Lisa Plumley | excerpt from I Shaved My Legs For This?! by Lisa Plumley

“I still don’t see what you’re getting so worked up about.”

Not answering, Jennifer Merryn wiggled impatiently at the downtown San Diego street corner, waiting for the light to turn. She loved Stephanie, her favorite stylist from the salon where they both worked—and the originator of the question she was determinedly avoiding—but now was not the time for Stephanie’s trademark sunny-side-up routine.

“Seriously.” In the neon-spangled light from a nearby thrift-store window, Stephanie gestured at the thing that had started this whole mess—a rolled-up magazine shoved beneath Jennifer’s elbow. “Lighten up. It’s only an ad.”

Only an ad. Ha. She wished.

Too impatient to wait any longer, Jennifer made her move. She didn’t like waiting for anything—including clueless tourists in Hertzes looking for the Gaslamp Quarter. Dodging a yellow Sunshine Pool Cleaning truck before it squashed her, she made it to the other side with Stephanie still on her trail.

They hurried along the sidewalk, heels clicking and handbags swinging, their requisite stylists’ black-on-black ensembles melting into the twilight. Springtime humidity filled the air, making Jennifer’s clothes stick to her. Worse, making her hair frizz. If she didn’t find their destination soon, she’d have a full-on California-girl ’fro on her hands.

“It’s ‘only an ad’ that calls my whole life into question,” Jennifer pointed out as she squinted up the street, searching for the supposedly obvious purple door—sans signage—that would identify their target. “I can’t lighten up.”

“Chill. You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“No, I’m taking Nyla’s directions too seriously. She did say two blocks from Fourth, right? A purple door?”

Stephanie shrugged. Jennifer stopped, temporarily defeated by the Nancy Drew routine they always had to go through to meet up with their friend these days. Foot traffic surged around them, composed of office workers and tourists and residents of the area’s funky, semigentrified neighborhood.

No sign of a purple door.

Or, for that matter, of a much-needed, fortifying cocktail.

Arrgh. The perfume-strip inserts in the January issue of Cosmopolitan—which really was, as Stephanie had indicated, responsible for this entire imbroglio—were making Jennifer giddy. Also, she hadn’t eaten anything since before lunchtime, not counting the Fritos she’d snagged between clients. It was a stylist’s routine, but skipping meals always made her woozy.

As if she didn’t have enough to cope with. Why did Nyla’s new “finds” always have to be so damned cryptic? It was like cracking the freaking Da Vinci Code just to locate the latest restaurant, club, or hangout her best friend had trend-spotted.

“Let’s try that way.” Jennifer pointed.

They set off again. The magazine flapped beneath her arm, reminding her with every step of the problem at hand. Jennifer was three steps away from a stopgap Rubio’s fish taco and a heart-to-heart with Stephanie—just to revive her flagging blood sugar—when she spotted the purple door.

Nirvana! Jennifer yanked it open. She and Stephanie sailed inside, stumbling in the unexpected gloom. The place was noisy, crowded, and apparently very popular...at least with those in the know. Amid the music, past the jostling heads and shoulders of the nine-to-fivers, Jennifer caught sight of an industrial-looking steel bar, a swooping modern-art installation, jammed tables, and Nyla.

Her friend—and roommate—waved them over. They slid in her choice corner booth, taking their positions—by long habit—with Jennifer in the middle. Amazed, she looked around.

“I don’t know how you do it. This place is incredible.” According to Nyla, it had only been open a week or so. “It’s like going from black and white to Technicolor.”

“Just a modest neighborhood watering hole.” Grinning, Nyla gestured for cocktails. “All you need is an ear to the ground. The bartender is a genius. He used to work at the Valencia in La Jolla before he got stolen away. And the food is decent too.”

“Good. I’m starving.” Stephanie grabbed a menu. “Four donuts and a lukewarm coffee don’t last all day. Especially when you’ve got Freaky McFreakerson, over here, to deal with.”

She jabbed her chin meaningfully toward Jennifer.

“Hey!” Jennifer protested. “I have reason to freak out. This is serious.” To prove it, she slapped her magazine on the table and jabbed her finger at the dreaded ad. “Look!”

Nyla did. She wrinkled her nose. “A stick-figure teenager with ten pounds of makeup pretending to worry about wrinkle cream? So what? That’s just business as usual.”

“Not that. The other page. The other ad.”

Just glancing at it, Jennifer felt a renewed pang of unease. She’d never been prone to ruminating or deliberating or even questioning herself. She’d spent most of her life flitting blithely from thing to thing, never worrying about goals or problems or the future. But this time....

“Who do you want to be today?” Nyla read. She glanced up from the caption, her face a study in confusion. “Well, judging by this model’s picture and the hideous lipstick she’s wearing, I’d say she wants to be Queen of the Fugly.”

