“Leon will do the initial cut. Then we’ll have to find someone for maintenance,” I instructed. “Remember, once you begin this beauty thing, you have to keep it up.”
“I will, I promise,” Linda said.
Leon descended on Linda’s hair like a fairy godmother in full wish-fulfillment mode after a theatrical wink in my direction and a, “You just leave her to me.” He pointed out a freshly made pitcher of mimosas near a leather-upholstered bench in the salon’s trés-trendy lounge, before sweeping Linda into his mysterious world of high style.
From what I could tell beyond that, Leon never stopped talking.
While sipping a mimosa and thumbing through the latest W, I could hear his continuous one-sided conversation punctuated by an occasional “fabulous,” or a dramatic gasp followed by a high-pitched peal of laughter.
Mayberry meets South Beach. It made me chuckle just to think about it, and I realized I was actually enjoying myself. Casually meddling in other people’s business had been bad for my business in the past. Now that I’d retired, I could do it simply for fun.
Two hours later, Leon waltzed into the lounge looking like the Cheshire Cat. . . with a kitten in tow. He even made me close my eyes before presenting his handiwork. I almost told him not to push it, but I didn’t want to spoil Linda’s day, so I closed my eyes and waited.
“Okay, now you can look,” Leon said.
He was standing in front of Linda holding a lavender nylon smock like a matador waiting for the bull to charge. “Ta, da!” he said and dropped the smock.
It was all I could do not to gasp. Linda, her new ‘do’ styled within an inch of its life, stared back at me, her expression a mixture of hope and fear.
“It’s perfect,” I managed. And it was. The deceptively simple cut framed her eyes. He’d even given her the new asymmetrical part that was all the rage in Hollywood. Yet it wasn’t a come-hither look. “Leon, you’ve outdone yourself.” I meant that as well. He’d taken it upon himself to layer her hair with highlights and low lights which truly did look ‘fabulous.’ But, I’d promised her mother we wouldn’t do color. And Rainey’s warning about Linda’s father nagged at me.
Leon bowed slightly before reaching out to ruffle the ends of Linda’s hair near her eyes. “I know we didn’t talk about color, so I won’t charge for the highlights. I just couldn’t let this cut go out the door without a little pizazz.”
“Do you really like it?” Linda asked, then craned past me to look in the mirror on the wall.
“It looks terrific,” I answered, then frowned at my watch. “If we hurry, we have time to stop at Lenox Square and pick up some make-up on our way north to the mountains.”
Linda thanked Leon all the way to the front door. To say they’d bonded would be an understatement. The only way he managed to get his hand back from her continuous handshake was to give her a rather clinical peck on her cheek and a little shove. “Go get ‘um, girl.”
“You’re a good man,” I said as I handed him a twenty-dollar tip. “Keep being nice, and you might make it to heaven yet.”
He hesitated, for a moment going as serious as I’d ever seen him. “No, I’m not a particularly nice man,” he said, sweeping the bill from my hand. “But I’m a hellava hairdresser!”
“Oui, chere!” I concurred.
“See you in six weeks, sweetie,” he called to Linda.
We made a brief stop at a Clinique counter at the mall, then headed home. During the hour-plus drive, Linda gave me a blow-by-blow-dry description of her first big-city ‘styling’ experience. Not surprisingly, before meeting Leon and myself, she’d never been asked how she wanted her hair and obviously thought she should share the event. By the second hour of the drive I was beginning to think she’d been possessed by the spirit of Leon—the continuous talker. But, her enthusiasm was a hopeful sign. Just the thing to raise her bargain-basement self-image. How could she possibly be plain when her hair-stylist, Leon, who’d actually met Madonna, claimed she looked smashing?
It was a good start. Hair and a few basic make-up items. We’d had a productive day. My only reservation centered around the niggling worry of what her parents would have to say. Leon or no Leon. The other shoe was poised to fall. So, feeling like I might be sending the lamb to the lions, I dropped Linda off with a smile and a thumbs-up and watched her skip up the sidewalk to her family’s front door before I drove away slowly.
