I SHOULDN'T HAVE HURT THE DOG -Speculative Fiction

 I SHOULDN'T HAVE HURT THE DOG

    It began the usual way, in the back of the salon, yet this was no typical salon. The dump was nestled between a fish stand and bakery in San Fransico’s Chinatown. Hesitantly, I went into the small space that seemed more like a hoarder’s cove than a place of business.

    “Come, come, sit,” the beautician said as she placed me on a pile of burlap sacks. A dog sniffed at my feet. I hate dogs. When the beautician turned her back, I kicked the dog away. As I waited, the smell of rotten fish jammed into my nose, and I wanted to puke.

    The beautician put a pile of supplies into a metal tub, much like you see used at the hospitals in horror movies. “What do I for you?” she asked.

    I looked at her gorgeous face, and she looked out of place. She could be a runway model, not some poor girl trapped in a dump. I pulled a crumpled magazine page out of my pocket and handed it to her. Her wrinkly hands took the picture. Her face made her look fifteen, but those were the hands of an old lady.     The beautician studied the picture, then said, “Oh, very pretty, very pretty. I can do.”

    My phone rang, and I looked at it, wondering if it was impolite to answer.

       “Answer it. I have colors to mix,” the beautician said.

    “Yo,” I said.

    “Did you find the place?” Angela asked.

    I looked around the room, and seeing myself alone, I said, “This place is a dump. Are you sure that they will do a good job?”

    “I think so.”

    “What do you mean, you think so?”

    “Well, you weren’t willing to pay my lady the price she charges, so this is the next best thing. Relax. Nothing bad is going to happen. If she does a crappy job, then don’t ever go there again.”

    “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

    The beautician returned to my side and began working my face. I closed my eyes and remembered when Angela had shown up to work with her new makeover, except she looked nothing like Angela.

    “It is the coolest stuff,” she had said. “They call it microcrystalline wax. They can literally give you a face job, but it isn’t permanent.”

    I had cruelly judged Angela for being so vain, but after three months of watching all the guys droll over her, I just had to get the makeover. People gave Angela free food, coffee, and everything everywhere we went. That hadn’t happened before her makeover. What could it do for me?

    “They will take the wax and mold your face into anything you want. Then they apply the makeup, and bam, you are a hottie!”

    While the beautician worked on my face, her stupid dog kept licking my leg, leaving behind a patch of stinging, red skin. When I thought the beautician wasn’t looking, I stabbed my pen into the dog.

    “Yelp.”

    “You hurt my dog! I bring you into my home, and you hurt my dog.”

    Crap. I was caught.

    No longer did the beautician use gentle hands. She pressed harder on my face, clicked her teeth, and sighed. As she worked, she muttered in a tone that sounded aggressive.

    I shouldn’t have hurt the dog.

    “Done,” she said. “Give me money.”

    “Can I look in a mirror first?”

    “No. You hurt my dog. Pay now. No mirror for you.”

    I paid the beautician and went out to the street.

    Everyone who walked by me gave me strange looks. I hoped it was because I looked as hot as Angela.

    “Taxi,” I hailed. 

    The driver squished his face and stuck out his tongue when I got in. “What happened to you?”

    What had the beautician done? That is not how people react to hot ladies.

    “Never mind,” I said. “Just take me to Pier 39.”

    I pulled out my phone to look at my face.

    “AHHHHH!!”

***

    I slowly walked into work and quickly went into my office, keeping my eyes on the floor. Within minutes, Angela joined me.

    “That’s one thing good about COVID. At least you can wear a mask, even though no one else wears them anymore.” She stood over me. “Come on, take it off. I gotta see. I doubt it’s as bad as you said it was.”

    I couldn’t remove my mask; my embarrassment paralyzed my arms to my side. After seeing how hideous the beautician had made me, I refused to let anyone see my face. Angela removed the mask, and she screamed.

    “Barbera, what did she do?”

    The beautician had given me the nose of a pig, the cheekbones of a dragon, and the chin of a witch. I was the most horrific-looking creature on earth.

    “And are you sure it is permanent?” Angela said, trying to remove the wax.

    “Permanent. She somehow fused it to my skin. There is no way to remove it.”      Angela pulled a little harder. “Ouch, stop. That hurts.”

    Angela put the mask back over my face. “Don’t ever take that off,” she said.

    “Thanks.”

    “When is your appointment with the plastic surgeon?” she asked.

    “They couldn’t get me in for five months.”

    “Five months looking like this. Oh, I am sorry. Why did she do this to you?”

    “I don’t know. Maybe she was inexperienced.”

    Angela left my office, and I slumped at my desk and bawled. I wanted to be a hottie, not a freak. I had been pretty before I went to the salon. I shouldn’t have been greedy and wanted more.

    My phone rang, and I cleared my voice before answering it.

    “Barbera,” I said to the unknown number.

    Through the static, I heard, “You shouldn’t have hurt my dog.”

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I Shouldn't Have Hurt the Dog

by Stephanie Daich