Relatively Crazy

by Ellen Dye

  As sure as I felt about my knowledge of hands-on work, I was equally sure I had hit the metaphorical wall with each subject that didn’t require daily use.

  Like the test section titled Diseases of the Nails. I swear, it seemed as though there were a hundred of them. And each and every one was pre-fixed by the Latin “onyx.” With all the available English words, you’d think they could have come up with something—but no, Latin it was.

  It would have much simpler to say, “If somebody’s nails don’t look normal, don’t offer a service. Send them to a doctor.”

  “How did you do?” Mitzi asked Val specifically as I embarked on another lap.

  “Good. I may have missed a couple on electricity, though.” Val shrugged and continued leafing through her magazine.

  I stifled a groan and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Electrical currents: my largest pet peeve of all on these tests. Honestly, what cosmetologist in her right mind needed to waste valuable brain cells memorizing amps, volts, ohms, watts, and all their peculiarities?

  For heaven’s sake, you plug in the curling iron and it heats up. How this modern miracle comes about is strictly up to The Powers That Be at Helen of Troy and the local electrical company.

  The door opened, jarring me from my musings, and the rest of the class, most holding covered dishes, trickled in from their break.

  Oh, hell. I sighed. Even if it wasn’t a celebration, at least we’d eat well.

  I reluctantly took my usual seat next to Val as my pacing track filled with students and chairs.

  Val leaned close. “You passed. I know you did.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. But since I’m sure you did…” I retrieved a small, wrapped package from my tote bag.

  Val’s blue eyes sparkled. “Oh,” she squealed as she tore off the wrapping paper, and the rest of the class drifted closer.

  “Awesome,” she proclaimed, giving me a one-arm hug.

  “How in the world did you do this?” Val peered at the image of Hairdresser Hattie, in her full-teased and shoulder-padded glory, emblazoned on a lavender coffee mug.

  “Olivia found this place online that does them. I thought it was fitting.”

  “It’s perfect,” Val pronounced.

  “Okay, so just who is this Hairdresser Hattie we’ve heard you all talking about?” Renetta asked.

  “Yeah, fill us in,” urged Trista, who was now restored to full-blooming health and enjoying the early months of pregnancy, and the other girls nodded their curiosity.

  “The greatest hairdresser of us all,” Mitzi commented with a knowing smile to the group of baffled girls and a sly wink toward Val and me. “Why don’t you fill them in on one of her adventures?” She gave Val a playful nudge.

  Never one to refuse an audience, Val rose to the occasion, ready to give a brief explanation of how our fictional heroine came about.

  “She has adventures?” Renetta asked, her voice filled with disbelief. “Like what?”

  Val waved. “Everything is an adventure for Hairdresser Hattie.” She cocked her head to one side, considering. “This is one of my favorites…” Val trailed off, sitting up straight in the chair.

  She took a deep breath and began, “A long time ago, Hairdresser Hattie was on her way home from work after a great day at her salon. She noticed a car parked on the shoulder of the road and a man kneeling by the front tire, looking down at this very still lump of fur.” Val paused, making sure she had her audience hooked.

  She did.

  “So Hattie pulls over, parks behind the guy’s car, and asks if she can help.

  “The guy asks, ‘Are you a vet?’ and Hattie replies with pride, ‘Nope. I’m a hairdresser.’

  “The guy just rolls his eyes. But Hattie pays him no mind as she hurries to her car and grabs a small blue bottle from the glove box.

  “When Hattie returns, she pours a liberal amount of the liquid from the little blue bottle onto the rabbit’s fur and gently rubs it in. Hattie sits back and tells the guy he’s about to be amazed. But naturally, being a guy, he just rolls his eyes again.

  “Sure enough, the rabbit starts breathing and his wounds heal quickly—just like magic. The fuzzy little critter stretches and then sits up. He shakes his furry head, wiggles his whiskers, and blinks his eyes a few times. Then he takes a successful hop, and then he takes a few more.

