Copyright © 2012 by Jessica Miller
All rights reserved. Published by Aperture Press. Name and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Aperture Press, LLC.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information, write to Aperture Press LLC, P.O. Box 6485, Reading, PA 19610 or visit www.AperturePress.net.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First eBook Edition, May 2012
eISBN: 978-0-9850026-7-1
Cover and eBook designed by Jere Stamm.
Contents
Copyright
Title
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
The only way around is through.
-Robert Frost
Chapter 1
When I first opened my eyes I looked over at my alarm to see it was only 8:30 a.m. I didn’t have to get up for another two hours. My nose was all stuffed up and I didn’t know why. “I hope I’m not getting sick,” I thought to myself. “Why am I all stuffed up?”
The source of my allergies was staring me in the face. It was the reason I had to take an allergy pill every day, or at least part of the reason. I glared, annoyed, and a pair of green eyes glared right back at me. They didn’t look nearly as annoyed as I was. “Leo, you fat bastard. Get off my bed!”
Leo is my cat. I’m allergic to cats. Although I’m not highly allergic it’s just enough to be annoying. I’m okay if I remember to take my allergy pills—which I normally don’t. I know, why have a cat if you’re allergic? Well, I have a cat because I like cats, end of story.
Leo just lay there staring at me as if he was the king of this house and I was his pet, that I existed only to serve him. He was a big, fat, orange and white tabby cat. He probably weighed about 20 lbs and no, I’m not exaggerating. The thing is that he has character and that’s what I love about him.
I rolled out of bed knowing I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and headed downstairs to make myself some breakfast. I hated Mondays, the start of the work week. Although if I had off Mondays than I’d probably hate Tuesdays just as much.
I work in a local salon about fifteen minutes from my house. I love my job, well, most days. Being a hairdresser definitely has its ups and downs, but for the most part it’s the one thing I love doing most.
I live alone in a nice house in the suburbs, just outside of Reading, Pennsylvania (and it’s pronounced “Red-ing” not “Read-ing”, people always mess that up). It was my parent’s house. My dad left it to me and my brother when he moved out. The house originally belonged to my grandparents; it was paid for when my parents moved in. So for me, never having to worry about paying a mortgage was nice. On my salary I would never be able to afford a house.
I have an older brother, Tyler and a younger sister, Trina. My parents are Terry and Tina, and I’m Tatum. I know, enough with the T’s already. I plan to break that cycle when I have kids. I had pretty great parents and grew up in a loving home where I was well taken care of. My dad works in construction and my mom was a school teacher. We weren’t rich by most standards, but we did well.
My dad was always good with money and because of the fact that my grandparents gave my parents this house as a wedding present my parents were able to provide us with everything we needed plus a little extra here and there. They never over spoiled us though. My dad always said he wanted us to learn the value of a dollar. At eight years old, the value of a dollar to me meant I could get a couple lollipops and some nickel gum.
When my dad wasn’t around my mom sometimes would give in and buy us stuff we didn’t need, only because we would whine for hours saying we would die if we didn’t have it and it was what everyone else had. Now that I look back on it, I think she did it just to shut us up but we were very lucky and had a good childhood growing up.
Things changed when my mom died ten years ago. I was 15, Tyler was 18, and Trina was only 3. Losing my mom was one of the hardest things I ever had to go through. As hard as it was for me, it was even harder on my dad. He was with her when she died.
It was a car accident. Another car had hit them on the passenger side. It was the other car’s fault but that doesn’t change anything. After my mom’s death, Tyler, being the oldest, tried to keep things together. He made sure I got up for school on time and took care of Trina on the days my dad couldn’t get out of bed, which were most days for the first couple of months.
Watching my dad suffer so much was hard for me. I think it was harder than losing my mom. With my mom I knew she was at peace. But with my dad, to have to see him miserable everyday over losing the love of his life, well, it was just a constant reminder of the pain we all suffered. Having to see him like that made me never to want to fall in love. I figured if I don’t, I’ll never get hurt or have to go through what my dad did if I lost that person.
My dad eventually got better, well, better at hiding how he was really feeling. Slowly I think he came to realize that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life mourning his wife’s death. He had a family to take care of.
When I turned 18 my dad decided to move to a different state to get a new start, thinking going somewhere else with less memories might help. I didn’t want to leave. This was my home, this was where I grew up. Since I was 18, legally I was on my own, but to my dad I was still his baby girl. My brother, Tyler, managed to convince my dad that he would stay with me and keep an eye out and it made my dad feel a little better about leaving me here.
So he took my sister, Trina, and moved to Arizona. Tyler and I would visit them for time to time, but they never came here, it still was too much for my dad. It has been a few years since then and now, for the first time, he’s decided to make a trip back home. They are going to come visit me in a couple of weeks. I’m ecstatic.
