She drove like she was wearing a lead boot on a concrete foot. For all I knew, maybe she had somewhere to be and she just wanted to get home. Except the way she had her face all scrunched up—emanating waves of pissiness—told me a different story. She pulled up in front of my house with a screech. I was about to ask what the damage was, but there was enough good history between us that instead, I asked, “Do you want to come up?”
She chewed on her reply for a while, then finally said, “What the hell, Crash?
“Hard to say. Be more specific.”
“Where do you get off turning my clients against me?”
“Who, the frowny racist?”
“Julia. Her name is Julia, and she comes in like clockwork, every six weeks. She tips decent and she’s referred half a dozen of her friends to me.”
“Which is why I didn’t read her the riot act, like she deserved. Look, until we can convince Ralph to start giving the straightforward color jobs back to us, Red’s going to be the one handling her color. It’s either that, or she switches salons entirely because she can’t handle being touched by a black man.”
I expected Pilar to stick up for her client—all that customer loyalty would have bought that nasty woman understanding she didn’t deserve—but instead Pilar narrowed her eyes and said, “Are you doing him?”
“Red? As if! I haven’t said ten words to the guy. He hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction. Hell, I can’t even tell if he’s gay.”
“Of course he is.” If you’ve spent any time at all in the industry, you know that the straight male hairdressers can be confusingly nelly, so before I could protest, she added, “He’s got a little triangle tattoo on the inside of his wrist.”
“And I’ve never once seen him Vibe? After being in the same shop with him all week? Preposterous.”
“My God. It really is that easy for you to get laid.” Pilar seemed like she was calming down. She’s not grudgy, which is yet another thing I dig about her.
“Look,” I said, “call your client, offer her a free conditioning mask on her next visit and tell her I’m an asshole. I don’t give a shit. I’ve been called worse. I’ll even spring for the mask.”
“The sixty-nine cent mask.”
We both knew the value part of the deal was a free pass to trash-talk me for the purpose of retaining her client.
I suspected she’d even take me up on it.
* * *
The more I thought about Pilar speculating about Red and me scoring, the more it bugged the crap out of me. Not because it was presumptuous, but because it hadn’t happened. All week, I’d been playing it cool. But there’s playing it cool, and there’s ridiculous.
That man needed to take notice.
The next day, I strapped on my sexiest buckled combat boots and spiked my hair to perfection. Judging by the lingering looks I received from the customers, the Juniors, and even the UPS guy, my efforts had not been in vain. Would my arches be killing me by the end of the day? Likely. But hopefully I’d have my feet up soon enough…and not on a footstool, either.
Salons are a funhouse of mirrors, so all day long, chances presented themselves for me to catch Red’s eye. Unfortunately, nothing panned out. I never caught him looking at me, or anyone else, for that matter. Every time I glimpsed him, he was either working on a customer or jotting something in his little notebook.
In other words, working.
Who could blame him? Luscious might be same-old, same-old to me, but Red was the new guy. It must have been intimidating. He couldn’t afford to slack off—the position had been created specifically for him, so he’d have to prove his worth. He appeared to be earning his keep. I couldn’t recall when I’d last seen someone as profoundly focused, and eventually I resigned myself to the fact that trying to flirt with him in the salon mirrors would get me absolutely nowhere.
Catching his eye at work turned out to be such an exercise in futility, by the end of the day I actually got distracted by my aching feet and forgot about my grand scheme to get down his pants. I was in the stock room topping off my home supplies when a shadow fell across the rack of toners, and I realized I wasn’t alone. No mirrors—but the silhouette of a mohawk was a dead giveaway.
I glanced over my shoulder and found my quarry paused in the doorway. “C’mon in.” I gestured to the spot directly beside me. “I won’t bite…unless you dig that kind of thing.”
I normally get one of three responses to an invitation like that. A giggle, an eye-roll, or on a good night, some flirty banter in return. What I got from Red was a slightly raised eyebrow.