  “Before long, the little fellow was hopping toward the woods. He stopped, turned, and gave a little wave with one front paw. Delighted, both Hattie and the man returned the gesture.

  “Three more hops and the rabbit had made it to the edge of the woods, where he stopped and gave another little wave.

  “The guy says to Hattie, ‘That was amazing! What was in that bottle?’

  “Hattie shrugged and answered, ‘Oh, it’s just hare restorer with permanent wave.”

  The room erupted in boisterous laughter, and despite my raging case of nerves I joined in.

  “I’ve never heard you tell that one before,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  “Ah, that’s Hairdresser Hattie for you. A million stories just waiting to be told. Always something new,” Val quipped.

  A rude cough erupted from the far side of the room, and our attention was brought to a very unamused Bitsy standing in the doorway. The severe frown which brought cracks to her heavily applied foundation gave me my first real surge of hope.

  “Wanda Jo. Valentine.” She nodded in our direction and the rest of the class, with the exception of Mitzi, scampered to their seats. Her lips were pressed into a thin, coral-colored slash as she made her way toward us. Hastily she slapped a test booklet and a key before each of us.

  “Congratulations,” she hissed before making a hasty departure.

  I stared in disbelief, first at the “100%” written in bright red ink across the cover below my name, and then at the small brass key.

  My disbelief slowly turned to awe as I continued to stare at the key. To anyone else it would have appeared plain and unassuming. But to me it couldn’t have been more impressive if it had been cast in twenty-four-karat gold.

  As I reached into my bag and extracted my key ring, I realized this was the definitive item that made a person an adult. Keys. Simple little things most of us take for granted most of the time. But honestly, they are so much more.

  Actually, one could say it was the keys that made the person.

  During the course of my life, I’d certainly had my fair share of keys. A key to our elegant San Francisco house. A new key for a likewise new car nearly every year of my married life. A key for the safe deposit box where the vast majority of my E and E from Ts were kept.

  Each time I’d surrendered one of those keys I’d actually surrendered a piece of my life, until I’d arrived in West Virginia with only the key to the Lexus remaining.

  I slipped my newest addition onto the ring between the car and diner keys. I counted, touching each in turn: cottage, diner, car, and station. Four keys, but really it was so much more.

  It was a brand new life.

  “Now that you’ve seen it and can believe it”—Val paused, glancing toward my test booklet—“this is for you.” Val laughed, handing me a small package I gleefully tore the wrap from.

  “It’s wonderful! You always do such great needlework,” I gushed as I admired the hand-stitched, plastic canvas nameplate with suction cup attached, much like the one she’d presented at our last such celebration during our Vo-Tech days.

  “Some hobbies are just too much fun to give up.”

  Hugs were passed around, many congratulations sounded, and before I knew it Renetta was handing me a paper plate filled to capacity with a sampling of the potluck feast. The room was soon filled with laughter, compliments on cooking, and recipe requests as we ate in companionable joy.

  A knock sounded, and the door cracked open slowly. “Is this a private party, or can just anybody join in?”

  All heads, mine included, swiveled tow
ard the door, surprised by the novelty of hearing a man’s voice in a beauty school.

  I gaped as Sam’s large frame filled the doorway, one arm hidden behind his back.

  “Congratulations, Wanda Jo.” He brought the arm around to reveal a lovely cookie-and-candy bouquet.

  I accepted, admiring the tiny multicolored, plastic blow dryers, curling irons, and scissors cleverly tucked in among the sweets and arranged in a giant-sized coffee mug with #1 Hairdresser in bright yellow script on one side.

  “This is wonderful! Thank you so much.” I stretched on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Buckston County grapevine?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how did you know I passed?”

  “I know you.” Sam grinned, covertly glancing at the enormous covered-dish buffet.

  And I know you. “The plates are on the desk. Help yourself,” I suggested.

  Sam didn’t wait to be asked twice. Hearty appetite, that man.

  Three heaping plates and much good conversation later, Sam leaned back in his chair.

  “So when are you officially going on the floor?” he asked.

  I looked toward Mitzi.

