by M. C. Cerny
What did I say about not poaching clients?
Oh yeah, I was shit at following my own rules.
“We can definitely do change. You’ve come to the right place.” She calmed down in the chair and I put a cape around her narrow and nervous shoulders. This was going to be fun, at least for me.
“Maybe not a lot of change. Just–back to normal?” Her nerves were adorable.
I crossed my arms and walked around her chair taking in every detail from her pink lips and adorably sloped nose to her slender and delicate fingers. Everything about her was tiny and perfect. I was no Amazon, but I held my own.
“I’m thinking something with dramatic highlights to bring out your eyes. You’re bone structure is gorgeous so let’s play that up with a trim, face frame of layers, okay?” She nodded and Gemma returned with the waxing station on wheels. This wasn’t the color I asked for, but whatever. We’d start here if that’s what my assistant wanted.
“The mix needs to set for ten minutes. So let’s go all in, I need to practice my waxing.” Gemma grinned holding up a gauzy strip and poor Carmen looked horrified.
“Easy, Gem.” I chided her. Clearly this amused her and I let her have her fun. There was no harm in cleaning up her brows while we were here.
“No.” Shaking her head I was taking another set of bets certain she was going to bolt for the door, if not before, then definitely now. Good thing I had Gemma lock it. I didn’t have a kidnapping fantasy but there was a first time for everything.
Gemma cooed patting her hand. “Oh honey, tell me you’ve at least had the good ol’beaver trimmed?”
“I…no…wait.” Carmen’s hands gripped the chair.
“No?” Now I was surprised. Everybody trimmed. We might be living in a small liberal town, but the hippie hair look went out with the last Visco-girl invasion.
“Oh Louisa, she’s got one.” Gemma elbowed me snickering while she plugged in the wax heater. I was betting my right hand girl knew I was crushing on the client and trying to rile me at the same time.
“Mmm.” I agreed while I mixed up the colorant Kristen handed me with a set of new black coloring gloves. Carmen was on her own with Gemma who could get a little overzealous in her epilation.
“I’ve got one what?” Whispering, Carmen leaned over in the chair, her hair a halo of hot mess medusa curling over half her face.
Gemma leaned in licking her lips before speaking. “Snatchsquatch.”
2
Carmen
“I’m–I’m sorry, what did you say?” The other hairdresser, the assistant named Gemma bit her lip almost afraid to impart the words again that I barely heard the first time. Was everyone in this town crazy? They must be, and I hadn’t even been here long enough to unpack my boxes or meet up with my college roomie and bestie. Apparently, I had a box right here that was going to need protecting in this shop from the wax-wielding crazy girl.
“Snatchsquatch.” She said with a straight face like I was supposed to know.
Apparently so.
Someone muttered about hash-tagging that shit, it might have been the girl Kristen with the red highlights in her dark hair, and I had to think what they actually meant.
“Oh. Oh!” Once the vision was in my mind I couldn’t let go of the, well, you know hair hanging out down below. My virginal forest had no desire to be hacked and deforested for any reason. I was a preserver of animal rights and enjoyed my own version of Greenpeace by using my phone’s Forest app to plant a few trees. It helped me focus while I was creating new dessert recipes. There’d be absolutely no shaving, waxing, dehairing of the furry kitty in my pants.
Nope.
No thanks.
My trimming had been neglected after this last breakup. I was determined to keep every tree and lonely branch below because I was never dating again. Not even my mother setting me up on a kosher date designed to bring political clout to my uber conservative family would inspire that kind of grooming.
I was done being everyone’s puppet and favorite baker when it suited them.
I was safe until the next family gathering which wouldn’t occur until Christmas or a wedding, whichever happened first. I’d probably get conned into making the desserts anyway and stuck in the kitchen.
