"Let's move on to the hair!" Sam sang to herself, and for a second, JB panicked. Had he forgotten to bring along another powdered wig?
She plopped herself in front of her gilded vanity and lifted the top off the porcelain pomade jar that sat in front of the mirror. It had taken her no time at all to adapt to her 1760s home. Donning a red cotton dress with a white floral print, she fit right in with her surroundings. She scooped some pomade out with the tips of her fingers and began combing it through her brown locks.
JB sighed, relieved now that he remembered that in this era, wigs were mostly worn by men and not women, contrary to stereotype. He already knew this in the back of his mind, but Sam had made sure to give him a full lecture about how many myths floated around about fashion history. "People think women suffocated themselves with corsets throughout most of history!" she'd ranted. "That's absolute rubbish! Hollywood just wants people to think corsets were torture devices because it makes for a more dramatic story. Really, it's just that Hollywood actresses aren't properly fitted and get shoved into poorly made corsets, so of course they're in pain. And if I'm being technical, they weren't even called corsets until after the eighteenth century. The proper term for these"—she patted her conical waist— "are stays. And they're perfectly comfortable." She twisted her torso from side to side to show ease of movement. JB could have mentioned that even in the future people held incorrect beliefs about fashions of the past and that time travelers were often surprised when they did proper research, but he wasn't about to add fuel to the fire. Besides, she was still going. "Then there's the myth that women constantly wore wigs in this time period, but that isn't true either. They used pomade and hair powder to make it poofy and added hairpieces, but not full-on wigs unless they were sick or bald." By now JB understood that during these tangents she wasn't so much trying to educate him as she was venting out her frustration with twenty-first century folks who didn't know any better. He was certain that throughout the whole mission, he'd continue to hear her ramble about how little most people understood fashion history. And that was fine. He actually found it rather amusing how worked up she got.
"Thank goodness I had some extra brown hair powder leftover from my last reenactment. I'm definitely putting a layer of that on top of the white once it's all styled," she said as she wrapped a cotton smock over her shoulders. "I know white powder was the most popular color, but plenty of people had powder that matched their natural hair." She grabbed her powder shaker with one hand and lifted one strand of hair with the other. She tipped the shaker upside-down and doused her hair with the stuff. A cloud of it sprayed down onto the smock as she did so. JB took several steps back to avoid the splash zone, but too late. A strong floral scent assaulted his nostrils and tickled his sinuses. He barely had time to cover his mouth before he erupted into a series of sneezes. "Warn me next time, would you? And what's wrong with just using the regular white powder I got for you?"
She set down the shaker and slid a comb through the now-powdered strand. "I don't like how it makes dark hair look gray. I mean, I know lots of people liked the gray, but I'd rather stay a brunette—don't look at me like that," she said just as he was about to remind her that blending in was their top priority— "Enough people used colorful powder that it won't look weird. Heck, some people used blue powder. How would you like it if I tried that?"
"Not very much," he sighed. Whatever. If she had personal fashion preferences, he'd humor her as long as they weren't outrageous. Her entire person glowed with sheer delight and he didn't have the heart to get nit-picky. People in the past had varied senses of style anyway. Besides, she was an expert in her field and knew what she was doing.
"Aren't you going to get ready?" she asked, now sculpting her locks into a tall pile of curls.
"Of course," he said quickly. "I was just about to do that." In truth, he'd been distracted by the way her hair had inflated into a thick mane with her use of the pomade and powder, like flour and milk blending to become a moldable dough. He'd seen finished hairstyles from the seventeen-hundreds in previous trips to the past, but never watched the styling process. It was oddly hypnotic, the hush of a comb gliding through long tresses.
In his own bedroom, he discarded his twenty-first century ensemble and unfolded a billowy-sleeved white shirt that sat atop his dresser in the corner. He flung it over his head, then moved on to the stockings, breeches, waistcoat, shoes, shoe buckles, wig…God, did he miss invisibility.
He squinted at his reflection in the mirror and wished that he, too, had acquired some brown hair powder. His gray wig clashed with his dark eyebrows and the curls pinned at his temples made his head appear too round, which did not suit his sharp bone structure. It was rather unsettling. Best not to stare at himself any longer, he decided, and made his way back to Sam's room. But it was empty.
Her comb, pomade, and powder remained on her vanity where he'd last seen them, but no Sam. JB felt his pulse quicken. He breathed in slowly through his nose to calm his nerves. The blushing scent of her powder still lingered. She was probably just exploring the rest of the manor. It was, after all, three stories of Rococo luxury.
"Sam?" he called out. Nothing. "Samantha?" He steadied his breath once more and almost turned to leave when something drew his attention to the window across from Sam's bed, the one that overlooked the grounds in back. Within the blanket of mist that bordered the river and woods beyond their courtyard, a red blur glided through the dusk. The form dashed over the river via a stone bridge and disappeared into the trees on the other side. JB froze in an instant of panic, then bolted downstairs and out the back doors after her.