After finishing my breakfast I decided to get an early jump on my day. I hopped in the shower, got ready for work and headed out to do a little shopping—I had plenty of time before I had to be at work.
The shopping didn’t take long and I ended up getting to work twenty minutes early anyway. Since I had time I decided to head out back where most of the stylists hang and smoke when they’re not busy or taking a break.
“Hey Peyton,” I said as I stepped out back.
“Sup.” Smoke curled from her lips.
“Nothing. I Went shopping for this weekend.”
“Ooh let me see,” Peyton cheered. We weren’t doing anything special this weekend but I liked to have new clothes to wear when I went out.
Peyton was one my best friends. We first met in beauty school and hit it off right away—though she turned my blond hair blue the second day. I just told her, “Let’s throw some black in it and go for the punk rock look.” I wasn’t a natural blond so I knew trying to get the blue out of my hair would just destroy it. I figured what the hell, something different. It was beauty school anyway and I was bound to change my hair sooner or later.
I thought at first Peyton was just being nice to me to make up for the fact that she turned my hair blue, but after several reassurances that I
was fine with it, she thought I was pretty cool and we’ve been best friends ever since. Although, I did not let her touch my hair for about a year, until she got more practice.
After graduation, we told each other we would only go to a salon where they would hire both of us. At first, most places would only offer one of us the position, so we’d turn them down. This is how we ended up here, at Studio 10 Hair Salon. It was the first place that offered us both a position so we jumped on it. It was a decent sized salon: twelve stations, four dryer chairs, and four shampoo bowls. We had our own back room that doubled as a breakroom and a small private section out back for smokers.
We had fifteen stylists all together. Some of the older stylist only worked a few days during the week in the daytime so they shared their stations with the girls who only worked at night. I got along with most of the girls I worked with, but not all. Let’s not forget this is a salon and girls can be chatty.
I showed Peyton what I had bought: two shirts, a dress, and some shoes.
“I’m so borrowing that dress,” Peyton said when I held it up for her. She reached for it greedily.
“After I wear it first,” I said snatching it back. “You busy today?”
“Not really, you?”
“I have to check the schedule, but I don’t think so. I need my roots done though before this weekend.” I was back to being a blonde now and when my roots came in my hair looked dirty. I was a natural brunette, almost black. I had cut my hair several times since beauty school. I went through different phases, but now my hair is long, half way down my back, and I refuse to cut it.
“If you got time I can do it today,’’ Peyton offered.
“I’ll check in a minute,” I said.
“Check to see if you have time to do mine too,” she said as I turned to head back inside.
I put my clothes back in the bags and walked out front to my station to set everything up then I checked my schedule. I had some openings throughout the day so I compared it to Peyton’s to see when the best time was for both of us to do our hair. We both had a few clients first thing and a big opening at the end of our day. I scribbled out the last two hours so we could do each other’s color.
I still had about ten minutes before my first client so I went back outside to sit and talk with Peyton. “I marked out time for both of us at the end of the night,” I told her.
“I think I want to do something different,” Peyton said as she twisted a cigarette in her hands. Her eyes darted up as though she could see her own hair.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” She scrunched her face and flicked some ashes off the end of her cigarette.
“You say that all the time and we end up always doing the same thing,” I groaned.
“Whatever.”
Peyton was a blond also, but she was a natural blond. She never did anything too different with her hair color. She was more daring with cutting it than coloring it, because her hair grew so fast it didn’t matter. It was also thick and curly, but she straightens it every day. She was tall, thin, and beautiful. She had big brown eyes, olive skin, and on a good day, when she cared enough to put makeup on, she looked like a supermodel. She also had a killer personality which is why everyone loved her. Then there was the vicious attitude, which is why some people feared her. I loved her for both.
The back door opened and Teresa, our salon manager, popped her head out. “Tatum, Ms. Kline is here.”
“Thanks Teresa.” I got up and went back into the salon.
“Hi Carole,” I said to my client who was already sitting in my chair.
“Hi Tatum, how are you?” she asked.
“Good and you?”
“Just fine and dandy,” Carole said.
“We just doing a touch-up today?” I asked her.
“Yes and a little trim.”
“Sounds good, I’m gonna go mix the color and I’ll be right back.”
Carole was one of my regulars. She always got the same thing, highlights and a trim, and every time she would say to me, “Make sure they’re not red,” referring to her roots. They never were, not even close. It took me a couple of times to realize what she really meant. She thought gold was red and she wasn’t the only one. I never understood it and I tried several times to explain to my clients that it was gold they were seeing not red, but some of them insisted it was red. After a while I gave up and just told them I’d throw something on to take out the so-called red they saw or made sure I left them under the dryer long enough so there wouldn’t be an issue.
