Swept Up

by Taylor Morris

  “I know,” I said. “But we’ve all been so busy.”

  “Just make sure whatever you choose looks good with a blowout. You did ask your mom for one, didn’t you?”

  I slapped my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Shoot! I totally forgot to ask Megan to put it in the books!” If it wasn’t in the reservations system, it was likely not to happen.

  Giancarlo smiled while picking up another foil from the tray beside his client. “No worries. Yesterday I went ahead and booked an appointment for Eve and you. So you’re all set.”

  “Giancarlo, you are the best,” I said, feeling appreciative of how nice he was and guilty at the same time. I still didn’t know if Eve was even going to the dance, let alone whether she would accept an appointment from me. And I still had no idea what to do about Marla.

  “What’s that look for?” he asked.

  “It’s just . . . Eve,” I said. “I’m not sure if she’ll be coming in. You might want to take her off your schedule so you can book someone else.”

  “Mickey,” he said, pausing from his color job to fix me with a stern look. Even though he wore a black shirt with white starbursts and pink, checkered pants, the look he gave me was of utmost authority.

  “Yes?” I asked innocently.

  “Don’t make me pry it out of you,” Giancarlo said, starting back up with the brush. “Spill.”

  “Well, Eve and I are kind of on the outs,” I said.

  “Something happen?” he asked.

  “Something called I dyed her hair blue and then accidentally almost broke her and Jonah up.” I knew Giancarlo wouldn’t think anything bad of me, but his client, Francine, probably thought I was a terrible person.

  “You’re not talking?” he asked.

  “We are a little bit,” I said. “But her old best friend, Marla, is in town.”

  “Her friend,” he said, nodding, understanding completely.

  “She’s like Eve’s bodyguard or something. She acts like because I hurt Eve once I’ll do it again. But I won’t. All I want is to be friends with Eve and show her that she can trust me. But now it’s like Marla won’t let me get anywhere near her.”

  “I’m sure she’s just looking out for her friend the same way you would if the situation were reversed,” he said. “There,” he said to Francine, finishing up the last foil. “You’re all set. To the dryers you go.”

  “Thanks for the talk, Giancarlo,” I said.

  “My station is always open to you,” he said.

  While Francine waited for her color to set, I carried on with my sweeping duties and helped out the other stylists. A bit later, after Giancarlo had rinsed Francine’s hair and began to style it, Ana came in, waving at Giancarlo across the salon.

  “Mickey, honey,” Giancarlo said with a sigh when he saw her. “Could you go take care of her?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “You okay?” He looked like he was about to hide behind his chair, which seemed odd. They’d gone to dinner like old friends just a couple of nights ago.

  “Yes,” he said wearily. “I just never knew that having a real, live fan would be so exhausting. Tell her I’ll just be a few more minutes.”

  “You got it.”

  I went up to greet Ana and was taken aback again at how similar her look was to my mom’s. I knew my mom dressed classically, but there was something about the way they each wore that style. Her hair was even done in the classic chignon my mom favored.

  “Hello, Ana,” I said, walking up to the front. Megan had just checked her in. Ana stood up from the couch, reaching out to shake my hand. Even though her shake wasn’t firm, I clasped her hand back. Mom always said a firm handshake said a hundred things about a person, all of them good.

  “Mickey,” she said. “Aren’t you quite the professional. Don’t tell me your mother has you working here every day?”

  “I wish,” I said. “Just a couple of days a week. Giancarlo is finishing up with a client—he’ll just be a few minutes. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

  The usual response was somewhere along the lines of, “Could I get an iced tea or bottle of water?” Instead, Ana asked, “How about a tour?”

  “A tour?” I said, a bit thrown. “Of the salon?”

  “Sure, why not?” she replied. “I read all about the renovations on the blog. I’m curious to see how that basement looks. Maybe I’ll book a massage while we’re at it.”

  It’s not like showing clients around the salon wasn’t allowed. Plus, like Ana implied, maybe it was good business to show her the other services we offered.

  “Sure,” I said. “Right this way.”

  Ana followed me across the floor. “So, this is the main floor,” I said. She walked much more slowly than I did, really looking over each of the stylists as she passed. Devon, being a bit snarky and suspicious by nature, cut her a look. Ana smiled back.

  “Fantastic style,” she told Devon, looking down at her 1940s military-style black dress, brass buttons and all. Devon forced a smile across her matte, red lips in response.

  “Back here is the way to The Underground,” I said. “That’s what we call our basement.”

  “The Underground?” she asked. “Interesting. What made you call it that?”

  “It was Cecilia—Cecilia von Tressell, from the show. She thought it sounded more exciting than just a basement.”

  “So it’s simply a euphemism?”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind,” she said, waving the comment off. “Let’s see what happens down there.”

  Before we could get to the stairs, we passed the door to the storage area. “What’s this here?” she asked. She stood by the product wall, looking over the bottles.

  “Those are just our extra products. This is a storage area now. Also used as a break room.”

  She ran her eyes carefully over the shelves as if memorizing each item. I wondered what the big fascination was. I waited a moment and then finally said, “Right down here is The Underground.”