“A non-answer just leaves it all to my imagination,” I warned him.
He came in, leaving a generous amount of space between us, and began checking the expiration dates of the semi-permanent jewel tone dyes. “Fresh product,” he said.
I ogled the delicious curve of his ass. “I’ll say.”
That earned me a tolerant headshake. It was a step up from the eyebrow.
“It’s late,” I grabbed a tub of lightener in one hand and developer in the other, “so whaddaya say we blow this pop stand….”
Red snapped around, wide-eyed, and I considered how I wanted to finish that thought. But before I could add a suitable innuendo, he plucked the developer from my hand. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get to know you better.”
He brandished the bottle. “With this.”
“Touching up my….” Oh damn. I’d grabbed the 40-volume developer instead of the 20. Anyone who’s had a 40 directly against their scalp knows it stings like a bitch.
Red handed me the correct developer and walked away without another word.
Sonofabitch. Why bother with sexy combat boots if I was going to make such a rookie mistake in front of him? Awesome footwear can only go so far in making someone look good.
I’d been hoping to make an impression that day, and I had.
A lame one.
Chapter 5
As if the week wasn’t challenging enough, Square Days came around all too soon.
I’m not what you’d call a morning person. Working nights and weekends? Fine. It came with the job. Prying me out of bed before ten on a Saturday, however, was nothing short of sacrilege. Not that I’d curtailed my Friday night in anticipation or anything, but I was well within my rights to complain. I hit the snooze button three times before I managed to get myself together and head off to face the music.
The oompah music.
Beneath all the fancy boutiques, Lincoln Square is built on a German foundation—and on Square Days, kraut flies.
I wouldn’t have thought I’d have the stomach for food quite so soon in the recovery process, but there’s something about the aroma of seared flesh that beckons to me, hangover or no hangover. It was barely eleven, but Schnitzelhaus already had an outdoor grill cranked up to decimation levels. Even two blocks away, it made me salivate like crazy. Too bad there wasn’t enough time to grab a bratwurst. Thanks to the street fest, our lot was stuffed to the gills and I’d had to park half a mile away.
Even still, I got there before Pilar. I’m guessing she’d needed to walk too. And the poor thing wasn’t exactly a good sprinter. “Well, what’s everyone waiting for?” Ralph called into the darkened salon. The Juniors were tittering together in the corner. I ambled toward the meeting room and joined the new colorist where he sat at the round table, hands folded, the picture of poise in a natty fedora and shades. Shit. Did a look exist that he couldn’t pull off?
The Juniors ignored him. They were busy ooh-ing and aah-ing over the big Schnitzelhaus box. “Fresh meat,” Trevor said.
“Sausage fest,” Matthew squeed. He batted his eyelashes at Ralph and said, “Is all that delicious meat for us?”
Ralph made a gesture of subtle, careless grandiosity. “Help yourself.”
Matthew opened the box, and his face fell. Briefly, but I saw it. Poor kid was cursed with a big-eyed open book of a face. If he was lucky, someday he’d
outgrow it.
“Potato pancakes,” Ralph said.
“No meat?” Matthew was aiming for cute, but mostly he sounded disappointed.
Ralph broke off the corner of a potato pancake and popped it into his mouth. “Didn’t I mention? I’m leaning vegetarian.”
“Ooh, good Karma,” Matthew said.
“Girl, whatchoo know ’bout Karma?” Trevor catcalled.
“What’s there to know? What goes around comes around.”
“Puh-lease,” Trevor said.” You probably think you’re reincarnated, too. You worried you gonna eat your dead grandma by accident if you have yourself a burger?”
Ralph stemmed off the ridiculous argument with a wag of his finger. “Now, boys. You know how tedious I find politics and religion.” He held out an open box. “Why don’t you take the inaugural pancake, Matthew, and tell us all what you think.”
Matthew plucked a fritter from the box with his pinkie extended, took a bite, and declared it FA-bulous. Then again, he probably would’ve said the same thing if he was chomping on a big mouthful of the box.