Nyla did have a way of cutting straight to the point.

“No. You don’t get it.” Urgently, Jennifer poked the ad. “Who do you want to be today?” she repeated. “Who? Who! And the minute I looked at it, I realized the truth.”

Miserably, she paused. Her friends stared at her, clearly missing the significance of the revelation she’d experienced.

“I. Don’t. Know,” Jennifer said. “I don’t know! I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman. I have a cosmetology license, a job, and half a rent payment every month. I have a twelve-point plan for picking the perfect pair of butt-flattering jeans! But I still don’t know who I want to be today.”

“Ahhh.” Nyla exchanged a knowing glance with Stephanie. “I should have ordered before you got here. Clearly, Miss Cosmo Girl needs a blood sugar boost. Don’t touch that—”

It was too late. Jennifer lowered her cocktail with a clatter, smacking her lips. Yes. She needed that. “Mmmm...tasty. Let’s get more.”

“Oh God. We can’t let her drink on an empty stomach.”

Stephanie slid the empty glass to the table’s edge. Her tactical maneuver didn’t bother Jennifer a bit.

She felt better already.

“Wow. You guys are miracle workers. I mean it.” She beamed at her friends, her two favorite people in the whole world. “I must have really needed to get that whole ‘Who do you want to be today?’ thing off my chest.”

“Off your chest?” Stephanie gawked. “You were blabbering about it, nonstop, all the way here from PB.” PB—Pacific Beach to out-of-towners—was where their salon was located. “I thought we were going to cause a ten-car pileup on I-5, the way you were waving your arms around like that.”

“Please. I was having an existential crisis.”

Nyla nodded. “That explains the gibbering text message you sent me. I wondered what ‘Who M I?’ meant.”

Optimistically, Jennifer surveyed her empty glass. Now that her problem was in the wild, she knew she could solve it. She just needed a little reinforcement first.

“What was that anyway? A margarita?” She signaled for more. Stress made her thirsty. “It was delicious.”

“It was a kiwi daiquiri.” Nyla sounded resigned, which was easier to face than sunny-side-up any day. “The bartender’s originally from Melbourne.”

“An Aussie and a genius. Let’s get more.”

“Fine by me.” Stephanie was a notoriously moment-to-moment person. She forgot her clients’ hair-color processing times, her locker combination at work, her own allergy to shellfish. “Mmmm, coconut prawns! Let’s get some of those too.”

“You two need keepers,” Nyla groused.

Ten minutes later, they had a second round, two shared plates of food, and enough energy to consider a plan of action.

~ ~ ~

“Earth to Jenn.” Stephanie snapped her fingers.

Nyla waved a French fry. “Focus, girl.”

Jennifer wavered. The hottie at the end of the bar was looking her way, and he was just her type. Blond hair, killer bod, easy smile. A surfer, if she didn’t miss her bet. The kind of guy who took things easy, kept in shape, and had plenty of time for nookie—unless the waves were good.

A fry bounced off her nose. Nyla guffawed. Despite the rarified, technochic atmosphere, the food here was “ironically” old school: buffalo burgers, barbecue ribs, and jalapeño-dusted French fries. It had suited Jennifer perfectly. At least until she’d noticed him. Maybe all she needed was distraction.

Seductively, she tossed her hair.

Its kinky length fluffed out from her head.

The surf god blanched.

Too late, Jennifer remembered the humidity. For a naturally curly-haired person like her, San Diego was the worst.

“Hello?” Nyla prodded. “What about your identity crisis?”

Oh. That. Unhappily, Jennifer swiveled to face her.

“I’m serious. It might seem like I’m overreacting, but that ad really bugged me.” Fortified by her happy-hour munchies, she dredged up the courage to study the lipstick ad more closely. “I know it looks just like any other stupid ad, but that caption is...chilling.”

“I think it’s supposed to be fantasy-provoking.” Stephanie craned her neck as she munched a barbecue rib. “You know: Who do you want to be today? Va-va-voom red, innocent pink, etc.”

“Yeah. It’s like the slogan says”—Nyla fanned her hands as though holding a banner—“Easy. Breezy. Psycho Girl.”

“Har, har.” Jennifer dragged the magazine closer. As her gaze fell on that innocent-seeming question, she shivered. Who do you want to be today? “Shouldn’t I know who I want to be by now? I mean, I’ve had twenty-eight years to figure it out.”

“You’re probably having a delayed quarter-life crisis.” Nyla scammed a fry, looking unconcerned. “I read about it at the spa. A sense of purposelessness, confusion about life goals, the feeling that everybody else has things figured out already. Don’t worry. You’ll snap out of it.”