  She looked at her watch. “You’re open till three.”

  “Three?” I asked, baffled.

  “You’re booked for a cut and an ear piercing.” Mitzi shook her head. “A most insistent gentleman. He’s been calling practically every day for the last week to see if you were on the floor yet.”

  Val and I looked at each other. “Mr. Plower,” we decided in unison with a laugh.

  “How about squeezing me in for a haircut?” Sam asked.

  “Sure,” I answered as I dug my shears, assorted haircutting gear, and key ring from my tote bag.

  Sam opened the door. “Lead the way.”

  “Thanks for coming,” I said as I made my way toward my new station. “I appreciate the moral support.”

  Sam shrugged. “I just wanted a haircut,” he said, taking a seat as I unfolded a cape.

  I wasn’t really happy with the part of me that didn’t want to believe him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Time is an amazing thing.

  It flies by at the speed of light when you’re having fun, or even if you’re just plain busy. Take the last couple of weeks, as an example. I’d barely had time to take a breath I’d been so busy with preparations and renovations for the grand opening of Be Headed, diner shifts chock full of happy campers, and school days spent up to my elbows in hair. I’d been loving every minute of it.

  And now, as I stood over the shampoo sink, my sneaker-clad feet rooted to the gray, industrial tile floor, I realized time had done an about-face and slowed to the pace of a geriatric snail.

  For one second I had the wild thought that if I just continued to rinse it would improve the view, which was decidedly…well, green.

  And we’re not talking green as in a tinge of the Verde. Or even the minimal greenish highlight. Oh, no. We’re talking about a green so vibrant it could outshine an early spring green pea. Oh, hell, more like an entire damned field of them. I silently sighed.

  Not good.

  Oh, Lord. This was a seriously not a good look for my client, who was currently reclining in the chair with her eyes closed, enjoying the warm spray of water and thankfully oblivious to her plight. I glanced down at her outfit peeking out from beneath the shampoo cape, a solid, bright green sheath dress with dyed-to-match pumps.

  I groaned. If I didn’t fix this mess she was going to look like a much older version of the Jolly Green Giant’s famous sidekick, the Little Green Sprout.

  I reached for the harshest bottle of shampoo on the back bar and sent a small prayer heavenward before dumping a lavish amount in my palm. As I vigorously worked the shampoo into a lather I hoped, rather than believed, it would somehow transform Mrs. Habersham’s green disaster into the flattering shade of ash blonde she’d requested earlier.

  But hell, I wasn’t picky. Any shade of blonde would have been okey-dokey with me at the moment.

  I held my breath and rinsed.

  Shit.

  “Wanda Jo, is something wrong?” Mrs. Habersham asked.

  “Wrong?” I squeaked.

  “You’ve been washing for a long time now. I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

  “Have I?” I questioned in a voice better suited to one of the cartoon characters Olivia used to watch on Saturday mornings.

  Oh, God. Of all the people in the world I had to make a mistake with, it just had to be her. And talk about bad timing—Val and I each had only a few more practical hours to log before State Board. God only knew what this set back could cost us in terms of opening Be Headed.

  Mrs. Habersham was the local lady of Worthington society to impress. She was a former customer of Mama Dove herself. In fact, she was only here because the Cut and Curl was officially closed during our renovations. Her mission today had been to check out our skills so she, and her many likewise well-to-do friends, could decide if they wanted to patronize our new salon or take their business elsewhere.

  And, most unfortunately at the moment, we would need their business if we were to get Be Headed off the ground.

  What the hell had happened?

  I mentally clicked through the sheaf of client cards Mrs. Habersham had brought. Past history of hair color hadn’t been changed in four years. She’d been getting regular monthly touch-ups like clockwork, with only the last month as an exception.

  I hit the mental fast forward button and rapidly reviewed every step I’d taken mixing the special formula, originally created by Mama Dove, in the school dispensary. Shade of color? Correct. Base of color? Correct. Proper volume developer used? Same as all the above.

  Nope. I was sure I hadn’t made a mistake.