I crammed one in my mouth. It was greasy, bland and cold.
Ralph extended the box toward Red and gave him a look—one that I knew all too well. Chin tucked, eyes wide, gaze gone smoldering. Ralph’s hungriest Vibe.
“No thank you,” Red said.
Ralph cocked an eyebrow. “But I bought them especially for you.”
“I’ll save mine for later.”
In the moment of uneasy silence that followed the outright refusal of Ralph Maldonado’s largesse, the alley door banged open and Pilar limped in, red-faced and wheezing. “I had to park like a mile away,” she panted.
Ralph scowled. “And now that Ms. Rocha has finally graced us with her presence, I can walk us through the day’s game plan.”
The shift was off to a stellar beginning.
Since it was Square Days, we had no regular bookings. The plan was to woo potential customers with cheesy ploys like coupons, live demos and a raffle. Everyone took their assignments with a fair amount of grumbling and eye-rolling because historically, Square Day tips were sucky to nonexistent, and even the Juniors, fresh out of cosmetology school, felt they were above cutting hair on the street like a bunch of performing chimps. The only employees not expected to shill on the sidewalk were the receptionists, who’d hopefully be busy cramming the books with scads of new customers. The rest of us got our time divvied up between handling walk-ins and pimping out the salon to anyone who’d listen.
“Before you head out, people….” Ralph turned and opened a cabinet with deliberate casualness, and pulled out a stack of black garments. “This year, we’re doing uniforms.”
The word hung in the air as every last one of us stared in horror. If I wanted to wear a uniform, I’d fill out an application at Burger Barn, but somehow I managed to choke back my indignation. I knew better than to call out the alpha dog in front of his pack. I’d just have to figure out how to punish him later…in a way that didn’t give him a chubby.
He handed out the beauty smocks. Black on black, with piping Ralph insisted was “ocean,” though normal people would call it turquoise. He must’ve been feeling generous toward me since he’d had the name Crash embroidered over the heart, and not Curtis, the name on my birth certificate.
He got to the bottom of the pile and gave the last one to Pilar. Instead of the shirt he’d given everyone else on the team, he handed her a slip of fabric with dangling ties. An apron. “They didn’t have your size,” he said. With evident satisfaction.
Fucking hell. Like her day wasn’t shitty enough.
Ralph left us to go coach the receptionists before anyone said anything they regretted. The Juniors rallied, playfully teasing one another as they wriggled into their new smocks. I steered Pilar aside and said, “You okay?”
“Fine.”
Clearly not. But there was nothing either of us could do about it.
I trooped out to the street to start pushing raffle tickets while Ralph did a demo on a hair model. Grudgingly, I had to admit that it did make sense for the stylists to be in uniform so we didn’t come off as primped-up gay panhandlers. The apron thing was still pissing me off, though. Even if the ocean-piped smocks didn’t run big, he could’ve done Pilar’s in plain black. I’m sure it had occurred to him. The man’s always thinking.
The raffle was yet another genius way Ralph could make himself look munificent while scoring the better part of the deal. For a mere dollar, some lucky bastard might win a wash, cut and style, a seventy-dollar value. All they had to do was provide an email address to be notified if they’d won…and arrive precisely at six o’clock to collect.
The last two Square Days I’d worked, neither of the winners had even shown. Ralph raked in a few hundred bucks selling tickets, and his email marketing list grew that much fatter.
I watched him work the crowd as he primped his model’s new cut. She looked fabulous—but she was one of those hot chicks who’d look fabulous in most anything. Not that I’d ever impugn Ralph’s cutting skills. I just knew his business acumen weighted the equation in his favor.
As I watched Ralph and pondered how I might make lemonade out of Square Day lemons, I felt a tug at my smock. An old woman in a babushka was squinting at my embroidered name. She asked with the lilt of an accent I couldn’t place, “He can really charge seventy dollars for a haircut?”
