by Stacy Adams
But that answer wasn’t enough for Mrs. Greer. She put a hand on her plush hip and leaned forward on the desk.
“Like what?”
Before Indigo could respond, Yasmin interjected, “Excuse me, Mrs. Greer. I checked the calendar and Carlotta has you down for an eleven a.m. appointment. You’re an hour early.”
“What?! That throws off my entire day,” she said.
Thankful for the shift in focus, Indigo pushed her chair back and trotted around the desk.
“Let me run back there and see what she can do, okay?”
By the time Indigo had resolved the dilemma to Mrs. Greer’s satisfaction, Yasmin had rescheduled two other appointments and was preparing to run to the barbershop across the street to get change for a $100 bill a customer needed to break.
Indigo welcomed a woman and a young girl who was the lady’s carbon copy. Melba didn’t allow customers to bring children to the salon unless they were being served. Indigo smiled at them as she toyed with how to share the news.
“I’m a client of Melba’s and this is my regular appointment day, but I’m giving it to Summer,” the woman said.
Whew. Thank you, God. No confrontation necessary.
“Your name is Summer?” Indigo said to the child, who looked like she was about five. “That is a pretty name for a pretty girl. What would you like to have done today?”
Summer, who had seemed shy at first, perked up and went into overdrive. “I brought my Barbie to show you,” she said and whipped out a brown doll with flowing brownish blonde locks. “See how she has the ponytail on top and it’s all curly? Can we do that?”
Indigo looked at the mother and saw that she wasn’t the only one stifling her laughter.
“I’m not sure, Summer. That will be up to your mom and to Miss Eboni, the lady who’s doing your hair today. I can’t wait to see it when she’s finished. You make sure you stop by here before you leave, okay? In fact, I have my camera here. I may just take your picture.”
Summer jumped up and down in excitement. Indigo looked at her mother.
“That’s a lucky little girl. Is today her birthday or something?”
“No,” the mother said. “She’s competing in the Little Miss Jubilant pageant down at the new performing arts center over the weekend, but she’s taking her formal portrait today, to display at the event. So if we like what Eboni does with her hair, we’ll probably be back on Saturday to get her to style it again for the big day.”
Indigo had never met a pageant mom before. This woman appeared normal, but Summer already seemed caught up in her own hype.
“So much for a photo from an amateur photographer, huh?”
Indigo said and smiled. “Just let me know what you decide about Saturday and we’ll put it on the books for you, okay?”
Before Indigo could process that encounter, another client was standing before her. This was a face she knew, despite the scarf covering the woman’s head.
She leaned over the desk and hugged Mrs. Bernard, the mother of her best friend from elementary school. She and Audrey had been tight from first through fifth grades, before Audrey’s family moved to a neighborhood in another school district. They saw each other occasionally, but their friendship had never been quite as solid again.
“How are you doing? How is Audrey?” Indigo asked.
Mrs. Bernard shared the bright, welcoming smile that Indigo still remembered. “We’re all doing okay,” she said, but the smile faltered, and she abruptly changed the subject. “I don’t have an appointment, but I don’t need to have much done. I was hoping Melba could see me really quickly?”
Indigo explained that her aunt was home recovering from a stroke.
“I had no idea,” Mrs. Bernard said softly. “Will she be able to come back? Is she doing okay?”
Indigo nodded. “She’s doing extremely well. We’re hoping she’ll be able to come back before summer’s over, at least to run the business side of things.”
“I’ll be keeping her in my prayers, then,” Mrs. Bernard said. She stood there for a moment and turned to leave.
“Could someone else help you?” Indigo asked. “Eboni and Carlotta have back-to-back clients, but if you don’t mind waiting a little bit, I’m sure one of them can fit you in. They’re both really good.”
Mrs. Bernard hesitated, then walked closer to Indigo so she could lower her voice.
“What about you? Do you have any experience? Actually, it doesn’t take much. Can you use a razor?”
