No face-framing there. I felt guilty for even considering Ralph’s offer.
In haircutting, there are only so many angles. Unfortunately, in life, the potential angles are infinite, and I needed to discover the angle that would leave the least amount of collateral damage behind. Once the last client was out the door and the Juniors were busy arguing about where they should meet up for drinks, I asked Pilar, “So who d’you think would make a better Senior Stylist. Me, or you?”
She indicated the campy junior stylists with a sweep of her eyes. “Those drama queens would probably stage a revolt if either of us took the reins. You seriously think you’d be able to mentor them like Ralph does?”
As Ralph made his end-of-the-day rounds to check in with his staff and distribute the tips, I saw how he made the Juniors wriggle and swoon. Pilar was right. Ralph was the one those kids all wanted to impress, not me. Maybe it would be best to forget about the whole Senior Stylist offer and let it drop. I planned on avoiding the topic, or at least stalling Ralph, until our eyes locked. No Vibe, not anymore. Instead, Ralph was wearing his Boss Face. Great.
I batted my eyelashes a few times, hoping he’d think I was still amped about the office beej, maybe sniffing around for a do-over. He glanced me up and down and I shifted my hips. When he answered with a knowing smile as he sorted through his stack of envelopes, I realized I’d better ease off the throttle. After all, I didn’t want to end up sprawled across his desk. I was only trying to avoid the Senior Stylist conversation.
“Can you stick around for a few minutes?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk business or pleasure after the rest of the stylists cleared out, but either way, it was a relief to tell him, “I rode in with Pilar.”
His brow furrowed in annoyance as he glanced toward the parking lot to verify my car wasn’t there, but before I needed to stifle myself from asking if he thought I was lying, one of the Juniors actually came to the rescue by shrieking, “Dibs!”
Everyone turned toward the front window, where a man had paused to press his face against the glass, shielding his eyes from the streetlights to peer into the darkened lobby. Intriguing. It was a black guy in a glitter-vinyl motorcycle jacket and painted-on jeans. He had a short retro mohawk—and heaven help me, I’m a total sucker for a mohawk. Not those lame fauxhawks that are just vaguely mohawk-shaped wedges done up with hair paste, but true ’hawks with buzzed sides, ’hawks you couldn’t conveniently rinse out when you had a job interview or court date.
Dibs or no dibs… black mohawk dude was mine.
“I’ll go tell him we’re closed,” a Junior grandly offered. Apparently dibs was not sacred, even among them.
Ralph was already striding toward the door. “Not necessary. And since you’re all here…” he undid the lock, leaned out and invited mohawk dude in. My gut went topsy turvy. No reason it should have since the body language was all congenial and the dramatic anticipation was typical Ralph. But sometimes my gut keyed in on a telltale gesture before my brain caught up with it, and whatever subliminal flicker I’d just perceived, I knew something big was churning beneath the surface. Ralph settled his hand on the mohawk guy’s low back and guided him toward the chairs where his rapt audience awaited. “Everyone, meet the newest member of the Luscious family—Red Turner.”
“A colorist named Red,” Matthew exclaimed—then he and two other Juniors intoned, “Ca-yuuu-ute.”
Red took in the room in a single, cool glance. “Words are just words. They don’t have any special power, but the intent behind them does.” His voice was like silk. Hypnotic and low, and stunningly deliberate. “I’ve always been fascinated by color.”
It was an intriguing reply to a ridiculous remark, an invitation to delve deep and forge a real connection—but the Juniors didn’t do serious. One of them shot back flirtatiously, “Well, I know what my new favorite color is.” The one who had dibs? It didn’t much matter. “Who doesn’t adore red?” another chimed in, while a third giggled like they’d both been phenomenally witty. Although Pilar was the only woman in the room, she was also the only stylist who didn’t squeal like a giddy thirteen-year-old girl. She walked up to Red, offered him a normal handshake and said, “I’m Pilar. I look forward to working with you.”
