by Viragh, Brea
**
“So I told the boy to get off my lawn until he learned how to use a mower,” the woman told me, her voice like a rusty engine turning over. “There are chunks out of the grass two feet wide in places. He scalped some areas to the point where the green won’t ever grow back.”
Scissors swung around my fingers. August worked with wood? I could make a pair of shears sing. “Wow. Could it be the mower?”
“The damn thing is in prime condition. It’s the driver I don’t trust. I ended up kicking him off the contraption and sending him on his way with a little cash and a big threat.”
One more tiny snip and the ends were even. “You’re crazy,” I responded with obvious affection. Unconsciously, I slipped a second comb from the front pocket of my apron.
Miss Townsend was a woman who looked a fit fifty and had never married. As such, she kept control of her life with an iron fist. She knew how she wanted each moment to go and expected things done when she wanted them. I cut her hair once a month on the second Tuesday at precisely 2:30 in the afternoon. The appointment occurred without fail whether she needed the trim or not and heaven forbid anyone else want the same time slot.
I coifed the graying strands with a skilled hand. The style remained the same as well: a flip in the front and curls at the back. Each month when she came, I snipped a half inch off the length, no more and no less.
As for myself, I would rather experiment with hairstyles than be stuck in a rut, going to the same stylist in the next town over since I’d moved to Virginia. Which was why I now sported bright hues and a sharp edge-cut just above the chin.
“Sorry, Miss T. Have you tried the help wanted board at the town hall?”
Sharp blue eyes reflected in the mirror amidst a cloud of dappled brown and gray. She scoffed and I gently fixed the position of her head when she tried to move. “No one there worth my time.”
“I’ll try to keep an ear to the ground for you,” I responded.
She patted my hand. “I appreciate it, Leda. You’re such a good girl.”
I smiled in the mirror at our reflections. “Thank you.”
“You know, if you’d seen me in my younger years, we could have been twins.” There was a twinkle in her gaze when she spoke. “If you ignore the hair color. I was a knockout, just like you. Once upon a time.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I would have gone anywhere and tried anything! Always up for an adventure,” she reflected. “I was so busy flitting from man to man, I never had a chance to settle down. Don’t make the same mistake as me.” She waggled a finger in my direction. “If you find a nice one, then snatch him up faster than a handful of jacks.”
The image had me chuckling. I pictured her as she was now, all high-necked suits and clunky jewelry, hunkered down on the ground stealing those little metal pieces from children.
“I don’t think people play jacks anymore, Miss T. Not since the 1950’s,” I commented. A final spritz of hairspray and she would be good to go. Ready to scold whomever crossed too far over her property line and threatened the weedy backyard.
The back sunroom where I’d set up shop smelled of mousse, along with a duo of lavender-and-lilac scented candles. Contrary to those who believed in the omnipotence of air conditioners, I kept the windows open to bring in the outdoors. A warm wind blew away the chemical undertone of products and helped fight the musty odors of the old building from taking up residence in the space. Over the years, I’d tried whatever I could think of to keep the rental fresh, from new paint colors to hastily purchased rugs. Try as I might, I couldn’t do a blessed thing about the mildew smell creeping in on rainy days.
The salon warranted special attention. I couldn’t have customers coming into my house and leaving without a pleasant experience. Scent included. It was true what people said about first impressions.
“You know what I mean. You’re young, Leda. Enjoy it, but remember: Time waits for no man.”
I regarded her with a smirk, hands on hips. “What about a good-looking woman?”
Miss T tried to swivel around to look at me. “If I get around to asking, I’ll let you know. Time can be notoriously closed-lipped.”
She and I shared a chuckle as I put the finishing touches on her trim, turning her to face the mirror yet again. “How does it look today?” I inquired.
After perusing her face from a multitude of angles, she gave a single, curt nod. “Perfect. As usual.”
I fluffed the top part a bit higher. “I used a different set of products than the ones you like. A few new samples a company sent to me.”
“I’m in love.” She scrutinized her reflection again. “It’s without question what I wanted. Now let’s get down to business.” This time, Miss T completed the swivel and stared me down. “Do you have the goods?”
A sharp snap had the cape releasing and stray strands floating to the floor. “You bet I do. Let’s get you out of this and head into the kitchen.”
When I first signed my name to the lease for this old house, the enclosed rear porch was packed to the brim with rotting lawn furniture the owner had no desire to claim. Or move. He told me it was mine to use or discard as I pleased, so after carting each piece to the dump I set about making the space my own. A few tweaks, and a fabulous Internet find led me to the chairs and sink that suited my needs. As Miss T stated, it was difficult to find a person willing to do good work, and it took me much longer to secure a plumber and electrician for my salon. But soon the picture came together and I celebrated my first client with a bottle of cheap champagne and a box of local strawberries.
Cutting hair paid the bills. I wasn’t going to be anything but blunt about the fact. From the sun porch of my little house, rain or shine, the customers came in because I was cheaper than the salon in town. And did a bang-up job as well, not to toot my own horn or anything. My skills ensured I had the particular ability to make a masterpiece out of a train wreck.