“Yeah.” Stephanie leaned forward, an earnest expression on her face. “Just give it some time. And another kiwi daiquiri.”

But somehow, Jennifer felt as though she couldn’t just “give it time.” That ad was a call to action. A challenge.

A dare.

And she’d never been one to refuse a dare.

“No. I need to define myself,” she insisted. “Figure out who I really am. The question is...how?”

They pondered it for a minute.

“I’ve got it!” Excitedly, Stephanie sat straighter.

Her chest bobbled with the movement, catching the eye of every man in the place. At times, Jennifer really envied her pal’s gutsy twenty-first birthday gift to herself—a visit to the renowned “Doctor Ta-Ta.” Her upgrade from a 34B to an overflowing C had really boosted her confidence. And her tips.

“That new stylist does hair analysis. We can yank out a few strands and see what she has to say about who you are!”

“Yeah,” Nyla deadpanned. “Either that, or we can consult Madame Fortune Cookie, psychic connection.”

“Come on, hair analysis is a science!”

“Sorry, but my personality is not a split end.”

Undeterred, Stephanie brainstormed. “Or...what about a makeover? A total makeover!” Eagerly, she shifted in the booth. “On those TV shows, they always say they finally feel like themselves afterward. For the first time ever.”

Visions of before and after wafted through Jennifer’s head. She felt more terrified than ever.

“No way. I’m not letting a stranger get their hands on my head.” She put her palms protectively over her curls, cursing her lack of Frizz-Ease. “I’ll look like a giant Brillo pad.”

Her hair was very delicate. Its trials and tribulations had been instrumental in leading her to cosmetology school.

“Look. Just because we’re women doesn’t mean we have to approach this from the outside in.” Nyla signaled for more daiquiris. “Let’s be analytical. Is your job bugging you?”

“No. I love being a hairstylist.” That was partly what made this so frustrating. Jennifer didn’t feel unhappy, per se. Just undefined. As though her whole life had happened by accident. “Things are really picking up at tease lately too.”

Her friends nodded. Stephanie worked there, of course, and Nyla was in the beauty industry—if somewhat tangentially—but everyone in town knew that tease didn’t need a capital T to be recognized. Or a more obvious beauty salon name. Especially not with San Diego’s elite, its news anchors, and its most stylish citizens all jockeying for chair space.

Some of them even at Jennifer’s station.

“Okay then. What about your hobbies? Your interests?”

At Nyla’s prompting, they ran through them all, searching for an answer. Overall, Jennifer felt satisfied with her life. She had a good job, wonderful friends, and an awesome beachfront apartment she shared with Nyla. But despite all that, she couldn’t help wondering if it meant anything.

“I never really chose any of that stuff though. I just kind of went along for the ride. Who’s to say any of it reflects the real me? The authentic me?” Shoving aside her remaining fries, Jennifer regarded her friends with honest curiosity. “I mean, maybe I should have been a librarian. Or a gymnast. Or a high-powered executive.”

“No good. You can’t talk quietly or spell.” Nyla grinned. “You almost dislocated your kneecap the one time you invaded my yoga class. And high-powered executiveness requires a variety of bloodthirsty ambition you just don’t have.”

“How do you know? Maybe I’m secretly vicious.”

Her friends scoffed.

“Yeah. And I’m Einstein’s sister,” Stephanie said.

Tactfully, Nyla sipped her drink.

“Still,” Jennifer persisted, feeling determined. No measly lipstick ad was going to ignite a quarter-life crisis, screw with her self-image, and get away with it. “There’s got to be a way to find out who I want to be today.”

“Just put on some lipstick,” Nyla advised, tapping the ad like a true child of advertising. “Resistance is futile.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Lip gloss is the only way to go. It’s more moisturizing.”

They stared at her.

“Are you sure Doctor Ta-Ta didn’t operate farther north?” Nyla squeezed Stephanie’s hand sympathetically. “Like, on your head? Because ever since you got those things—”

“Har, har.” Not bothered by Nyla’s ever-cynical outlook, Stephanie rolled her eyes. “I suggest a shopping trip,” she told Jennifer. “New shoes always perk me up.”

“Try on men’s clothes. Maybe you’re a dude in disguise.”

“Very funny, Nyla.” Stephanie shook her head, then wrapped her arm around Jennifer’s shoulders. “This is a crisis! Cross-dressing? Seriously? Do you want to make her more confused?”

“It was a joke, brainiac.”

“I’m pretty sure Jennifer isn’t a man.”

“Maybe not, but it looks as if she’s hooked herself one.”

Guiltily, Jennifer dragged her gaze from the cute surfer at the bar. Something about him, combined with Stephanie and Nyla’s conversation, tickled her brain. Like a word stuck on the tip of her tongue, it teased her with possibilities.