Red was so inscrutable, it was impossible to say if he was impressed by Pilar’s restraint, or threatened by it. Her introduction had left me as the only one in the room who hadn’t yet said anything, and I knew I’d need to choose my first words carefully. I wasn’t about to suck up to the guy like I was desperate, and yet I really did want to convey my interest. I was just about to tell him it was a pleasure to meet him when Ralph noticed he was still carrying my tip envelopes and handed them over to me.
Unprepared for the weight, I grabbed wrong, which caused the envelopes to slip through my fingers. One hit the floor with a metallic clatter of change that rang through the closed salon. The Juniors went wild, and one sang out the “jingle jangle jingle” part of some ancient country and western song. Another fell into the dance that went with it, slapping a hairbrush against his ass like a tambourine.
And Red? A flicker of pity flashed across his face. Maybe. Or maybe I’d only imagined it.
* * *
I had better things to do than worry about the dismal first impression I’d made. The night was balmy, the company convivial, and a half-dozen Limoncello Collinses had left a taste in my mouth like delightfully boozy lemon drops. The sidewalk dipped when I slunk out of the cab, though not too steeply. The cabbie waited until I let myself in. He could’ve driven off—but I truly was a spectacular tipper.
As nights out go, it was pleasant. Not profound. Not earth-shattering. Not a night I’d find myself reminiscing about in years to come. But I’d run into an old pal from a gym where I’d done a two-week trial membership. He was free, I was free, and a good time was had by all.
The ring of my land line was audible from the hall as I attempted to finesse my key into my lock. It wasn’t my gym buddy wishing me a good night, not unless he’d suddenly developed a bunch of sentimental feelings toward me that were entirely absent while we were picking up splinters on the hardwood floor of his front hall. It was too late for Pilar, who turns in shortly after she browbeats her kid into bed. And Ralph stopped calling after the first time he’d landed me in the sack.
Maybe it’s Red.
No, I hadn’t given him my number—and, in fact, he didn’t even know my legal name. Although…a resourceful enough guy can figure these things out. Just as I wondered what sort of line he’d lead in with, my machine beeped and a familiar voice said, “Okay, I know it’s late….”
My mother’s voice. Dang it.
Not a hot black mohawk guy, not at all.
Maxine asked if I wanted to try a new Italian place for dinner next weekend, then added, “…and before I forget—Dumpling tore through another collar, so I’m going to see if there’s anything more dog-proof than the last four collars he ate. You know that new pet warehouse in Schaumburg? It’s huge. I just thought I’d check and see if you needed anything for your aquarium.” I stared at the blinking green light and wondered if she could sense me standing there too tipsy to talk, or if she thought I was still out getting spit-polished. “I’m heading to bed myself. Email me if you think of anything. Good ni-ight.”
A little singsong, but not her traditional full-on “good ni-ight Lit-tle Peanut” that she presumed would mortify me if it were ever paraded out in front of a fuck-buddy. Not that I’d actually care, but I did appreciate the fact that Maxine respected me enough to be discreet. And also, that she was offering to bankroll my aquarium. No one walks into a pet store, looks at the fish and thinks, “I know, I’ll pick up this massive stinking timesuck money pit—it’ll be fantastic.” But unless you’re a true fish-lover, that’s what it amounts to. Still, I supposed it did me good to have something to come home for, aside from a fresh change of clothes.
No doubt there was some chemical, some fo
od, some gadget the tank was in need of. It was always running out of something. I grabbed a hot wing from the fridge and ate it cold as I strolled in and headed for the massive 120-gallon aquarium wall that was the focus of the room. Between the filters and the plants, there was plenty of movement in the water even when the fish were hanging out in the scenery. That’s probably why I didn’t notice right away. No, I was pawing through the cabinet beneath, one-handed and gnawing on a drummy, overjoyed at the prospect of my mother picking up the tab. Filters don’t grow on trees—well, maybe the carbon part does—and my big ol’ tank gooped them up faster than you can say “slimeball.” Only when I glanced at the filter in question did I notice my keyhole cichlids were missing. Which was impossible, since they were the biggest critters in the tank and the top of the food chain.
And then I looked up.