  She tore her eyes from the shelf, flashed a smile, and followed me down.

  “This is our pedicure station, obviously,” I said, pointing out the pedicure chairs on the side. “Manicures over here. Hey, Karen,” I said to our head manicurist, who was working on a client.

  “Hey, Mickey,” she said, looking up at me.

  “Hello,” Ana said. “Karen? I’m Ana. Nice to meet you.”

  “Oh, um, this is Ana,” I explained to Karen, who gave us a curious look. “She’s here to see Giancarlo.”

  “Well, he’s fantastic,” Karen said. “You’re in good hands.”

  “Don’t I know it. That’s all I’ve heard!” Ana clasped her hands to her chest like an excited little girl. “I can’t wait!”

  “So,” I said, steering her away from Karen. “The facial area is right over here.” Ana peered inside the little room as best she could even though the door was mostly closed for privacy.

  “It really is quite nice down here,” she said as we headed back to the stairs. “Very relaxing and upscale. That’s hard to do with a subterranean space.”

  “Yep,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. I was getting a little weirded out by Ana—like she was judging us but trying to be complimentary at the same time. When we got upstairs I was relieved to see Giancarlo was ready for her.

  “Thanks, girl,” he said after I showed her to the changing room with a robe. “I owe you.”

  “It was fine. She seemed really interested,” I said. “If we get this reaction once the show airs, we’ll be slammed every week.”

  When Ana hadn’t come back out after a couple of minutes he said, “What’s taking her so long?”

  “Should I go back and check on her?” I asked.

  “Maybe.
I don’t want her wandering off.”

  Why did he seem so annoyed with her when she clearly thought he was fabulous? I stepped closer to him and said, “Is there a story here?”

  Giancarlo quickly shook his head. “None at all,” he said emphatically.

  “Okay,” I said, stepping back. “Just asking.”

  When I went back to check on Ana in the changing rooms, she walked out from the storage area.

  “Mickey!” she said, seeing me. “I’m sorry. I just got a little turned around.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, starting to wonder if it really was. She was the nosiest customer we’d had that I could remember. “Giancarlo is ready for you.”

  “Great! Better show me the way up,” she said. “I might get lost again!”

  Ana got settled into the chair, and I sat on the stool near Giancarlo’s station.

  “Mickey here is helping me out today,” Giancarlo told her. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” she said. “A little Giancarlo in the making.”

  I couldn’t help but blush—I hoped to be as good as Giancarlo someday!

  “So what are we doing today?” Giancarlo asked, combing his fingers through her hair to get a feel for it. “Color touch-up, right?”

  “Yes,” Ana said, looking in the mirror at her own dark-brown hair.

  “Want to just cover up these roots?” Giancarlo asked. Ana’s roots were a lighter brown than the rest of her hair.

  “Actually,” she said, “I’m thinking about keeping that root color and blending the rest of my hair to it.”

  “Is this your natural color?” he asked.

  Ana laughed a very hoity-toity laugh. “Oh, dear! Just ask me my age next!”

  “Well, I need to know so I don’t damage your hair,” he said with a smile, keeping his professional manner.

  “I assure you, I have just as much if not more experience as you with color. I just want a simple blending job, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure you know your hair better than I do,” Giancarlo said, “but I do have to point out that it’s more than a simple blending—it’s an all-over change. Are you absolutely sure you want to go with this color?” He looked closely at her roots again. “I’m just a little concerned it’ll make your hair brittle.”

  “Yes, well,” Ana said calmly. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

  With that, Giancarlo stopped inspecting her hair and looked at her in the mirror. A few of us who were within earshot did the same because it was like, Wow, lady.

  Giancarlo forced a smile and said, “Whatever you want.”

  With that I decided that a quick sweep of the floor was needed. Something was happening and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be around to see it. Also, I thought it might be best to stay out of Ana’s line of fire. Giancarlo’s, too.

  The rest of Ana’s appointment went pretty smoothly. As Giancarlo worked her hair, they chatted easily about new style trends. A little later, though, when Ana was in the foils under the dryer, Giancarlo came by and told her, “Time’s up. Better get those foils out.”

  “I think it needs a tad longer,” Ana said. She lifted her magazine up in front of her face.

  “No,” he said firmly. “It’s definitely time.”

  “Let me just finish this article,” Ana said. “Then it’ll be time.”

  “Ana, I’m telling you,” he said, not budging from his spot. “It’s time to come out of those foils.”

  She ignored him, just kept her eyes on her magazine, her crossed leg swinging.

  Giancarlo threw up his hands and muttered, “Whatever you say.”

  He turned and almost slammed into me. “Mickey!” he said, steadying us both by holding my shoulders. “Where is your mother?”

  “On a call in her office.”

  He looked over at her closed door, then stormed back to his station, hastily cleaning it up. The other stylists kept one eye on him, the other on their own clients to make sure they weren’t bothered by what was clearly about to become a showdown.

