by J. Daniels
I am getting one of everything.
Twisting the dial on the radio, I quieted the music I was listening to when the truck ahead of me pulled forward, allowing room for my Civic to squeeze up next to the speaker.
Mouth already salivating, I rolled my window down.
“Welcome to Taco Bell. Can I take your order?”
My stomach growled as I surveyed my choices.
I eyed the fiesta taco salad. The quesarito. The never-ending list of combos and the specialty options. Everything intrigued my taste buds.
I stuck my head out the window and directed my order at the speaker. “Can I have a number six, please? Chicken supreme with a soft taco? And a Mountain Dew.”
“That’ll be six fifty-seven at the second window, please.”
I couldn’t pull forward yet, so I kept my foot on the brake, and just as I was about to roll up my window to keep the cool March air from filling up my car any more, a song I knew and loved began playing low through the speakers.
I had no idea what the name of the song was or who sang it, but I knew every single word. And this was not a song you didn’t crank up and sing along to with your windows down.
Fingers twisting the dial until music poured out of my car, I started moving my hips in time with the beat and smacking the steering wheel, eyes closing and fingers snapping as the lyrics left my mouth.
“Oh oh oh oh oh oh,
You don't have to go, oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to go, oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to gooo.”
The drum kicked up. I shook my head and felt pieces of my short, dark hair lash against my cheeks.
The girl giggled through the speaker.
Smiling and not feeling one bit of shy about the audience I was entertaining, I leaned halfway out the window and sang to her as loud as I could, reaching and pointing like she was front row at my concert.
“Ay ay ay ay ay ay
All those tears I cry, ay ay ay ay
All those tears I cry, oh oh ah ay
Baby, please don't goooo.”
She laughed harder this time, whooping and cheering me on.
“How’s that?” I asked. “Think I got a career in singing if all my other options fall through?”
“You bet!” the girl yelled. “That was sick!”
Giggling at myself, I sat back in the seat and turned the volume down halfway, noticing through the windshield the space between the truck in front of me and the car in front of it.
My eyes narrowed. I beeped twice. I was starving, and this was not the time to be messing around. What was this person doing?
The truck jerked forward, gears grinding over the music, loud enough I actually cringed. It was an old, beat-up Chevy, covered in dirt and rusted all along the back, with most of the paint chipped off and the muffler barely hanging on by a thread. The well loved and very well used vehicle was probably on its last leg, as was the worn smiley-face sticker half peeled from the bumper, leaving only one eye and half a mouth showing.
That thing had definitely seen better days.
Staring at all that rust, I had a moment of panic when I imagined the truck dying on its owner and blocking my path. Come hell or high water, I’d get my chalupas. Though I really didn’t feel like stepping out of my car and walking inside where the lunch rush sat. I was wearing sweats covered in bleach stains, a baggy sweatshirt, zero makeup, and not a lick of dry shampoo. No way was I presentable for the public yet.
This was why God invented drive-throughs and curbside service—so women like me could sleep in on their days off and rush out the door when a hankering hit without even bothering to glance at themselves in a mirror.
But when the truck made it up to the window to pay without a hitch or stall, most of that panic left me.
And when the driver pulled away after collecting their order and turned out onto highway, all of that panic left me.
I rubbed my hands together. Come to Momma.
“Hello!” I greeted the young girl with a smile and a wave, feeling like we had one of those lifelong friendship connections since I’d just serenaded her.
Grabbing my bag off the floor in front of the passenger seat, I dug around for my wallet.
“No need for that!” she said, turning my head and pausing my search. “That guy just totally paid for you. God…I love it when that happens. It doesn’t happen enough. It’s such a treat!”
I sat up and looked at her more fully. “What? What guy?”
“The guy in the truck.”
“Really?”
Nobody had ever done that for me before, and I used drive-throughs a lot. Well, shit on my head. My first random act of kindness, and I had rushed the poor thing along.
I suddenly felt bad for beeping.
“Yep,” the girl said, smacking her gloss-covered lips. “He asked me how much your order was and gave me enough to cover you both. And he wasn’t bad looking either.”
I leaned closer to the window, my interest in this mystery man spiking off the charts. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. He had that dark, smoldering look about him. Real sexy.”
Nice.
“Did he say anything? Leave his number on a napkin or something?”
“No.” She shrugged. “Just paid for you and left. He acted in a rush.” The girl turned to pack up my order.
Huh.
If he was interested, he would’ve gone beyond just paying for my food. I would think he would’ve at least waited before speeding out of here—at least pulled over and given me opportunity to thank him.
Maybe he was just doing a good deed?
Letting myself think on that, I smiled and took my drink. “I’d like to pay it forward. How much is the person’s order behind me? I’ll take care of them,” I said while blindly digging my wallet out of my bag.
“Really?” The girl clapped her hands together and squealed. “This is awesome! And they say there’s no good people left in the world.”
I laughed and made a face like I was agreeing with her, though I really didn’t. I knew a lot of good people. Dogwood Beach was full of them.
And I was blessed to have a lot of those people in my tribe, supporting me, giving me friendship and love, and others, not necessarily in my tribe, but around me enough I got to see their good.
