one after that."
AN: Hello dear readers. I do love dramatic irony, don't you? Right, so...manymany things I'd want to say. Let's start off with how much I appreciate your reviews and feedback. :) I had initially planned this chapter to be longer...but my bestie insisted it was too long. I seem to have issues with writing chapters which turn out much longer than I want them to. And also, I thought I'd point out that this story, will mostly be written around fluff, drama, humour and future...R rated stuff. I haven't written much on the other scouts before, but hopefully I haven't made any of them OOC. I don't know about you, but I love how Haruka has the ability to whip up chaos when she wants to. I did start off this fandom with the Haruka/Michiru pairing after all. Oh yes, another thing. I do not cut hair, nor am I anywhere near the fashion industry. I'm still a poor student, prepping for her last year of pre-college studies with no experience whatsoever with modelling and such. But what I can say, however, is that I follow ANTM closely. XD So...do give me feedback, because I think this story is gonna spill out more chapters than I thought I'd write. As usual. Blah.