Maybe her father would love the change.
Maybe pigs would sprout haloes and wings.
I was glad Leon lived so far from Mossy Creek. It would make him that much harder to find for an irate father. I, on the other hand . . . I’d be easy to find. Although if Mr. Polk thought I’d cower, he’d be badly mistaken. I’d grown up under the thumb of an abusive father, losing patience with him somewhere around the age of seven. After that, he’d never touched me or Jade again. There hadn’t been a bully since that I couldn’t handle.
I half expected the phone to be ringing when I walked in my front door. When it wasn’t, I decided that no news was good news.
It took twenty-four hours for the call to come. And when it did, the call was from Mrs. Polk, not Mister.
“I wanted to talk to you before my husband gets in from work and Linda gets home from school.”
“How is she doing?” I asked, hoping Linda’s mother would surprise me with the news that everyone loved the ‘new’ look.
“Well . . . her daddy hit the roof when he saw her hair. He dragged her right down to Goldilocks and told Rainey to dye the highlights and cut the new style out of it.”
My heart sank. But that’s when Mrs. Polk surprised me.
She laughed. “But Rainey wouldn’t touch Linda’s hair-do. She told Jimmy right to his face that it was the best cut and highlight job she’d ever seen—better than she herself could have done. And, she’d have no part of ruining it. You have to know Rainey. Nobody tells her what to do.” Mrs. Polk chuckled again.
All right, Rainey! I thought. “Is Linda all right?”
“A little nervous, but she loves how she looks. I’ve never seen her so excited. She couldn’t wait to get to school today. I used to have to wake her up three times every mornin’, and she’d still be late. I just want you to know, in case you hear something different, that she’ll be at your house on Saturday like you’ve planned. I’ll make sure of it. If you should get a phone call from my . . .uh, my husband, just—”
”Ignore him?” I added helpfully.
“Well . . . yes. I guess that’s exactly what I mean. Do the best you can.”
“Not a problem. Tell Linda I’ll see her Saturday.”
* * * *
On Friday afternoon, I took a walk down to Hamilton’s Department Store to order some new curtain rods. On the way back, as I passed the shop and greenhouses of Mossy Creek Hardware and Gardening, a beefy man wearing a tractor cap embroidered with the slogan, My Way Or The Highway, stepped off the store’s front porch and stared at me. He gave me the evil eye, then spat brown tobacco juice on the gravel of the parking lot.
I’d just met Linda’s father. Jimmy Polk was a grading and concrete foreman for a construction company down in Bigelow. I stared at him until he looked away. Then I walked on.
Mr. Jimmy Polk was smarter than I’d thought, because if he’d tried to bully me, he would have gone down in flames right there in front of the hardware store.
On Saturday morning, Linda came through my door dressed in a new pair of embroidered jeans and a cropped white blouse we’d picked up in Atlanta. The jeans fit well, and the blouse short enough to show off her figure, but demurely. I only pressed my luck when I knew I had the advantage. I didn’t want my name brought up in the Sunday sermon list of mortal sin and corruption at the Mossy Creek First Baptist Church—and more than that, of course, I didn’t want Linda’s father to ground her. Linda had been transformed enough for one week.
The shorter length of Leon’s haircut had begun to curl up a bit on the ends giving the sty
le a breezy, tossed look that energized her features. And she’d applied a little mascara and barely-there lipgloss. I made my blossoming pet project turn in a circle so I could admire the effect.
“Guess what!” Linda gushed as she dutifully spun around. “A guy in class invited me to the movies next weekend! He’s sixteen, and he gets to borrow his grandmother’s minivan. We’re going to the Bigelow Cineplex. It has stadium seating and a coffee bar.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s great! Tell me more about the lucky guy.”
Linda took both of my hands and squeezed them. “He’s from Yonder—Sam Weston. He’s a sophomore. I can’t believe I did it. I walked right over to him after class on Monday and said hello,” she said, flopping down. “Today at lunch, he asked if I’d go to the movies, and I said yes. This is so cool! This being popular stuff is easier than I thought.”