Even though I knew damn well what I was seeing, my devastation took a long moment to sink in. I kept thinking it was impossible, just impossible. Clearly, though, the worst possible scenario had indeed come to pass. My four keyholes had formed a cloudy-eyed flotilla at the top, peppered here and there with the iridescent bodies of the smaller cichlids. And bumping up against the foamy corner of the tank, rocking in the jet of the filtration system, was the massive plecostomus I’d had since I was twelve.
His name was Iggy.
Once I’d swallowed down the limoncello-tinged hot wing that kept trying to creep back up my throat, I pressed my forehead against the glass and realized the tank was hot to the touch. That would explain why the translucent ghost shrimp had gone opaque, cooked in their own juices.
I pulled my vodka out of the freezer and drank a few slugs from the bottle while I sat cross-legged on the floor and gazed upon my tank of death to try and make sense of what had happened. The heater was on its normal settings, so that ruled out the possibility of the last guy I’d brought home monkeying with the equipment. Simply a malfunction. No one to blame, or at least, not him. Maybe if I’d been home, I would have noticed the first fish floating up to the surface in time to save the others. Then again, why would I? I only paid attention to the tank when it was time for food or cleaning.
The room was swaying pretty well by the time I scooped everyone out. I would have flushed them, but since I was worried Iggy would clog the toilet, instead I gave them all a back alley funeral courtesy of the dumpster, then came inside and shut down all the filters and jets. Given how late it was, how much I’d had to drink, and how many times I’d shot my load that day, you’d think I would pass out the second my head hit the pillow. I didn’t, though.
Funny how quiet a house can be without the hum of an aquarium to keep you company.
Chapter 4
Luckily Pilar didn’t mind picking me up again. I’d had so much to drink the night before, I might not have passed a breathalyzer. And my headache was so ruthless, I answered with distracted grunts while she made guesses as to where the new colorist would be stationed, and how many clients he’d likely see each day, and whether she should try to score some more specialized training. Halfway to work, when it was clear I was incapable of holding up my end of the conversation, Pilar took pity on me and stopped trying. But the Juniors didn’t know I was in no mood for banter. Three of them were lingering in the parking lot that morning, clustered by Matthew’s Miata. The conversation looked saucy. Lots of big gestures and campy faces.
It’s a love-hate relationship between me and the junior stylists. Sometimes it’s fun to listen to them out-snark each other, and sometimes they grate on me. That morning, I really wasn’t in the mood. Even so, I couldn’t just breeze by them without an acknowledgement. Playing well with others is part of surviving this cold, cruel world.
When I slowed and made eye contact as if I was interested in their conversation, Matthew shifted to allow me access to the inner circle. “We were just sizing up the fresh meat,” he told me. “I say Red Turner likes his men pretty and submissive.”
“Power bottom,” another Junior said.
“Now, y’all need to understand the black man,” the last Junior declared. Presumably, he did. Trevor Sims was at least half black, though I wasn’t sure which of his parents was which since the only photos he kept around his station were of Gwen Stefani. One thing I did know—he had some badass dreads and he might sound ghetto when he was trying to prove a point, but he’d grown up on the safe suburban lanes of Schaumburg, not the projects of Cabrini Green. “Ain’t no way he let a white boy get all up in his bidness.”
Did he seriously just say that? For the sake of diplomacy I nodded as if he had a point. Normally I’d be quelling the urge to laugh in his face…but with the image of Iggy’s corpse thunking into the dumpster haunting me, I wasn’t feeling particularly jocular.
“Ex-cuse me,” Matthew sang out with exaggerated Latino flair. “But everybody knows chocolate goes best with caramel.” Ugh…says the guy who claimed the absinthe jellies were delish. He turned to me and asked, “What’s about you, Crash? Hoping that yummy piece o’ man’s got a taste for some vanilla?”
I wasn’t about to confide that Red rocked my world just by walking into the salon. Knowing when to keep your mouth shut is another good way to stay tactful. But when I didn’t dignify the remark with an answer, Trevor said, “You tryin’ to play it cool, but we all seen that tattoo on your chest. Everybody knows you like the dark meat.”
Matthew bumped me with his hip. “C’mon, son, dish. Dud, or stud?”