“He can and he does. Feeling lucky?” I flashed a fan of lottery tickets. “Maybe it’s your day to win a new ’do.” When her brow creased in doubt, I added, “Then you’ll have a fun story to tell all your friends about winning an outrageously priced haircut.”
Absurdity. Whimsy. Funny how I keyed in on those things to appeal to her since my own life had been sorely lacking them. “I would pay a dollar for that,” she decided, then started rifling through her ancient naugehyde purse. She searched. And searched. I started to think it would be easier to simply give her one, but people can feel slighted if they think you’re acting out of pity, so I did my best to tune out the Juniors hawking their tickets with campy, overdone enthusiasm poorly masking their disdain for Square Days, and I waited. She found some change and began counting. Dimes. Nickels. Pennies. Shit, what if she didn’t even have a dollar to her name, what then? I rued the last time I’d lobbed my shrapnel into the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray at the deli. I was trying to figure out how to offer her a discount when she smiled triumphantly and pulled out a final quarter. “I try to save these for laundry,” she confided.
I bit my tongue and smiled. “Here you go. Fill it out and put it in the hopper. We’ll shoot you a text if you win.”
“A what?”
“A text message.”
She looked puzzled.
“To your phone.”
“On my answering machine?”
“Your cell phone.” I turned over a ticket and showed the part she’d need to fill out. “Name, email, cell. That way we can let you know without you having to go all the way back home, check your messages, and come back to get your haircut.”
“I have no cell phone.”
Then her email wouldn’t be much use either. “Here, look, let me just give you your money back, and we can—”
“Absolutely not.” Her eyes sparkled and she shot me a knowing grin, which revealed half her teeth were gray. “This is the winning ticket.”
“Thing is, we draw them just before six, and if you don’t text back a confirmation—”
“I will be here when you draw it.”
Through the crowd, Pilar shot me a curious look, wondering what I could possibly have to argue about with a raggedy old lady. I decided it was most expedient to just take the damn dollar. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. Good luck.”
Chapter 6
As the day progressed, the previous night’s booze burned off and my head eventually cleared before it was my turn to man the chair on the sidewalk. Ralph plucked a high school girl out of the crowd for my dem
o. While she wasn’t as drop-dead gorgeous as his model, her sun-kissed hair was thick and unprocessed. The whole idea of roping someone in off the sidewalk and styling them in front of a milling audience is unpalatable at best. Not only was it so chilly out it was difficult to hold my shears, but there’s no privacy to do a real consultation. So when my demo client said she didn’t know what she wanted—and asked me if I thought she should go short—I used all the charm I could muster to coax her into something that basically amounted to a trim.
“You don’t have to sacrifice length to add texture,” I said sagely. “Some angle cut layers would give you terrific movement.” She was just about sold. I teased a strand of hair from her temple with my pinkie and checked the length, then looked deep into her eyes and said, “It’ll really frame your face.”
Her breath caught. Her eyes went wide. Her expression shifted into a Vibe that many a horny young quarterback would love to receive. “Okay. If that’s what you think.”
“Don’t worry, kiddo. You’re in good hands.”
My prom queen was happy with her trim, and as the afternoon progressed, the Juniors made a good show of pruning split ends and cleaning up fringe. I managed to slip away to charm a few wieners out of the guy working the Schnitzelhaus outdoor grill, and when I got back, I saw Pilar had emerged from her inside shift to man the demo chair. A black cloud of pissed-offedness hung over her, maybe from the shitty apron she’d been forced to wear, or maybe her proximity to the man who’d done the forcing.
Whatever the cause, she was in no frame of mind to cut hair. That was for damn sure.
Ralph scanned the crowd and beckoned to one of the women who’d been hoping for a free cut. My heart sank as his choice stepped onto the sidewalk. The woman looked like she hadn’t smiled anytime during the last decade, and her hair was baby-fine and wisp thin. The type of hair you really needed to work at, even under ideal conditions. But outside in the wind with a mob of people-watching? Brutal.
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 4