“It’s very cool,” I agreed. Privately, I wondered if things might be proceeding a little too quickly. I’d always been one to distrust the winning-lotto mentality. Most of the important changes and chances in life, especially the glamorous ones, were backed by some form of long, hard work. At this stage, enthusiasm was essential, so it would be my job to ward off any pin-pricks which might deflate this new found balloon of excitement. The parent permission question could be a big one.
“Have you told your mom?” I asked.
“Yes. She’s happy for me.”
“And your dad?”
“Mama says we’ll tell him after Sunday dinner.”
Linda’s mother seemed destined to surprise me. On the surface, she appeared to be completely cowed by her husband, but I’d underestimated the fact that she also knew him. What better time to approach her man about a touchy subject? Any good southern wife worth her biscuits would wait until after he’d heard a Sunday sermon on Christian charity and then eaten a good, home-cooked meal. Maybe I had more in common with Mrs. Polk than I’d originally thought. We both knew how to increase the odds of getting what we wanted from our men. I’d simply had more of a variety of men to work with.
“Your mother is a smart woman.”
Linda blinked twice, as though I’d spoken a foreign language, but didn’t comment.
“You, however, are still a work in progress. And the most important question at this point is . . . what are you going to wear to the movie?”
We got out the magazines again and started looking. An hour later we walked down to the square to look in pattern books at Effie’s. Since Linda worked there and could get a discount, we’d decided to make a peasant blouse if we could find the right pattern. “Who’d have thought these shirts would come back in style?” I mumbled as we searched.
“When were peasant blouses ever in style?” Linda asked seriously.
I sighed. “Never mind. I feel old.”
Effie immediately got in on the spirit of our mission and spent forty-five minutes of her own time helping Linda and I find the right fabric for the flowing, off-one-shoulder blouse Linda had her heart set on. We moved bolts, held up swatches and finally discovered the perfect blue material.
“You’ll look like a mermaid in this color,” Effie declared.
“And it’ll bring out the blue in your eyes,” I added.
Measuring and cutting the fabric was nearly a religious experience for the three of us. Linda kept touching the edge as though it might get away before she’d had a chance to show it to anyone. When we got to the cash register, Effie took a pencil from behind her ear and worked up the discount. Then she wrote the total on a small notepad she keeps in her pocket. “Hmmm. Any way I add this, it keeps coming up ‘zero.’”
Linda, a wad of dollar bills clutched in her hand, looked up in surprise. “But you don’t have to—”
Effie stuffed the notebook back in her apron. “Now, don’t argue with me. You’re a good girl and a hard worker. You’ve never asked for a thing. Let’s just call this our lay-away system. Besides, it’ll be good advertisin’ for the store.” She patted Linda’s hand. “I want to see that blouse on you when it’s finished. I bet you’ll be right smart lookin’.”
We left Effie’s fabric store, me walking on the sidewalk, Linda floating along in imaginary clouds beside me. I’ve always thought one good turn should be followed by another, if possible. And I was enjoying the way the world can come around when one person puts her mind on a goal. A few weeks ago, Linda thought she was plain and stupid. After only a few helping hands, she was beginning to believe otherwise.
“Let’s stop at Mama’s and have some lunch,” I suggested. “I’ll buy.”
If you thought of Mossy Creek’s town square in human terms, the shady park in the middle of the square would be the heart, the pretty little town hall building would be the mind, and Mama’s All You Can Eat Café would be the stomach. Unfortunately, we had to pass by one of the elbows on our way to lunch—Goldilocks Hair, Nail and Tanning Salon.
Before we had a chance to make a run for it, Rainey was standing in the doorway, her pink, French tipped nails balanced on her equally pink smock. “Come here, Linda. I want to get another good look at your hair.” Rainey smiled at Linda but gave me a hard stare.
Linda glanced nervously in my direction before moving over to the hairdresser to be inspected. I simply crossed my arms and waited.
