Grantville Gazette, Volume 67

by Bjorn Hasseler

  Kim and Bethel looked at Frances's bald spot with the flaking and redness.

  "Bethel, go to the kitchen and fetch that jar of raspberry mint tea. We'll mix it with the shampoo, and it will ease the itching."

  Frances spoke up in surprise. "Then you can do something about it?"

  "Ma’am," Kim said quietly, "we are going to wash your hair and make your head feel better. But the only time I've seen a scalp that looked that bad was once when I went to the funeral home to do the hair on a corpse for a funeral."

  "Corpse?" The old woman paled. "I had hoped to live another five or ten years to yet see my youngest son, John, married."

  "Well, I won't say you won't live to see that. After all, I'm just a hairdresser and not a doctor. Let's get you feeling better. I know we can do that. But you do need to go see a doctor."

  Once the raspberry mint tea was mixed with the shampoo and Bethel had turned the water down as cool as she could without it being cold, she tilted Frances back so her head was over the sink. By the time she was lathered up the old woman was smiling. They sent Frances off with her head done up in a gypsy-style scarf. Her maid carried the wig on the wickerwork head. The wig form had been added to the bill and at a very profitable markup.

  When Dana was out from under the dryer, and Kim was brushing the perm into its final shape, Kim told the girl. "I'm sold. I'll order another chair. You arrange for the makeup, and the shop will split the profits fifty-fifty."

  Dana nodded. "I might need to do some work washing hair and such as a helper until we get the volume up."

  Kim pursed her lips and then nodded in agreement. "We can do that."

  ****

  Five days later, Lady Anne was back in the salon chair.

  "Mistress Beasley," she said once the wash was over, and she was sitting up to have her hair set, "my aunt and I have been to the doctor at the hospital. We are both now undergoing treatments for lead poisoning. I wish to thank you and your staff for bringing it to our attention."

  "We're going to have to stay on in Grantville for a couple of months. The Cure—" the word was clearly capitalized—"Doctor Adams prescribed has something to do with calcium, and the treatments will take that long to flush the lead out our bodies. The Doctor is saying that I need to drink a lot of water—without beer or wine—to avoid dehydration so I don't die of thirst while the 'chelation' does whatever it is that it does. And that means staying here where the water is treated and safe to drink. Here we can be taken to the hospital if something goes wrong. So it looks like we are going to be guests at the Holiday Lodge for a couple more months while we complete the treatment."

  Kim smiled at the humor of the idea. "Well, now, none of us ever thought of Grantville as a spa town where people go for 'the Cure' or to take 'the waters' like White Sulphur Springs up-time. But I guess now that's what we are. We do have safe drinking water, and it even tastes good."

  "White Sulphur Springs?" Lady Anne asked. "I never heard of it. Is that a mineral bath? The Lodge has marvelous artificial hot springs in tubs. We have one in our private courtyard. My aunt and I are quite fond of it. Frances' son John, I think would sleep in it if we let him. I'm looking into having one shipped home for when I return."

  "So thanks to you we both now know that there is lead in our blood, and we will be staying long enough to get the lead out." Even if Dana had been there, Anne wouldn't have addressed her personally. After all, she was someone else's—employee - which meant you did not thank them personally. You thanked their employer.

  With a slight frown, Anne said, "I don't know for sure what we will do with John. He is not of a bookish sort, and his tutor is about to despair over his lack of interest. But then a teenage boy can usually find some mischief to get into. My aunt and I will be spending a lot of time in your wondrous libraries. I'll be buying books to take home, certainly some of those romance novels and the works of that female mystery writer—Agatha Christie? I bought one of her books after I started reading it while my hair was drying. The English is a bit hard to follow, but I still can't put it down! But I am afraid that there are just so many references that I am missing."

  "Well," Kim said, "we've got the Wednesday morning book club wrapping up. I'm sure they will be willing to read and discuss a mystery next instead of another romance if I ask them to."