“Gemma, let’s focus on the top please. Save the curtains for another day.” Louisa, the owner gave her assistant a look that clearly said leave me the hell alone and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Next time then?” Gemma bounced like a puppy waiting for a ball to be tossed in her direction and Louisa nodded. I groaned dismayed that somehow I agreed to something I didn’t even realize. I just wanted to look normal and here was a hot wax-wielding psycho coming at me hard. Gemma smiled and lifted a stick of honey colored wax. “Why don’t we start with these bushy eyebrows, mmm?” I wasn’t into her backhanded compliments and tried holding my ground.
“I like them thick.” I covered my eyebrows worried she’d flip the chair back and do her worst.
“Oh honey, I bet you do.” She chuffed finally wheeling the cart of torture away. I also thought she slipped a double entendre in there somewhere, but I wasn’t asking her to clarify anything, especially not after the Loch Ness cousin comment.
The thumping in my chest made me nervous and I wondered if I made the right choice? That was my theme song these days, a dark instrumental mocking me at every turn, and I didn’t think this avenging wax-wielding angel was planning to have mercy on me.
My voice wavered, “What’s wrong with my eyebrows?”
In my post break-up haze I probably hadn’t been keeping up with my personal grooming and a good threader was sometimes hard to find when you worked long days inside a kitchen.
At least two sets of voices in the salon snickered and before my hair was colored with cool wet slops infused between chunks of what used to be my hair. The chair was tilted back forcing me to grab the arm rests for dear life. They should consider marketing this day spa as a roller coaster without the proper safety measures to tie me down securely.
Louisa put a hand on my shoulder looking me over in the mirror I eyeballed from the corner. “Let Gemma work her magic, we’re not aiming for twins here, just sisters.” I had no idea what she meant, but nonetheless I found myself acquiescing.
Gemma ripped out hairs from my face with hands much too delicate looking to be a logger with a chainsaw. She moved on from my eyebrows to wax my chin and upper lip with a vengeance. I swore she cackled once or twice at my wince. No way was I letting her near my hooch down below for a private gardening session. Satan could keep her tweezers holstered.
Three hours later I hobbled out of the Vodka and Wash, a little worse for wear. Tingles between my legs and numbing on my face followed a strict warning to not go swimming in a chlorinated pool for twenty-four hours swam laps in my head. Gemma got a hold of me in the waxing room while we waited on my color to set and let’s just say I hadn’t been that open since my last doctor visit.
However, she was good, I’d give her that.
My hair was now a gorgeous mix of dark browns and subtle shades of blonde and pink. The hair goddess, Louisa had snuck in strawberry blonde and caramel highlights giving my hair depth I never imagined. She was good and worth every penny I spent. She was definitely all about color and encouraged me to come in anytime for a hair crisis or otherwise.
After my breakup with the douche-canoe, I had been on the fast pass of the five stages of grief or relief depending on one’s perspective. I was nowhere near acceptance, but I went right from getting dumped to giving myself a bad dye job.
Louisa was a pretty distraction clouding my thoughts as I shuffled down the street toward my locked up shop. I hadn’t really looked at her until my hair had gone through the wash and she was trimming it and blowing it out. Her fingers worked magic lulling my anxious thoughts trailing through the long strands that no longer resembled a psychotic clown.
Her nails were short, but kept a neat gel manicure even my mother would en
vy. She pursed her lips deep in thought with every snip of her scissors and bit the bottom one when she applied the dryer for my blow out. She wore all black, a stylist staple and black Doc Martins that reminded me of high school. She was the girl my mother warned me about, but as an adult, I always had an eye for even if I didn’t openly date women.
Relaxing did not come easy to me. I should have kept my purse with the bottle of my anxiety meds with me, but it was hanging in the closet and I was all alone with my tornado of feelings. I took the opportunity to watch Louisa and her rhythmic movements artfully creating my new look. She was taller than I was and her body had curves plumping her in places anyone with a heartbeat could appreciate. She wore a black dress shirt tucked into a tulle skirt and a wide black belt. Her hair was blonde with a mix of caramels and light honey good enough to eat while her pouty lips sported blood red lipstick in a matte finish. Kohl liner and jet mascara highlighted her best feature, her big blue eyes that were framed by big black eyeglasses. She smiled back at me while she continued perfecting my hair. I even earned a wink from her.