When I came back to my client she was chatting up one of the other stylists, Jenna. She was one of the ones I liked. She was about two years older than me. She had short brown hair, a bob, with some chunky different color highlights in the front. She was about average height and build. She was a partier in her early years, but now she has a family so she’s settled down some.
“Carole you’re crazy. I don’t know how you do it,” Jenna said laughing.
“Are you talking about Carole’s many men?” I teased.
“It’s only two now,” Carole said.
Jenna and I chuckled.
Carole was in her 50’s, but looking at her you think maybe she was only in her late 30’s. She was a bigger woman, with long blond wavy hair—thanks to me. There was something about Carole. She wasn’t what you call a head turner, but it didn’t matter. Half her face could have been scarred and to me she still would have been beautiful. Her personality is what attracts everyone to her. She is so warm and welcoming, and doesn’t judge anyone. You can talk to her about anything and she’ll laugh or cry right along with you and offer her advice but won’t push her own beliefs on you.
I always thought of Carole as kind of like a fireworks display. You didn’t know what to expect until it opened up and then it was big, bright, exciting, and beautiful, just like Carole. She was one of my favorite clients and I was happy to have Carole at the start of my day, hoping the rest of the day would go as well.
After Carole I had two haircuts and then a break before my last one. Today would be an easy day. That’s normally how Mondays were, slow, because most people went back to work on Mondays.
My second haircut was a new client, one I’ve never done before. When she arrived I introduced myself and had her follow me to my chair to talk about how we were going to cut her hair.
“Aren’t you going to shampoo it?” she asked when I gestured toward my chair.
“Yes, but I like to talk about what we’re going to do first,” I told her.
Some stylists automatically wash the clients hair then asked them what they want to do. I didn’t work like that. Any good stylist knows you should find out what you’re doing first before you wash, for several different reasons: first, you can get a look at how they style it so you know what would be easiest for them; second, you can get a feel for the texture to see if it’s thick, fine, curly, straight, and so on. This helps when they bring you a picture and say, “I want that.” You look at the picture and want to laugh in their face, but that wouldn’t be very professional. Even though I have seen some stylists actually do that.
The picture they bring will usually be the total opposite of their hair and they expect you to work miracles. For example I may explain to them that the girl in the picture has thick curly hair as opposed to their fine straight hair or vice versa letting them know it most likely won’t look the same. Most people understand and some don’t. For the people who don’t, no matter how hard you try to explain it, they just can’t seem to understand. Not to say pictures don’t help, because they do, especially when the client is someone who wants us to wave a magic wand so they look exactly like the picture.
This client knew what she wanted without a picture or so I thought.
“What would you like to do today?” I asked her.
“Well, just trim up the ends a bit and add two layers.”
Two layers? Really? What the hell are two layers? There’s no such thing
as “two layers”, well not that I know of.
This is not the first time someone has said that either. I wish people would learn layers are layers. There’s no one layer, or two or three. There’re short, long, choppy, wispy, a lot, or a few.
That’s it.
Normally when they say to add one or two I just do long and wispy and they seem satisfied. That’s what I did with this client and she was very happy. She told me she’d come back so I handed her my card.
Before my last client I decided to go eat dinner. Working in a strip mall has its advantages; there were a bunch of different places to choose from.
After I ate I finished up with my last client then Peyton and I started on each other’s hair. Halfway through my touch-up, my friend Landon walked in.
“Hi honey,” I said to Landon as he walked over, gave me a kiss, and patted Peyton on the back.
“I need a haircut,” Landon said.
“Of course you do. Why do you never make an appointment?” I groaned.
“Cause I never know when I’m gonna need one. I only know I need a haircut when my hair doesn’t work for me anymore,” he said.
I just rolled my eyes at him. “Well you’re just gonna have to wait till Peyton and I are done.”
“When are you gonna be done?” he whined.
“When we’re done.” I said flatly. He gave the look he always gives me when I was being a smartass, the look of annoyance. “Hey it’s not my fault you can’t make an appointment,” I added.
“Alright, alright,” he bellowed as he sat down and picked up an issue of Star magazine.
“Need to catch up on your gossip?” I asked. He just gave me that look again and I laughed.
When Peyton was done putting my color on she told me to cut Landon’s. She said she would wait until I was done. Landon thanked her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“You’re lucky, I would have made you wait,” I said and he knew it too.
Landon was a really good friend of mine, one of my closest guy friends. We met when I was 15, shortly after my mom died. We were both at a party that my friend at the time begged me to go to. She was into this one guy who went to a different school. I was not in the party mood, but I went anyway because that’s what friends do.
The Hairdresser Diaries Page 1