  "Oh, please, that would be so much help if you could. We will be here for the next two months, after all. And I was thinking, with us being here for the next two months, if you will have her, I'm willing to pay the apprenticeship fee for my…" She hesitated. ". . . my girl—Kate—if you will take her on as an apprentice whilst I'm here? If my aunt's maid can't manage to look after both of us, the Lodge has staff that can fill in."

  Kim looked thoughtful for a flicker of time and then replied, "How's Kate about reading and writing? Some of what I have to teach, coloring and the like, requires some literacy."

  "She has her letters and can read the Bible very well. She might have some trouble getting used to your strange way of printing, but I'm sure she can manage."

  "Send her to see me and we will see if she can handle it," Kim replied.

  ****

  The day the chair arrived Ken was in the shop waiting for it. He looked at the new chair with its modified car jack for elevation and horsehair-stuffed leather upholstery, dyed blue to (sort of) match the one up-time chair. He looked at the vinyl chair and asked, "Are you sure you don't want me to just swap out this one for the old one? It's looking shabby."

  "No. I need all four of them. I'm losing business with three chairs. Besides, I have people asking to reserve the old one. Just install it on the end by the cash register where we planned."

  The fourth copper-lined sink was already in place as part of the altered back bar. The antique brass cash register was still where it always had been, at the stub end of the bar where it turned the corner, at a right angle to the wall. The main difference was the shotgun under the cash register was gone along with the rest of the bar and barstools.

  Half an hour later Kim, with her hands on her hips, complained when the noise of drilling into the concrete floor let up, "If I'd dreamed it was going to be this involved and noisy I'd have had you do this after hours."

  "Just one more hole to drill," Ken said. "Then I can lead in the bolts. We're almost done. But if I were you I'd go ahead and order another chair. The vinyl one really does look shabby."

  "I'll think about. Like I said, there are some people who ask for the old chair, so I don't think I'm in a hurry."

  ****

  The next day Dana got to work selling cosmetics. Things went well from the start and continued to go well as the weeks passed.

  "Now turn your head right," she said before spinning the chair around so the client could see herself in the old bar mirror. The first time she did any down-timer's face, she did the right side in the pale vampire, the-sun-will-kill-me look that was currently popular with the high-end down-timers, and then she did the other side in what she thought of as the up-time healthy natural style. "What do you think?"

  "Lass, that is marvelous. It's perfect."

  Dana nodded and said, "Now turn your head left."

  "Oh dear, I can't go out looking like a French harlequin with a checkered face."

  "Which side do you want cleaned off and redone?" Dana asked.

  "Well, this is Grantville. Let's go with the local standard while we're here. I'll need to buy a set of makeup for that too I guess. Or can I stop back in?"

  "We will be happy to see you of course. But the free makeover goes with a hairdo. So if all you're getting is a makeup, I'll have to charge for it."

  Kim, at the other end of the line of four chairs, overheard Dana's interaction with the customer and smiled. The girl was right. A makeup station was making the salon a lot of money.

  ****

  Overflow: A Hair Club 250 Story by Terry Howard

  Late Fall, 1635

  The front door to Hair Club 250 opened. A howl of wind
and a spray of sleet came through the door of the salon with a short dark-haired man. He shook himself like a dog, getting the just-mopped floor wet again.

  Kim Beasley, the owner and chief stylist of the salon, frowned. The floor would have to be mopped up or it would leave spots.

  "Sheeit!" She mumbled. The man was someone who worked at the Thüringen Gardens across the street. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly 6:30 and the Salon closed up at 6:00 on Fridays. Kim had stayed behind to instruct the girl she'd just hired on the peculiarities of cleaning a hair salon.

  "I should have locked the door," she muttered.

  "Mrs. Beasley." The man strode toward her. "I am so glad you are still here. I don't believe we've met." He extended his hand for a handshake. "I'm Dieter Schliemann. I'm a shift manager across the street. I have a problem, and I believe you can help me out with it."