“Follow me.” Crooking a finger, I led Miss Townsend up the trio of steps from the salon into the kitchen. I’d put my unique touch there as well, after years of being stifled in my parents’ house. Now blue accents enlivened the space. Bold pops of color were set at strategic points throughout the room, and despite being unable to rip out the countertops and start from scratch, it worked for me. There was always room for improvement; one couldn’t ignore the hideous flooring and out-of-date lighting.
On the countertop sat row after row of frosted confections ready for sampling. It had taken me eight tries to get the taste and texture ready for beta testing.
Miss T followed close behind as I shuffled over to the cupcakes. “These are experiments,” I warned her. “A lot of people don’t consider strawberry and basil a classic combination, but I wanted to try a different twist. You’ll let me know what you think?”
“Don’t I always?” Miss T replied. After selecting a single cake, she peeled the wrapper back and popped half of it into her mouth.
I leaned casually against the counter, determined not to show my anxiety. No matter how many batches I whipped up, there was always a trickle of unease when sending my creations out to the masses. The tough-girl persona I’d perfected did not allow for such weaknesses and instead I hid them beneath a polished veneer of confidence and sex-pot appeal.
I watched her thoughtful chews as she demolished the treat. “What’s the final verdict?”
“My dear...” I received another pat from her leathery fingers. “They are scrumptious. Absolutely enthralling.”
I let out a sigh of relief and licked dry lips. “You aren’t telling me this so I’ll knock another five off your haircut?”
Miss T considered the wrapper and bits of cake left clinging to the sides. There was a struggle there, I could tell, whether to remain within the boundaries of decorum or scrape the packaging clean. “No, I would not do that. I don’t believe in such unscrupulous barters. But I want a dozen of these to take home for my brother and his family, do you hear me?�
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I saluted her. “Right away.” I kept several sets of containers in one of the drawers for just such an occasion. Miss T was dependable in returning them once she’d transferred my stock to her house. Washed, buffed, and given back posthaste.
She was one of my favorite guinea pigs.
“I have a hell of a time passing these on, you know. I always debate whether to keep them for myself or do the right thing. My brother ends up getting about half of what I set aside for him,” she said. “The rest I keep.”
“It’s hard to do, parting with a favorite.” The required dozen went into the container in neat rows with dividers between them.
“It seems I have a new favorite every week.” Miss T patted her midsection. “If I keep sampling, I won’t be able to fit in my pants.”
“You’re beautiful,” I insisted. “I’ll have more for you next week. Or if you’re in the mood for something particular, let me know. There are a few special orders I need to take care of but I’ll put you on my list.”
She watched me close the container, leaning against the row of pantry cabinets. “My niece has a shop in town and I need her to try these. She will flip for these flavors.”
I put two and two together, feeling stupid for not realizing sooner. Oh boy. “Your niece owns Essie’s Confections?”
“She’s getting started. Has the building and all the necessary equipment, although she’s still green around the gills,” Miss T told me in a conspirator’s whisper. “Between you and me, the girl can’t find decent help and doesn’t have your skill with flavor. She could use a cheerful young woman like you at her side. Permits and pastries can take one but so far.” She narrowed her eyes and studied me. “How old are you?”
“Ugh. I’m turning thirty-one in another few months.” I rolled my eyes.
“Thirty years young. Yes, see, my niece is twenty-one. She has a lot left to learn. Give her a call and maybe the two of you girls can get together at some point. I may have her card somewhere...” Miss T dug into the pocket of her trousers and retrieved a slim wallet. From its interior, she removed the card in a natural flourish. “Here, call her. It’s a match made in heaven and she could use the education. You need the experience on the retail side. No sense starting a business when you haven’t had the practice.”
I gripped the slender rectangle. “It sounds like a good arrangement in theory.” The thought made me edgy. Essie was a competitor I’d been trying not to think about. It wasn’t every day someone actualized their dreams ahead of you, especially at such a young age. There was a lot of catching up for me to do.
Through the grapevine, I’d learned the sweet shop in town was run by a woman who baked like a dream and went to business school to boot. I was just a beautician playing at cooking from a worn-out electric oven. Or so I told myself in those dark moments, debating whether to go through with my half-assed plans or not. The dream of a cupcakery was one thing. Actually following through with licenses and certifications was another beast. I hadn’t even picked out a space yet, let alone run the numbers for such a serious investment.
Did this mean I begrudged Essie her grand opening? Perhaps a little. I would be lying if I said otherwise.
Miss T rooted around in her purse before removing a slip of paper. “Give me a pen. I’ll write your number down for her and this way we can avoid miscommunications.”
I did as she bid and she scribbled my cell phone digits on the scrap. “I’ll call her, I promise.”
She waved my comment aside and finished her notation. “I know you will, sweetie. This is a heads-up on her end. Knowing my niece, she’ll want to prepare a speech before she meets you. One of those anal-retentive types.”
It must run in the family. “Of course. It takes a certain personality to bake,” I commented.
“Let’s hope Essie has what it takes to make it. Along with the Type A is a certain weepy tendency when life doesn’t go her way. Don’t tell her I let it slip.”