Could it be? Was Louisa playing the same game I was? The same team? I pushed the thoughts down, far down and ignored how the possibility might make me feel. I ended a relationship with a man because he cheated on me and just because a woman I found attractive sparked things I hadn’t felt before I was not about to jump ship. My heart and mind continued warring with me and my family’s uptight expectations and morals. Part of the reason I left NYC and didn’t return to staunchly conservative Connecticut was because I wanted to buck the preconceived notions my relatives and friends at home had about sexuality.
Particularly mine.
Forget about me trying to figure out where I was on the elusive spectrum. Boys? Girls? I had no idea. I usually fell somewhere in between and after I fell for the person, I then wallowed in guilt because society spoon fed me so much bullshit. I couldn’t make sense of my heart. Sure, I marched in parades during college and even kissed my roommate once after several bottles of cheap wine, it didn’t mean I understood my feelings.
I had hoped moving to this town would help me figure things out. I used the inheritance my grandmother Gigi left me to purchase a defunct bakery, sight unseen. However, since the moment I signed the papers it was a disaster. I’m talking spilled cake batter flying up the wall mess.
Oh, and don’t forget the boyfriend of two years who dumped me for a girl who could barely string a sentence together that wasn’t written for her on a prompter which provoked this move to begin with...and my accidental revenge hair coloring gone wrong. I guess he saw her as a more suitable life partner while he worked on his aspiring chef career. You know, because his new girl’s father owned a slew of restaurants and he’d probably have his pick of working in one if he married her.
I hoped he choked on a canape after he said we just weren’t compatible. He said the feelings developed over time (try six weeks after meeting her) and he didn’t want to be forced into cheating (as if his dick falling into her was an accident) or whatever bullshit he told himself at night. I should have been more upset, but something in me told me that I wasn’t meant to be with him and I should have let that go a long time ago. My head was a mess and I took the first opportunity that got me out of New York. Luckily, it brought me closer to my college friend Taylor Jane Bryant.
When she asked me to make her wedding cake it was perfect. I couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity or reason to get out of the city and move north. She was getting married to the love of her life and I desperately wanted to make her cake like we talked about when were undergrads in college. A huge tiered thing made of icing and beauty. I planned to layer it with handmade flowers and a gazebo made of candy glass on top of a Victorian house that looked like her fixer up dream come true.
I just had to look a bit more presentable and emotionally stable before I dropped in on her and her fiancé to announce I was officially the new cake baker and owner of Cake and Battery because who doesn’t love a kitchy pun?
3
Louisa
Our special client left the salon in a loping gait, I assumed from Gemma’s good work in the wax room. I watched her from behind the shades when my assistant, bless her heart, whispered in my ear, “It’s a pretty one.” Because of course my devious assistant got my client’s pants off. She wasn’t going to let me forget that little detail either.
Gemma meowed and I rolled my eyes hard hoping she’d knock it off. My next task would be to hire some normal people around here who kept their noses out of my personal business.
As if I needed visions of her pussy cat dancing in my head like sugar plum fairies. I sighed wishing it could be, except for that rule I had about not dating a client which I seriously considered breaking when the time was right. She’d need color refresh in about six to eight weeks and I was patient.
Carmen left looking gorgeous and walked down the street out of view. I appreciated how she filled out her skinny jeans while Gemma probably appreciated the clean wax she bestowed on her. No, we weren’t creepy or anything like that, but Gemma excelled at making everything dirty in her mind. My mind did one of those blurred bars over Carmen’s body as I sipped my iced Gold Beach roasted coffee letting the comment fly.
“Shush.” I waved her off and resumed cleaning up the station as we opened up the place for late afternoon appointments. The scent of chemical dye and aromatic mint stung my nose in the best way. It was like a drug, my happy place, and endorphin booster all in one. The sensory effect drowned out bad memories and replaced them with better ones.