It was tempting to school them about the significance of my ink. The black Virgin on my chest was a tribute to someone I’d lost way too early. I could’ve sworn I’d already told them, though—and the meaning probably blinked right out of their empty heads. So instead, with lofty indifference, I said, “I haven’t decided.”
That proclamation set them all to ooh-ing. What can I say? Even when I’m hungover, I know how to play to my audience.
Ralph spent the morning marching Red around the salon and giving him the VIP treatment. Today our new colorist was dressed more plainly in black T-shirt, black jeans, studded belt. The look was understated punk, and he rocked the subtlety perfectly. I watched the Juniors checking him out with unabashed interest. Meanwhile, Matthew’s stupid “vanilla” remark had me thinking of all the Juniors in various flavors of mocha, caramel and buttercream.
Lameness. In this day and age, was race even a thing anymore? Not unless Matthew or Trevor needed to play up their imaginary street cred. We all spoke the same language, lived in the same neighborhood and peed in the same urinals. All of us were twenty-something gay Chicago stylists. If that hyperspecific demographic didn’t outshine something as trivial as skin color, I don’t know what did.
And besides, I might be white, but I’m most definitely not vanilla.
Red got himself situated in time for the steady stream of customers Ralph had packed into his afternoon schedule. As far as I could tell, he didn’t lead in with any of the banal chitchat we all resorted to: Anything exciting going on today? Got any kids? How about that weather (or news item, or sports team)? In fact, once they’d sealed the deal on which color he’d be conjuring on their heads, it looked as if Red hardly spoke to the client at all. Maybe he didn’t need to. After I saw the stunning champagne blonde leave the shop veritably sparkling, I suspected his work was enough to speak for itself.
I wasn’t the only stylist keeping one eye on him, and I’m not just talking about the sharp intake of breath from a Junior when Red bent over to pick up a dropped foil. Pilar eased close while she was sweeping and murmured, “He writes everything down in a little notebook. Meticulously. And he measures everything too.”
Seriously? I knew my proportions well enough to eyeball my mixtures. I’d always thought measuring that way saved a lot of wasted product and unnecessary cleanup, but now it made me feel as if I’d been cutting corners. Even if I was the only one who could see those corners, it still might explain why Red was at the top of the pack while I fell somewhere in the middle. And being off
ered promotions for being fun in the sack didn’t count.
Pilar went up front to pick out a conditioning mask, leaving her client to preen a few minutes in silence. I was busy taking a disappointing inventory of my station (and my life) when the client reached over, tugged on my retro wallet chain and asked me in a loud whisper, “So Pilar can’t do my color anymore? I have to go to that new guy instead?”
She seemed distressed. “Right,” I said. “The colorist.”
“But I want Pilar. She’s been doing my hair for three years.”
And now the pushback was about to begin. Stupid Ralph. And now the new guy would bear the brunt of the resistance. “It’s his specialty.”
The client leaned in and loud-whispered, “Maybe with black hair.” I then took a good look at her. How could someone so normal say something so asinine? My surprise must have registered in my expression, because she backpedaled with, “I mean African American.”
Here’s the thing about black people’s hair. It is different from Caucasian hair. It’s drier and coarser and takes forever to grow, and working with ethnic hair is a skill most white people don’t bother to cultivate. “We don’t need to be worrying about black folks touching our hair—it’s the other way around. Do you have any idea the amount of skill and training it takes to become an ACI specialist? There’s probably a thousand stylists in this city alone—but there’s only a thousand certified specialists in the entire freaking country. He’s dumped a bunch of time, money and effort into his training, and he’s passed a bitch of an exam that really separates the boys from the men. He’s the guy people come to when they’ve seriously messed up their hair. Covering that gray? I think he can manage.”
I could have kept going and told her that no hair color in the world would stop her from looking like a wrinkled old bag, but I restrained myself. Having it out with a client in the middle of a salon might be cathartic, but it wouldn’t exactly bolster my reputation. It took a while, but eventually my disgust dwindled down to annoyance, and finally a vague miffed feeling that gave way to thoughts of where I wanted to eat dinner. I’d forgotten all about it by the time I climbed into Pilar’s car and buckled myself in.
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 3