  Kim took note that his English was fluent and polished. And he was polite. And while he was dark, he was neither tall nor handsome. She looked at the wet footprints on the clean floor and frowned again. "Yes, you do have a problem." She agreed. "That haircut is awful. But I don't normally do men's hair. And we are closed for the day. And I don't normally do walk-ins anymore, anyway."

  "Okay, I have two problems." Dieter looked a little sheepish and ran his hand back through his wet hair. "The one you can help me with right now is that I have overbooked my private dining rooms. I've got two groups insisting on having a private meeting right now. And you have started renting out your waiting area on Sundays. I can pay a premium for the use of it this evening."

  "Mr. Schliemann." If he couldn't read the tone of her voice, Kim's hands on her hips and her tapping foot clearly should have said she was annoyed. But he just did not seem to be noticing. She had just told him, no, and still he kept asking for a favor. "My husband has dinner waiting for me at home. I hate to disappoint him. He's a good cook and puts a lot of effort into putting a meal together. And I am not going to leave the building unattended."

  Heloise spoke up, trying to be helpful. "Mistress Beasley, I can stay."

  Kim glanced at the stout young woman, wishing she hadn't offered.

  "Mrs. Beasley, I can cover her wages on top of paying to use the space." While he was not reading her body language she was reading his, and he was clearly desperate. "I have tried to get both groups to give me a break and take a table in the common room. But they will have none of it."

  Kim continued to radiate hostility. She looked at him like he was something inconvenient that a storm had blown in. He shrugged and pushed onward. "Part of it is that the common area is too loud for a quiet conversation. And they each have their own musicians with them and they plan to sing their own songs."

  He shuddered at the thought of what would happen if they tried doing it in the common room. "I've got a band onstage, and it's one the crowd really likes, so that isn't going to fly. But mostly it's that the two groups know each other." Dieter grimaced. "And they hate each other with a passion. And they sure aren't willing to back down. Not if it means that the other party gets the room. They'd rather die first."

  Kim was not thawing. So Dieter tried explaining. "They both come from somewhere I never heard of. And they're both celebrating the same treaty or contract or something. I'm not quite clear, just that the date is important to them." He looked at Kim and tried some more. "Each side claims their grandfather skinned the other side. And the great victory absolutely has to be celebrated tonight." Kim continued with her hands on her hips, and her foot tapping still did not give him anything to work with. So he plowed on. "And if I don't manage something, and quickly, they are likely to restart their grandfathers’ war all over again right now in the middle of my bar. And that is not good for business. I've thought about throwing them both out." Dieter sighed. "But that's bad for business too. And then they're just as likely to have a brawl in the street regardless of the weather."

  Kim, thinking to end it, asked in a very dry voice, "How much are we talking about?"

  A relieved Dieter named a price, which she knew was the full price he was getting for a room.

  She had checked on what that was when she started renting out the waiting area for private meetings when the salon was closed on Sundays. Kim countered by asking twice what he offered assuming that would be the end of it.

  Dieter shocked her when he said, "Done. But at that price you pay your help. And we use your linens and place settings."

  "No," Kim said. "You still pay Heloise."

  "Done."

  Exasperated at letting herself get caught out, Kim said, "Heloise, get the sheets out of the closet in the kitchen and cover the styling chairs and the drying stations." She turned to Dieter, "How many place settings will we need?"

  Dieter sighed in relief, "Fourteen or seventeen depending on who comes over."

  Kim turned to Heloise and said, "When the stations are covered set out fourteen plates and flatware. Mr. Schliemann, we don't have tablecloths or cloth napkins. My husband didn't run that kind of business."

  "Hold off on setting the places," He told Heloise.

  Then he turned to Kim, "I'll send over linens. And Mrs. Beasley, I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate this. Thank you. I mean it. You really are a lifesaver."

  "Well, pay your staff a premium because the tips go to Heloise," a miffed Kim said. She really didn't want to do this.

  He nodded in agreement and left.