Still, I understood this girl’s excitement. It wasn’t every day a complete stranger did something out of sheer generosity. And selfless to boot. Who didn’t stick around to take credit when credit was due? That was practically unheard of.
It’s funny how a simple gesture can affect you. But kindness was powerful that way. It not only had the ability to alter moods, but it was also infectious. People wanted to spread that good around once they got it put on themselves.
Hell, I was doing it. Maybe the person behind me would do it too, and so on. We could all pay it forward.
Smiling, I thought about that mystery man in the beat-up truck, wondering if he knew just how inspiring he was. How good he was. I hoped someone was telling him.
After safely securing my bag of deliciousness in the front seat, I got the total of the order from the car behind me, paid, got my change, cranked up my stereo again, and sped off, leaving my window cracked so I could serenade Highway 355.
Even though I lived in a beach town, my two-bedroom, one-bath apartment wasn’t even within walking distance of the beach. But just being within a half-hour drive of the ocean made me happy. And I swear, you could still smell the sand and saltwater from the parking lot surrounding Pebble Dune Apartments.
When the wind picked up…
Bottom line, it worked for me.
It was old; the building and the apartments themselves could use a remodel, new plumbing, and some fresh carpet. It was tiny—the bedrooms, the kitchen/living room/entryway, which combined, could fit inside my parents’ two-car garage. But I truly loved it.
It had promise. It held history. And most of all, it had the spare bedroom I needed t
o kick-start my career.
Hair styling was my passion, and for the past three years, I’d been living that passion and loving every second of it.
Until three months ago, I’d been a stylist and color specialist at an upscale boutique in Dogwood. The atmosphere was sleek and edgy. The other stylists were pleasant. I got along great with my boss. All in all, it was an amazing learning experience for me, but it wasn’t mine, and within a few months of working there, I realized I had bigger dreams:
Hair by Shay, with that kickass little trademark symbol next to it.
Or Hair by Shayla. I couldn’t seem to decide.
Which was why I was using both #hairbyshay and #hairbyshayla across all social media platforms, posting at least three times a day and making sure it was included in my signoff.
I had hope one of the hashtags would eventually reach trending status.
I wanted to work for myself and build something from the beginning, something I could be proud of knowing how it all began—a quiet idea I couldn’t shake that blossomed into a living, breathing passion. And staying in the one-bedroom studio I had been occupying for the past five years wasn’t going to give me the room I needed to shape and create this new life.
I would’ve felt weird cutting hair in the middle of my living room/kitchen/bedroom.
I was anticipating keeping male clientele. Aside from the level of unprofessionalism, I really didn’t want people seeing where I slept. I was not a bed-maker.
So, I started picking up as many extra shifts at Whitecaps as possible, socking away as much money as I could, and when I found an apartment I could afford with the room I needed to shape and create, I signed the lease, quit my job at Salon 24, and began the journey leading me in the direction of my dream.
It was scary.
It was stressful as a mother.
But it was exciting.
So, even though Pebble Dune Apartments sucked when it came to views, mine being nothing more than dirt and blades of grass, since I was on the bottom level, it was perfect to me.
I didn’t need a view. I needed that second bedroom for my dream.
Sucking ice-cold Mountain Dew through my straw, I hit the lock button on my key fob after parking in front of my building and took to the stairs, carrying my lunch and, depending on how full those chalupas were stuffed, my dinner.
I was hoping to get two meals out of this. Hair by Shay (or Shayla) was on a budget.
Descending the three concrete steps, I paused when I hit the landing, having spotted the large, rectangular cardboard box that was perched in front of my door and the man leaning his elbow against it, playfully looking bored.
“Finally.” Patrick, the manager’s son, dropped his head back with a heavy sigh. He was tall, nearly lanky, with skinny limbs and strong, angular features. “I’ve been freezing my nuts off out here. I thought you said you’d be home when this thing was delivered.”
My eyes fell to his unzipped hoodie and the thermals he’d layered underneath. “Freezing your nuts off? You have on, like, four shirts. And it’s not even that cold out.”
It really wasn’t. The air was cool, not cold, this time of day. Mornings called for coats and hats, but by lunchtime, the temperature typically hung out in the low sixties.
When Patrick looked at me again, his dark brown hair flopped over his right eye, the way it always did lately since he’d committed to growing it out.
Patrick was only a couple years older than me, and basically ran the front office at Pebble Dune. He was good at it too. Everyone living here was grateful to be dealing with him when they needed someone to deal with.
Even though I’d only seen him a couple of times, Pat Senior was stricter about certain things, such as paying rent in a timely fashion and abiding by certain pet policies.
Patrick just didn’t give a fuck, as long as you paid your rent before the next round was due, cleaned up after yourself and any roommates with fur, and didn’t cause any trouble.
Pulling the straw out of my mouth, I stepped closer to the box, head tilting slightly, and noticed the stamped logo running along one long side. “I ran out for food,” I explained. My eyes widened. “Is that my chair?”