The questions caught Indigo so off guard that she nearly choked. Mrs. Bernard saved her the task of asking why.
“I have cancer and I’m undergoing chemo, Indigo,” she said. “My hair has begun to fall out and I was planning to have Melba shave the rest of it off. I know she has a private salon area in the back—that’s why I came here. I’ve made peace with cutting it all off, but I still want some privacy, and I didn’t want just anyone doing it.”
She sighed and squared her shoulders. “I suppose I could have Audrey do it for me, or my husband, but they are so frightened by all of this. I’m trying to be strong.”
Indigo grabbed Mrs. Bernard’s hand. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I’m not a pro by a long shot, and I might not cut it as low as you’d like, because I don’t want to nick your scalp, but I’ll do my best.”
Mrs. Bernard smiled. “Thank you.”
They waited for Yasmin to return from her errand so she could man the phones, then Mrs. Bernard followed Indigo to a miniature salon area in the rear of the building that featured a shampoo bowl and styling chair. Aunt Melba had a set of supplies already waiting, including clippers and a razor.
Indigo had shaved her father once, about five years ago, when he decided to take off his beard and asked her if she wanted to help. She had done okay, but still, that was five years ago, and it was a beard, not someone’s lovely locks.
But if Mrs. Bernard was brave enough to ask her to try, she was going to pray her way through this.
“You won’t be upset if I don’t get this quite right?” Indigo asked.
“I just need to get it off, because it’s coming out in clumps,” Mrs. Bernard said. “I know you’ll do your best, and that’s all that matters. I don’t want to wait.”
Indigo nodded and asked Mrs. Bernard to sit in the black swivel chair.
She slowly pulled Aunt Melba’s clippers from the clear plastic box in which they were stored, along with a small tube of oil. She squeezed a drop of the oil over them, plugged them in, and briefly switched them on to make sure they worked. The soft hum of the electric blade made her heart beat faster. Could she really do this?
Find your strength in me.
God’s unbidden voice startled her. Where had that come from?
Regardless, she knew it was him.
Indigo draped a black cape around Mrs. Bernard’s shoulders and removed the peacock yellow scarf from her head.
She caught the gasp before it left her throat, but she couldn’t control the tears. They slid down both cheeks as she ran her fingers through Mrs. Bernard’s once lush black hair. It was still thick—in patches—and bald in others.
She switched on the clippers again and the soft hum filled the air while she zigzagged back and forth across the scalp.
At some point, the monotonous sound was overshadowed by Mrs. Bernard’s humming, then her humming turned into a fullfledged song: “His strength is perfect, when our strength is gone. He carries us when we can’t carry on . . .”
Indigo was nearing the end of the ordeal. Hair was all over the floor and her heart was heavy. But Mrs. Bernard, in contrast, seemed lighter and fuller, with each swipe of the razor and each verse she sang. Indigo knew they were more than just words to her; Mrs. Bernard believed them.
“That is a beautiful song,” Indigo said when she had finished shaving the woman’s head. “Who sings that?”
Mrs. Bernard ran her hands over her now bald scalp before replying.
“CeCe Winans,” she said.
“That song has been my mantra these past few months. When I haven’t known what to pray, I’ve hummed or sang the words to this song and trusted that God already knows what I need.”
She turned toward Indigo and wiped the tearstains from Indigo’s cheeks.
“Thank you for doing this for me, dear,” she said. “I know it was hard, but you’ve given me a gift. Can I ask one more favor?”
Indigo waited, not knowing what to expect.
“I saw a camera out there on the desk. Would you mind taking a picture of me with my new ’do? I want a copy for my scrapbook, so I’ll always remember where God has brought me from.”
Indigo’s heart leapt. “Let me go get it now. The camera is mine, and taking your photo will be my real gift to you.”
26
Brian excused himself from the table around midnight when the reggae band took a break.
The male officers he’d been hanging with were beginning to pair off with female officers and local women who had come in looking for dates. He wasn’t even tempted.
