Page 1 of Something Beyond Fame

1

Iran my fingers through my short choppy bob and frowned as I assessed myself in the mirror. I was not conventionally beautiful. Throughout my teens I had tried to conform to society's standards of beauty—long blonde hair, glittering eyeshadow, and pale pink lipstick. I was like any other girl who’d wished to be on the cover of Miss Teen magazine, trying to blend into what society dictated to be beautiful. You would never have noticed me. Average height, slim build, average features. Nothing at all special about me.

I’ve been singing and playing my guitar and writing songs as long as I can remember. People sometimes said they liked my songs, but nobody ever remembered me after I’d performed.

Born in a small town in a small state and filled with even smaller-minded people, it took moving to the big city to find myself. With a back pack, guitar, and a head full of dreams, it seems funny that the defining moment in my life, my change in luck and the shift in my life’s trajectory, came from the styling chair of a back alley hair salon.

My box-dyed blonde wasn’t cutting it. The ends were frazzled, and the limp color along with the city's humidity just made my hair appear less blonde and more mousy.

“I need a change,” I declared. Thehairstylist in her early fifties looked at me with raised eyebrows. “I’m a singer, and I just want people to remember me.” I don’t know where those words came from exactly. It wasn’t a conscious need, but clearly it was there all the same.

Her hands moved quickly, with expertise. Tilting my head from side to side and pulling my hair up, changing the angle, she surveyed and assessed me in the mirror as she moved.

“I can give you a change. The question is, are you truly ready for a change?”

It wasn’t like it is on TV. She didn't cover the mirror or wait for a big reveal. I watched her chop away, inch after inch of blonde curls littering the floor. I was in shock, my eyes wide open as I wondered how I could ever return home now with hair like this. After the cut came the color, a deep dark brown that appeared as silky and smooth as dark chocolate under the light.

She added the final layers, spinning me around in the chair with a watchful eye, a master of her craft.

It was short, like a boy’s haircut, but not quite the same. On me it was elegant, sexy, masculine, feminine, and beautiful all at once.

Had my face changed? No. But it appeared to be different. Suddenly I had high cheekbones and a strong, angled jaw. My thin lips seemed fuller, my eyes deeper, and my complexion glowed.

“You need makeup, but not too much. Go dark. Dark liner and darker eye shadow. And a glow. Here.” Her thumb smudged across my cheek in an unnatural upsweep. She caught the reservations in my expression and simply shrugged. “Trust me.”

She was of course, right, a contouring expert a decade before it became popular. I never caught her name, I never went back. I shrugged off the old me right there in that salon.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Rachel Ramsey,” I said, and she shook her head and screwed up her face.

“No,” she said firmly, and I knew she meant it.

She looked lost in thought for a moment.

“Raven,” she said with confidence.

“Pardon?” Just for a moment, I was confused.

She ran her fingers through my short dark hair. It was tousled and sexy, and I looked like someone else. Her stern blue eyes fixed mine in the mirror. I liked the feeling of her fingers on my scalp.

“Raven Ramsey.” She indicated my reflection in the mirror. “This is Raven Ramsey. People will remember Raven Ramsey.”

And she was right.

Rachel Ramsey with her box-blonde average looks and average life died in that salon. And Raven Ramsey was born.

I went to the same clubs at which I’d begged to perform weeks before and hustled the exact same way, but this time their gazes lingered. Their attention was caught by Raven Ramsey in a way it’d never had been with Rachel. The men were interested, although I had no interest in them. And the women, even the straight ones, were curious, drawn in by the first flash of confidence that came from being Raven, followed by the melodies that dripped from my lips like honey.

I faked it as Raven Ramsey before I became her, and then there was no one else. Now, I’ve forgotten what I was like before.

I knew I could sing. My voice has never been a problem. But finding confidence and a direction gave me something more, that pinch of what Simon Cowell would now coin as his own phrase, the X-Factor.

But men are fickle creatures. They love the thrill of the chase, and love to let their imaginations run wild but my hard and constant no creates contempt in the end. I couldn’t thrive in the music industry if I wasn’t prepared to change my morals, sexuality and generally every fiber of my DNA.

Needless to say, I wasn’t.

Then I met Clarissa. She flew in the face of adversity. She wore a t-shirt that said Dyke for Lyfe and if asked, she would say, “If you take their ammo they can only shoot blanks.” Her club was the hottest spot in town at the turn of the millennia. Mindsets were changing, and different was becoming cool, but Clarissa didn’t give a fuck about that. All she cared about was a good night, a good show, and a good fuck at the end of it.

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