“Don’t bother,” Nyla advised, nodding toward him. “You know how it’ll end already. Everything will be great until the surf comes up. Then he’ll head out for the waves and you’ll be kicking yourself for succumbing to that surfer-boy charm.”

“Again,” Stephanie added, stirring her daiquiri.

Neither of them met her eyes. That was when it hit her.

Men. Men were the key to finding out who she really was.

It was brilliant! After all, dating comprised the biggest rut Jennifer had ever been in. Time after time, she stuck with happy-go-lucky surfer types, falling for their irresistible blend of laughter, sinewy muscles, and ocean-blue eyes.

No wonder she didn’t know who she really was. She’d been limiting herself without realizing it!

Men were the perfect try-on vehicle, Jennifer realized in a burst of revelation. They were the ultimate accessory.

With the right men for inspiration, she could test-drive new parts of her identity and find out which ones felt most authentic. By the end of her experiment, she was bound to gain new insight into herself...and whip her quarter-life crisis into submission at the same time. It was pure genius.

“I’m going on a voyage of self-discovery,” Jennifer announced. Her gaze dropped to the drippy Heinz ketchup bottle on the table. Unexpectedly, it offered up further inspiration. “Fifty-seven men in fifty-seven days.”

Nyla choked. “What?”

Stephanie crinkled her brows. “Why fifty-seven?”

Jennifer shrugged. “Why not?”

A broad smile spread over her face. Yes. This could work.

“Oh wow,” Nyla said. “You’re going to need a lot of condoms. I suggest buying online. Unless you want to give the Ralph’s checkout guy an embolism.”

“I’m not going to sleep with fifty-seven men! I’m just going to date them. Sheesh.” Jennifer downed the rest of her kiwi daiquiri, feeling thrilled with herself. Now that she was on the path to subduing her identity crisis, she felt a million times better. “For once in my life, I’m going to be proactive in my choices.”

“In your dating choices.”

“Right. But it’s perfect. Don’t you see?” Jennifer spread her hands, trying to explain. “Dating is the ultimate microcosm of life. Especially my life. I wait around for a guy to ask me out, then I wait around for him to kiss me. Then I wait around for him to call. I leave all the decisions in somebody else’s hands!”

“I recommend a push-up bra,” Stephanie advised inexplicably.

Undaunted, Jennifer forged on. “This is a new millennium. Yet I’m still waiting around for men to make all my relationship decisions—especially when it comes to getting the ball rolling. But not anymore. For the next two months, I’m becoming the player instead of the played.” Gaining enthusiasm, she shouted out her big finale. “I’m seizing control of my destiny!”

Jennifer sat back, waiting for the applause to start.

And waiting. And waiting...

“Ummm, I hate to be a buzzkill.” Nyla loved to be a buzzkill. She was paid to do it professionally as an undercover salon “secret shopper” for an industry magazine. “But if it’s really your destiny, seizing control of it is pointless.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie put in. “Hello? It’s your destiny.”

Pedantic did not mesh with cocktails. Or inspiration.

“You both need more vision,” Jennifer argued. “Come on, just picture it! I could be Goth girl. Granola girl. Uptown girl.” The possibilities were limitless. Exciting. And best of all, potentially self-revelatory. “All I need are the right accoutrements.”

“Or the right man-cessories.”

“Exactly!”

“Let me get this straight,” Nyla persisted. “You’re going to date as a path to self-enlightenment?”

“Yes!”

She waited. Still no applause, damn it.

“I don’t know,” Stephanie said doubtfully. “Fifty-seven men in fifty-seven days is a lot.” She stretched, making her belly-baring top ride up—and unknowingly causing a near riot at the table of businessmen next door. “You might want to pace yourself. What if you have a bad hair day?”

“We’re stylists. We don’t have bad hair days.”

Nyla’s gaze skittered upward. “Tell that to those faux-Rasta dreadlocks you’re sporting, Vidal Sassoon.”

“Hey. Don’t malign my professional expertise. I don’t tell you what goes into a proper bikini wax, do I?”

“Sorry.”

They lapsed into thoughtful silence. Jennifer scoped out her project’s unwitting first target, still in place at the end of the bar. She took in his easygoing stance, his telltale sun-bleached hair, his entourage of buddies. They hefted Coronas and hooted with laughter.

Despite their obvious good cheer, Jennifer held back. He was just her type, but his retinue of wingmen was pretty intimidating. Even to a woman as determined—and as liquored up on kiwi daiquiris—as she was.

None of the wingmen had frizzy, naturally curly hair.

“Ohmigod.” Stephanie widened her eyes, realizing where Jennifer’s attention was focused. “You’re serious. You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?”

No time like the present. New me? Here I come.

Jennifer grinned. “Just watch me.”