He had driven his car so he could escape when he needed to, and now was the time. He saluted his friends.
“Good night, guys,” Brian said. “See you on base.”
Most of them were so wrapped up in each other that they hardly noticed his departure. He looked over at the table Shelby had been occupying and saw that she and her friends had already left.
In the parking lot, the warm breeze from the nearby ocean was welcome relief from the stuffy air and body heat in the cozy restaurant. He walked the few feet to his car, which was parked against the eatery’s brick wall, in partial shadows, and jumped when he saw someone leaning against the driver’s door.
Craig Miller smiled at Brian’s shock. “I figured we should finish our chat when we were alone.”
Brian wasn’t going to let this jerk see him sweat. “Whatcha talking about, man?”
“That’s Candidate Officer Miller, to you, Harper,” Craig said.
Brian smelled the liquor on Craig’s breath.
The shame and temptation he’d held at bay for so long swelled. He knew what he’d be dreaming about tonight, whether he wanted to or not.
“You missed me, didn’t you?” Craig asked and sneered at him.
Brian didn’t answer. When Craig moved toward him, he took a step backward.
“What are you doing?” Brian asked. “You could ruin both of our careers. What happened between us was a long time ago. And it was a mistake.”
Craig paused and emitted a laugh that sounded more like a bark. “Nothing I ever do is a mistake,” he said. “Try to fool yourself if you want, but you know you enjoyed it.”
Brian tried to walk past him and open the door of his Saturn.
Craig grabbed his arm. “Where you going, Harper? Didn’t I say I wanted to talk?”
Brian yanked his arm free. “Talk about what? The past is the past, and the past was a mistake. I don’t know what you’re doing these days, but I don’t roll like that.”
“Like what?” Craig said. “Why do things have to be labeled? It is what it is. So what—you some holy roller now? You got a girl or something?”
Brian faced Craig. “I have a life and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Understanding flickered in Craig’s eyes. He grinned.
“Oh . . . so this is about a girl. Are you still dating Indigo?” He shook his head. “Wonder what she’d say if she knew her Tuskegee Man wasn’t into only her?”
Brian took a swing, but Craig grabbed his fist and leaned in, until he was inches from Brian’s face.
“Careful—I’m a senior candidate officer, remember? You don’t want to get yanked from your class this close to becoming an officer.”
A chill coursed through Brian’s body. Please, God, don’t let him destroy my career and my life. Not after all I’ve invested.
“Look, Craig,” Brian said, “I’m sorry about all of this. You just caught me off guard. I’m glad you’re doing well, but I’ve moved on.”
He read the disbelief in Craig’s eyes.
“Have you really?” Craig asked. “Or are you trying to convince both of us?”
Brian had been praying for God to cleanse him and forgive him since that senior year encounter with Craig, and he had believed it was working until he got to Rhode Island and ran smack-dab into the source of his sin.
Tonight, he called on the heavenly Father and all of his angels. He needed every ounce of support he could rally to keep moving forward.
27
Indigo checked the time and willed herself not to pick up the phone and call Yasmin.
Where was that girl? It was four p.m. and Indigo had an appointment. So what if it was at the salon, with Eboni? If she wasn’t sitting at the shampoo bowl in another five minutes, Eboni’s next client would show up and Indigo would either have to stay later than she wanted or miss getting her hair done altogether.
Visit Brian with some jacked-up hair? That wasn’t going to happen.
In the meantime, she couldn’t leave the reception desk unmanned, so she sat here answering calls, trying to remain professional. She was scheduled to leave for the airport first thing in the morning and wanted to make sure she didn’t forget anything. Plus, she needed to get to bed at a decent hour. Dark circles and bags under the eyes did not equal fabulous.
Indigo pulled a magazine out of her bag and chuckled. Shame on her for fronting. She hadn’t picked up this copy of Bride since Yasmin brought it home two weeks ago. She was going to read through it while she sat under the dryer today, so she’d have some idea of what to say when Brian began peppering her with questions about their wedding.