  Except one glance at Mrs. Habersham’s hair quickly verified I had. And not just any mistake. I’d made one big whopping green doozie of a mistake.

  Oh, God.

  What now?

  Must stall, I decided as I grabbed a towel. I took my time wrapping and tucking, making sure all stray hairs were captured beneath the terry and no shockingly green tendrils could escape.

  Must hold off the inevitable as long as possible.

  Maybe I could convince her the turban look was in this season? Probably not, I decided.

  Mrs. Habersham sat up. “Oh, my.” She sighed, rotating her head while massaging her neck with one hand. “That was relaxing. Almost took my mind off my problems.”

  I jumped on the distraction as I led the way back to my station. “What problems?” I asked, grateful to hear my voice sound almost normal.

  She sighed delicately and began chatting on about the big Halloween fundraiser ball she was to attend tomorrow night. I tried to make all the appropriate conversational noises, while my mind raced frantically to find a way out of this big, green mess.

  “A costume.” Mrs. Habersham sat in the hydraulic chair. “Of course, it is fitting for Halloween. But I mean, can you imagine? At my age? Well, I just haven’t the faintest idea what to do.”

  Honey, that makes two of us.

  “But no matter. I’ll think of something.” She scooted back, giving a wave of one perfectly manicured hand. “At least I know my hair will be an absolutely perfect ash blonde.”

  Oh, Lord. This had the potential to get really ugly. I locked the hydraulic bar with my foot.

  “Wanda Jo, you look so pale.” Mrs. Habersham caught my gaze in the mirror’s reflection.

  I blinked.

  “Are you quite all right, dear?”

  “Fine,” I squeaked as I placed both hands firmly on the towel covering what was definitely not fine.

  “Well, then, let’s carry on. I’ve got an important luncheon to attend, and I simply can’t be late. Besides, I want to show off my new outfit. I bought it especially to go with my fresh hair color.”

  I stood, my sneakers once again rooted to the spot; my fingers pressing the towel to her scalp. “About that color,” I squeaked.
“It might look a little different…”

  “Nonsense. You followed Dove’s instructions to the letter. It’s my usual lovely champagne blonde.”

  “Well, it’s not quite as champagne as we would have hoped.” I gulped.

  “Of course it is,” Mrs. Habersham huffed, loudly. “Towel off, Wanda Jo.” She brought her jeweled, manicured fingers to mine, prying them off one by one.

  I watched the drama unfold in the mirror’s reflection. My complexion had gone so pale the blusher I’d applied earlier stood out like rose-colored tire tracks across both cheeks. By contrast, Mrs. Habersham’s face was rapidly turning a most unflattering shade of scarlet.

  I tightened my grip while my mind whirled furiously trying to come up with some logical explanation to give. Something told me that saying “it’ll probably lighten with a few shampoos” wasn’t going to cut it.

  The petite Mrs. Habersham was surprisingly strong for one who appeared to be elderly and fragile. Seconds later, the towel flew toward the mirror, leaving my fingers buried in her slightly damp yet still brilliantly green hair.

  Mrs. Habersham gulped in a silent breath as all oxygen left my lungs in a squeak. As though in slow motion her mouth opened, centimeter by centimeter, and then her head tilted back.

  Her scream rang through the school with enough force to rattle the station mirrors.

  All conversation ended. Scissors, combs, and rollers clattered to the floor from one end of the clinic to the other. Heads, student and client alike, swiveled in our direction. Clients popped from beneath bonnet-style hair dryers in a rush to boot up hearing aids and don glasses. Students gasped in wide-mouthed astonishment and moved in for a closer view.

  The backlash of their collective gasp sucked all remaining air from the building.

  I took a pace backward, stunned. I had no idea one could achieve such a shrill note without previous opera training.

  “I… We…” I stuttered, staring at the perfect color match between her hair and outfit in the mirror. “Damn.”

  Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, her eyes disappeared beneath heavily shadowed lids. Less than a second later, in one fluid movement, she slid from the chair to the space beneath my station, a tidy ball of brilliant green from head to toe.