“That or a fucking elephant. This thing’s huge. You should’ve seen me and the guy getting it off the truck. I almost dropped it.”
My face split into a grin. “This is the best day of my life!” I shrieked, raising both arms straight above me, careful of the precious items in my hands. “First free tacos and now my beautiful baby is here? Shit, yeah!”
Patrick snorted and stepped back, shuffling the box back with him to allow me space to get to the door. “How’d you get free tacos?”
“The guy in front of me. I got up to the window, and my order was paid for.” I slid my key into the lock and twisted, pushing the door open.
“That’s fucking baller,” Patrick commented. “I need to start doing that. I don’t think to do shit like that.”
“Ooh, for Angela. I bet she likes free tacos.”
Angela lived at Pebble Dune too, in one of the other buildings, and Patrick was totally infatuated with her. I liked giving him a hard time about it. It was all in fun.
I propped my heavy, wrought-iron umbrella holder stand in front of the door so it wouldn’t close and dropped my food off in the kitchen before rushing back outside to help.
Patrick bent down to grip one side of the box while I awkwardly gripped the other. It was too heavy for me to lift off the ground, so I slid my end inside, stopping at the carpeted living area.
“Where do you want it?” he asked.
I moved around Patrick and the box and closed the door. “Second bedroom. Let’s break it down here, though. I don’t think the box is going to fit through the doorway.” I glanced toward my tiny kitchen and squinted between the counter and the cabinet space, trying to see the knife holder beside the toaster. “Scissors…”
“Like a Boy Scout.” Patrick pulled a switchblade out of his jean pocket and flicked it open, then proceeded to cut down the tape holding the seams of the box together.
I watched with excitement quickening my breaths as my beautiful black leather styling chair was removed from the box and cut out of the plastic surrounding it.
Never before in my life had I ever been this excited over a piece of furniture. But this thing had a flared back, cushioned arms, a footrest, and a fancy hydraulic pump.
You’d have to be mental not to get excited over something this stunning.
Under my direction, Patrick carried the chair into the second bedroom for me and sat it in front of the large, rectangular mirror and floating shelves I had already set up, displaying an array of products waiting to be used.
“This place is starting to look legit,” he said, hands on his hips as he glanced around the small room.
I looked away from the chair and gorgeous styling area to take in the space. My second bedroom didn’t look anything like a second bedroom anymore.
The futon I’d originally been using as a living room sofa before I purchased a legit living room sofa was the perfect waiting area for clients. If, no…when I had back-to-back appointments, they would need a comfy place to sit.
In the corner next to the futon was my sleek black leather dryer chair I had saved up for. And on the walls, just like any salon, were framed beauty-inspired art pieces I’d found on Etsy.
The closet, had it been used as a closet, could’ve kept this place looking like a bedroom, but I had popped the doors off and stored roll-away carts in there that held my brushes, clips, bobby pins, and combs.
Even without my styling chair, this room looked pretty legit. But now? I couldn’t have agreed more with Patrick.
Hair by Shay (or Shayla) was officially open for business.
“Hey, you don’t mind if I go around and stick flyers under people’s doors offering one free haircut, do you?” I asked him.
I needed to get the word out somehow, and I knew the term FREE had major draw. I wa
s hoping if I had twenty takers, ten of them would return for another service. And maybe five out of those ten would mention me to a friend. Or even three out of the ten. That would still be amazing. Plus, there was also the appeal of doing a good deed by offering this. Maybe someone living at Pebble Dune was up for a job interview or had some big, important event they needed to look presentable for. That free haircut could be my first random act of kindness.
Patrick pushed his hair out of his face and turned away from the mirror. “Go for it,” he said. “And if Angela takes the bite, let me know, and I’ll stop over when she’s here to fix your thermostat or whatever else we can pretend is broken.”
I smirked. “Why don’t you just ask her out already?”
“I’m getting there. I’m just waiting for the perfect moment.”
“Create the perfect moment yourself and just do it,” I said, stepping forward and poking him in the chest. “Man up, dude.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “That guy, Scar or Needle or whatever the fuck you named him, did he man up yet?”
I scowled and turned away, folded my arms underneath my chest, and admired my new chair again.
I didn’t want to talk about Sean. Talking about him led to thinking about him, and I did that enough without talking about him.
Working with someone you were trying to get over was basically the equivalent to having a room stocked with fabulous hair dye, at your convenience at all hours of the day, and not using any on yourself.
Currently, I was sporting a pretty shade of pink on the bottom half of my head, which looked amazing with the short, choppy bob I kept, loving this cut for its edginess and versatility. Even when I didn’t bother styling my hair, like today, it still looked perfect with messy waves. And having a bright color underneath really popped against the deep brown framing my face.
Last month, I had gone with purple.
I was certain I’d continue changing it up, since it was impossible not to experiment when I had color this brilliant on hand.
“What’s that?” Patrick chuckled from behind me. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
I spun back around and shoved at his chest, moving him out of the bedroom and toward the front door. “I have work to do, such as delivering flyers before it gets too cold and too dark outside, and unless you’d like to help with that, it’s time for you to go. I’m running out of daylight.”