“Oh come on, boss lady. I saw the way you were looking at her. I’m just saying I saw a nice one, and I’ve seen close to most of them in this town, including yours.”
Right.
Only slightly awkward, and very little embarrassed me or caught me off guard. Gemma was an expert Brazilian wax specialist. Seemed odd to focus on that, but her clients brought a booming business to the Vodka and Wash primping the rest of their bodies so I wasn’t going to complain in the least.
“I might have left her a little…” Her perfect twin eyebrows waggled nefariously.
“Enough!” I wouldn’t make it through the rest of the day thinking about pretty pink things and a landing strip when I had a trio of elderly ladies coming in for wash and styles in ten minutes. We were after all, a full service salon, just not that kind of full service. I liked my cosmetology license and I wasn’t risking it by propositioning a client and having the local PD bust my establishment for a happy ending.
Pretty sure my eighth grade hook up, Noah would love that. He wasn’t anywhere near the shop and I already felt his smarmy snark giving me that look. We remained good friends, and partners on Jenga nights, if awkwardly eying the other up from time to time. I guess being each other’s firsts does that to people when you never leave the town you grew up in. He was stuck in the bachelor cycle while I got my jollies watching The Bachelor making bets with Gemma and Tommy over who would go home first. That show was a bad addiction I needed to quit.
Speaking of addictions, the doorbell jingled and Francesca Wilson breezed inside. It was obvious why my brother liked her so much. She carried herself like a regal princess and sometimes had the attitude of a spoiled one. I saved all the foreign magazines for her and made Gemma bring her a spiced espresso. This woman had refined tastes, but it amused me to watch her turn into a tongue tied teenager when my brother went to work on her hair.
Tommy definitely had that magic touch or what the ladies called his voodoo fingers when he massaged their scalps during a wash that was usually left to our level one stylists. I’d say the bulk of his tip money came from that, but since Francesca started coming, he only washed her hair and no one else’s.
“Speak of the she-devil.” Gemma leaned in whispering.
“Where’s Tommy.” I discretely scanned the shop but didn’t see his black jean and tatted ass anywhere.
“Backroom.” Gemma nodded. He must have slipped i
n earlier and left us women to our witch work during the Medusa slaying.
“Get him.” I nudged her in the direction and walked forward to greet Francesca.
“Hello, Ms. Wilson.”
She greeted me with a small smile and tucked a lock of perfectly coiffed hair behind her ear. Her voice was a low sultry mix of classic New Yorker and all business. You’d never know by her meek demeanor inside the salon that she worked a high powered corporate job in a legal department. I guess there was something to be said for ceding control when the time was right, but that was an image of my brother I’d rather not think about.
“I’m here to see Tommy.” As if she were here for anyone else. She handed me her coat and purse smelling of pricey perfume and expensive leather. I took both to hang up in our special client closet.
“He’ll be right out, can Gemma get you the usual?”
“Yes, please.” The poor woman looked like she was about to pass out. If I could have tossed a cheeseburger at her I would. Her busy life and flashy job probably kept her busy overworked and underfed. As it were, a stiff breeze could have knocked her down.
“How’s the city these days?” I made small talk glancing toward the back. Where the hell was my brother?
“It’s uh, the same I guess. Work and meetings.” Her cheeks flushed and I guided her to Tommy’s station.
“I wanted to thank you for looking into the property issue I was having.” I didn’t go into detail on the shop floor, but Francesca called a lawyer friend of hers when my ex started harassing me over rights to the shop.
I took an equity loan out to cover the remodel of the shop and Sydney was being a shit. I found bank fund transfer papers forged stealing half the money I borrowed. She claimed I owed her for emotional damages when we broke up. If you call finding your girlfriend making out with someone else from her band emotional damages then I guess stealing for anything was possible. Francesca had a guy working on it and didn’t charge me anything. I slept better at night knowing Sydney couldn’t touch my business that supported the important people in my life. So for all her haughty ways, Francesca was a sweetheart.