“Aw, I can understand. I would be the same way if a profession I put so much stock in went south.” I chuckled. Had cried, would do so again before my time on this earth was finished, no doubt.
“Yes, but there is no reason to be a baby about it,” Miss T insisted. “Never shed a tear in all my years and I don’t plan to start now.” She straightened her shoulders with a proud air. “Go there. You need experience before you do anything. Sure, you’ve got great marketing for your brand, but opening a storefront is different. Once you learn the commercial side of baking, you’ll be unstoppable.”
“There is nothing wrong with being unstoppable. I’ll see what I can do.” There was still so much to learn. I patted the top of the container and fixed a grin in place. “Here you are.”
Spidery fingers reached for the container and brought it close. “Thank you. When can we expect a new creation?”
I couldn’t help but express my amusement. “I have a brain fog from coming up with these. Let me get through my orders and I’ll try to find a different taste for you. Maybe a cupcake with a little less sugar, since you’re concerned about your waistline.”
“You’re a good girl,” Miss T repeated. “Now let me take these so I can be on my way. I appreciate you.” Her customary farewell.
After saying our goodbyes, I went to work sweeping up hair in preparation for my next customer. One right after the other; it paid to stay busy. There was an afternoon of snipping ahead of me and no one liked to walk into a dirty house. Just as with my appearance, I needed to present a good picture to the outside world. Otherwise life fell apart.
Now I would have to add a visit to Essie’s at the top of my packed calendar. Practical experience. Miss T was right. I had the skills in the kitchen but practically no retail knowledge. It was something I should have considered earlier in my life.
With a sense of urgency I whipped the broom across the floor and pondered the earliest I could get a moment of free time out of my schedule. Yes, styling paid the bills. Being a hairdresser could also be an art form, and there was a lot of creativity involved with the job. Yet that kind of creativity did not fulfill me the way I wanted, needed.
I couldn’t help but wonder why I continued to put myself through it when there were more intriguing ventures knocking at the door.
CHAPTER SIX
I was eleven when my life changed. Growing up in the swelter of Florence, South Carolina, where eggs cooked on the sidewalk in high summer and no one left their houses after it hit 100 degrees, I was the daughter of a mechanic and a homemaker. Bother parents were based from home and preferred it to braving the regular daily grind. Family relations were not easy—are they ever? —but I always knew they tried their best and loved me well enough. By the time I reached double digits, Mama had a lover lined up and was ready to run. More than ready. She had both feet out the door.
It was another six months before her plans came to fruition. My father and I were left alone to deal with the aftermath and pick up the pieces of our shattered family. Some men would have fallen apart and blamed everyone around for their loneliness. Instead, Hudson Cox pushed the blame deep into his heart where he allowed it to fester and rot his sensibilities when it came to women. Then he did what he needed to do to survive.
All women, with the exception of his daughter. We never spoke about Mama leaving, never talked about the why or how. And even though she no longer lived there, did not even have the decency to call once in a while, she still sat down to dinner with us. She was as real and palpable as anyone else.
It took me a long time to recall the day she left in detail, and even then I never considered it any great loss. Deborah tried the best she could before she threw in the towel. She’d been a woman who preferred television to reality. Moody, and envious of any whom she considered to have a better life. I suppose the glitzy glamour of row after row of McMansions cannot compare to a humble Cape Cod with a prominent, and rusting, vehicle graveyard. There was more dust than diamonds, more sweat than silk, and although I do
ubted the man she chose could deliver on any of the promises he must have given her, she left.
Eventually, I reconciled her abandonment, and forgave her for cutting me out of her life. But I never forgot.
My father, a thin man with a boisterous laugh, had a steady income and did the best he could to raise me alone. Sometimes I thought about their short-lived happiness and came away with nothing but a heavy heart for their relationship. They might have had the chance if Mama hadn’t gotten pregnant too soon into their courtship, yearning for the life she felt she deserved. The one snatched from her grasp the moment she first held me in her arms.
Still, I learned about hair at her knee. Deborah Cox had been a tough woman when it came to her profession. She had her license nailed to the wall of the house, peroxide tainting the air, and relied on me to help her when she had more heads than she could handle.
I followed in her footsteps not because I wanted to, but because I had no other choice if I wanted to help keep food on the table. My father didn’t raise a quitter. When he needed me, I stepped in, and vice versa.
My day started by calling my Papa and downing a full pot of coffee. I made sure I was well and truly wired while reading the newspaper. With a few bites of cold pizza serving as breakfast, I finished the second page before deciding what to do with my day.
There were a number of chores vying for my attention. The garden needed serious tending if I wanted to keep up the steady flow of crops. Weeds had slunk in and taken up residence among the rows of vegetables, and the damn wood sorrel was multiplying through every bed. Sure, it was a tasty treat, with a lemon-like zing in each petal, but it grew where it didn’t belong.
There were also a handful of recipes I’d been meaning to try, and the overcast day made it a perfect time to take care of other dull activities such as vacuuming and dusting. Those I put off until necessary, in the spaces where my customers didn’t go.
A small square on the countertop captured my attention the instant I put the newspaper down. Plucking the card between my index finger and thumb, I flipped it over and stared at the scrawling script.