  "Heloise, clean up again when they're done. You can leave the dishes in the drying rack after you wash them. Make sure the door is locked when you're finished and come by tomorrow afternoon when you get off work at the diner and tell me how it went."

  ****

  Back in the Gardens, Dieter approached the head of the Maass family. The older fellow was a thin wisp of a man and he was even shorter than Dieter. He made up for his size in raw pugnacious belligerence. With a quick sigh of relief at finding a way of avoiding an absolute, unmitigated disaster Dieter said to the old man, "Your group will be moving to our overflow accommodations across the street."

  "At the hair salon?!" the popinjay bellowed. "No way are we going to—"

  His wife tugged on his sleeve. "Husband, that is where our neighbor—Niles Hanover—dances."

  The man calmed down. "Is Niles dancing tonight?"

  "No," Dieter said. "That has to be arranged in advance."

  "Oh. Well, Okay. Maybe next time. Niles is a good boy."

  Dieter had some trouble keeping a straight face but managed. He just could not come to grips with the idea that a male stripper was a good boy. "Have a beer on the house and we'll get your dinner orders before you go over."

  "Oh, we all have same thing. Is tradition. We must have soup. Then sauerkraut with sausage. And we told you when we reserved about the cake, yes?"

  "Yes." Dieter nodded in agreement. "We have the cake ready."

  With a sigh of relief, he went to tell the other group they could have the room.

  "Okay, Herr Koehler," Dieter said. "The room is yours."

  "They are getting free beer?" The leader asked suspiciously glaring down at Dieter.

  "And you are getting the room," Dieter replied sharply. He was already losing enough money on this deal. He wasn't giving out free beer to the party who was getting the room.

  The leader looked smug. "And they are going home?"

  "No, they're going across the street."

  "To the salon?" A matronly woman asked. From the sound of her voice, you would have thought that the street in front of the salon surely must have been paved with gold.

  "Yes," Dieter replied.

  "We should have gotten the salon," she muttered. Her voice sounded bitter, hurt, and angry, and it was definitely tainted with jealousy.

  "Well, you are getting the room you reserved."

  "And they are getting free beer and did I hear right, they are getting dancers?" The man was very unhappy.

  "No. They didn't reserve the dancer in advance." It was clear to Di
eter that he'd handled the whole thing poorly. He should never have had the conversation with one group where the other could hear it. Now this group was somehow sure that they were being slighted, and that the ancient enemy was somehow getting an advantage.

  When they left here tonight he was going to have unhappy customers leaving with bad memories. And, worse still, he was going to lose money doing it. When he found out who was responsible for double-booking the private dining room, someone was going to get an unpaid vacation. And if it was who he thought it was, then someone would be looking for another job if he had his way about it. Unfortunately, he didn't. She was a friend of his boss, and she could probably get away with just about anything short of murder.

  ****

  When they got to the salon, the places were set with water glasses at each place setting as Heloise was accustomed to doing from working breakfast and lunch in a café downtown. The Gardens' staff member who had brought over the linens was gone. The server who had carried over a covered wooden tub was staying. The tub held a metal bucket full of hot coals and a wooden bucket full of hot soup along with baskets of bread. He had just put the warm bread basket on each table. As soon as people sat down he started ladling soup out of the bucket in the tub where it sat on the floor. When he filled the first bowl, Heloise was there to collect the first two bowls and hurried back for two more. A second server arrived with three cases of bottled beer.

  "That is not cold beer is it?" The head of the family asked. It was a reasonable question. For the most part, draft beer from kegs was room temperature in Grantville like everywhere else. A cold beer like the up-timers wanted was normally in a bottle. If you wanted a cold pitcher at the Gardens, that was fine, but you had to ask and the wait staff would tell you that the bottles were better and just as cheap. But if you insisted on cold beer in a pitcher then they would go to the kitchen and pour the bottles into a pitcher. Most places in town if you asked for a bottled beer it was cold unless you specified otherwise.