  Finally, Ana put down her magazine and let Giancarlo lead her back to his station. That was when the real beauty nightmare began. “What? This is . . .” Ana gasped at her reflection in the mirror as Giancarlo took out the foils and the new color began to show itself. “I said I wanted you to blend my color, not make me look like a kid experimenting with finger paints.” She clutched at the dangling, reddish-brown strands, a huge difference from the rich, dark color she’d come in with. It looked brassy and brittle.

  “I tried to tell you,” Giancarlo said, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Your natural color is too dark to try to make it go this light without damaging your hair.”

  “You’re supposed to be the expert,” she insisted, touching her hair. “And feel it. It’s completely fried. I can’t even begin to fix this now or all my hair will fall out.”

  “I told you to get out from beneath the dryer,” Giancarlo said. He was angry, not panicking at what his client looked like. In fact, he stood there with his hands on his hips, an “I told you so” expression on his face. “You insisted on staying under too long.”

  “So this is my fault? Excuse me, but I did not just color my own hair. I’m sitting here in your chair, in this salon, expecting to be treated professionally.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Ana,” Giancarlo said. I couldn’t understand why he was acting like this—there wasn’t a hint of remorse in Giancarlo’s voice. All he cared about in life was creating beautiful hair and he’d just done the opposite. I expected him to be mortified.

  All the other clients kept turning their eyes to watch Ana freak out, even as their stylists tried to distract them. But between the bad-hair disaster and the escalating argument, it was hard not to watch.

  Violet, the salon manager, rushed over to Giancarlo’s station. “Is everything okay here?” she asked, giving Giancarlo a look that said it better be okay soon.

  “Does it look like it’s okay?” Ana spat, still holding the ends of her hair.

  “I’m so sorry about this. Let’s see what we can do,” Violet said, her voice calm with a slight hint of panic. She combed through Ana’s hair and said, “Perhaps we can strip the color out, start over.”

  “Are you insane?” Ana pulled her head away from Violet’s hands. “And risk having my hair fall out completely? I need to speak with the owner. Right now.”

  In a flash, Mom was out of her office and clicking across the floor of the salon, a tight smile on her face.

  “What seems to be the—Ana?”

  Mom stopped short of Giancarlo’s station, taking in the sight. I took it in, too. Mom knowing Ana’s name, the look of utter confusion on her face, and Ana’s indignant expression. What was going on?

  “Hello, Chloe,” Ana said, tossing her limp, brassy hair over her shoulder. She eyed herself in the mirror and said, “And here I thought you had some high-end salon, but your so-called best stylist can’t do a simple color job. He’s a hack.”

  “Whoa,” I said, taking a step forward from my spot in the back. “She did not just say that about Giancarlo.”

  “Slow down, girl,” Devon said, gently pulling me back by my shoulder. “Stay out of it.”

  Suddenly I knew what it meant to be fiercely protective of a good friend. My blood boiled at such disrespect of Giancarlo.

  “I didn’t realize you had an appointment,” Mom said to Ana, clearly confused by the situation. “I didn’t even know you were in town.”

  “I read about Hello, Gorgeous! on Berkshires Beauty and thought I’d come see how you were doing. But it seems you’re not doing as well as you’d like everyone to think you are.” She gestured to her hair. “I wanted my color blended, and I got this hideous color. You haven’t changed a bit since beauty school, Chloe.
Still out to make people think you’re perfect.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mom said. She put her hand over her eyes, trying to focus. Finally she lowered her hands to her hips, turned to Giancarlo, and said, “Back up and tell me what happened.”

  Giancarlo stared openmouthed at Mom for a moment, no words coming out.

  “Did she ask for her color to be blended?” Mom prompted him.

  “Yes, but I told her . . . ,” Giancarlo began, but he was so angry he couldn’t get the rest of his words out.

  Mom turned to me as if suddenly realizing I was there. I wanted to help Giancarlo, but with that familiar expression on Mom’s face—the one that meant she was using all her energy not to explode on someone—all I wanted was to hide in the back. I thought she was going to ask me to explain but she must have reconsidered because she turned back to Giancarlo.

  “She just told us,” Mom said, her voice tight, “that she asked for her color to be blended. And this,” she said, gently pulling the back of Ana’s hair up to demonstrate, “is not blended into anything that I would ever want walking out of my salon. Giancarlo, her hair is severely damaged. Can’t you see that?”

  “I can,” Giancarlo admitted. “I advised her against the color she asked for.”

  “Stop blaming your client,” Ana said.

  “I’m not.” Giancarlo sighed, defeated. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. I felt crushed seeing him like this. I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of Mom’s punishments. This was not good.

  Mom nodded, her disappointment clear on her face. “Ana,” she said. “I’m so sorry about this. Would you like me to recolor it? Or Violet can, if you prefer. I think we’ll need to treat it first, give it a deep moisturizing and let it set for a couple of days.”

  “I know what’s best, Chloe,” Ana said. “You may have graduated first in our class, but I was right there behind you. My salon in Boston would certainly never make a mistake like this. I’m actually quite surprised you’d let something like this happen.”

  Mom stood rigid, listening to Ana, literally biting her lip before she spoke, carefully considering her words. “Would you like me to fix your hair, or Violet?”