Truthfully, she wasn’t feeling as resistant to the idea as she had been. She loved this man. Getting married didn’t have to be equated with a death sentence, just like ending her summer internship early hadn’t been.
She had seen a lot by working at the salon for just these few weeks. Everyone had a story behind her smile, and often, it wasn’t pretty. Some of Jubilant’s most successful women, with thriving careers, beautiful families, and respect in the community, would sit in the private salon area and weep (from stress, they insisted), while Eboni or Carlotta styled their hair. Or sometimes they just wanted to talk, to get things off their chests.
Somehow Indigo had found herself serving as the salon’s “mini-Melba” —listening when clients wanted to share a heartfelt need or prayer request, calming frazzled or hurried clients, and even taking photos of the more interesting customers who happened to explain why they were getting their ’dos done on a particular day or share something else special about their lives.
The practice had become so routine that now many of the regulars would ask where the camera was if they didn’t see it in its usual spot on the reception desk. Today, she had snagged photos of a new mother and baby when the woman came in to introduce her six-week-old son to Carlotta and the rest of the staff.
Then Ms. Harrow had surprised her by showing up with an oversized arrangement of red, yellow, and purple cut flowers.
“When I heard you were here helping Melba these days, I decided to stop by with this dose of sunshine,” she said. “Thank you so much for the lovely spread of photos in the newspaper.
I’ve had neighbors come by just to talk and sit in the garden ever since they were published. In no time at all, we wind up praying to the great Creator of it all.”
Indigo had taken Ms. Harrow’s picture with her gift of flowers and made a mental note to print and frame a copy for Aunt Melba to hang in the salon.
This afternoon, as she waited for her workday to end, she pulled the camera out of the bag and scrolled through the digital images, pleased with the range of what she had captured.
Mrs. Bernard and her newly shaven head. Summer and her fancy pageant hairdo. Cara, who brought along her wedding veil so her hair could be styled for her prewedding photo shoot.
Indigo admitted it: maybe her reconsideration of her own wedding plans stemm
ed from seeing Cara’s enthusiasm. Cara had just completed her master’s in biology at the local Everson College and was marrying her college sweetheart, a certified professional accountant.
Whatever the motivation, she was finally inspired. She knew Brian would be thankful.
Indigo checked the clock again—4:14 p.m. Before she could pick up the phone to call Yasmin, Nizhoni walked in. She had become a regular of Yasmin’s, getting her long ponytail braided once a week.
“Hi there,” Indigo said. “Yasmin is not here yet; I apologize—she’s usually punctual. Sit tight a few minutes while I try to get her on the phone.”
Nizhoni smiled. “That’s okay; I’ll wait for her.”
“Are you getting your hair rebraided in the same style today?”
Nizhoni nodded. “Yep—the braid again.”
Why was this beautiful girl continuing to tuck her hair into this bland style? The question must have clouded Indigo’s face.
“There’s a good reason, you know,” Nizhoni said.
Her directness caught Indigo off guard. Nizhoni was quiet, but there was something no-nonsense about her that Indigo liked. The two women were about the same age, and they always chatted when she walked in to see Yasmin. This was her third time visiting the salon since Indigo had joined the staff, and last week she had actually made an appointment for today.
“You don’t have to explain,” Indigo said.
Nizhoni shook her head and hinted at a smile. “I’ve told you before that my dad is African American and my mom is a Navajo Indian,” she said. “It is a belief in many Indian tribes that when you have problems, you braid them up to contain them. When I’m braiding my hair, I’m braiding up my worries. That allows me to release them and go on, because I know they are contained and the proper solution eventually will surface.”
Indigo was intrigued. “Is this sort of like prayer? You tell God what is bothering you and you’re supposed to leave your burdens there?”
Nizhoni shrugged. “I just know that it helps. When Yasmin is shampooing my hair, I am talking to myself throughout the process about everything that is troubling me, and when I leave here with a fresh braid, those problems are tucked away. Out of sight, out of mind.”