“You know her daddy nearly had a stroke yellin’ at me the other day,” Rainey said to me as she parted Linda’s hair here and there to examine the layers. “I thought I was gonna have to call Sandy over at the police station to come and wrestle him out of my shop.”
“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t intend for you to get blamed.”
Rainey flicked Linda’s hair back into place. “Lor’, I don’t mind people thinking I did Linda’s hair. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t change it.” She shifted her attention back to Linda. “You come back to me when it needs to be trimmed. I see what you want now. I can take care of it for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, Linda bounded ahead to get a table for us at Mama’s.
Rainey and I traded watchful looks.
“So, you some kind of beauty consultant?” she asked me.
“You could say that, although I’m retired.”
“Retired?” She gave me the once over from the tortoiseshell combs holding back my needing-a-trim hair to my casual jeans and sweatshirt. My down-home disguise didn’t seem to fool her, as though she could sense a notorious woman when she met up with one. “Retired. All right,” she said, drawing the words out.
“A problem?”
“Nope. Listen, whatever you think about me, don’t think I’m unfairly judgmental. Lor’, there’ve been plenty of times in my life I’d have liked to get the mercy-end of somebody’s opinion.” As if she’d said too much, she pressed her pink lips together and frowned. “Well, I just wanted to say you’re doing a good job with Linda. Better than I could have done. And Lor’, I’ve tried to get that girl fixed up.”
“Thank you. Coming from a professional stylist that’s quite a compliment.”
“Why don’t you come in some time and we’ll . . . work on those roots.” She peered at the top of my head. “We’ll call it, professional courtesy.”
I laughed. At least she didn’t come right out and insult me as Leon had. “Maybe I will.”
I was still chuckling as I walked on. And then it dawned on me.
I’d made my first friend.
* * * *
Mama’s All You Can Eat Café was in the middle of the weekend lunch rush when we arrived.
“Hey Linda. I’ll be right with you, hon,” the hostess and owner called out as she passed by us with three pieces of chocolate meringue pie balanced in her capable hands. After delivering the pie and stopping to clear the dishes off the only empty table left, she returned, snatched up two menus and motioned. “Y’all follow me.”
Now, I’m used to being stared at. I’ve been the object of intense attention for most of my life. But this was different. Walking through this small,
crowded, formica-tabled restaurant full of Creekites felt more intimidating than following the red carpet into a governor’s mansion. For one thing, I didn’t have my persona, my expensive clothes and extravagant style to announce my lofty place in the world. Secondly, I wasn’t in the company of a rich and powerful man people would think twice about crossing.
Strangely enough, suddenly I was the protector. I needed to protect Linda from an overdose of attention.
The conversation level wavered table by table as I made my way to the back of the restaurant, where Linda sat. At one booth, four old men nodded and smiled. Across from them, five women, dressed as though they’d just come from a church auxiliary meeting, stopped talking altogether to look at me. Their forks raised in mid-air, they seemed to bristle with curiosity.
The last booth I had to pass made my traitorous heart begin to pound. It’s an unfortunate truth that some things we never outgrow. After all the rich and important men I’d charmed, after all the money and power I’d accrued on my own, the law still made me nervous. I’m sure it dates back to being a young girl on the street—not wanting to be noticed, or questioned, or helped, or sometimes harassed by the authorities. Just needing to survive.
Two men in the tan trousers and uniform shirts of the Mossy Creek P.D. occupied the booth next to the table Linda had chosen for us. One scrawny bean pole was obviously a young deputy, but the other man, lean and dark-haired and more than a little good-looking despite his somber expression, had to be the police chief. I’d heard about the ‘famous’ Amos Royden from two of my neighbors, but so far had eluded any direct contact with the heir to Mossy Creek’s legacy of inventive police-chiefing. It looked like my luck had run out.
The chief gave me a head to toe evaluation, more professional than judgmental. A sizing-up of my potential to cause trouble in his town, if you will.
I nodded. He nodded back. Most men flirt with me. He didn’t. I sat down across from Linda with my back to a lattice screen covered with fake ivy to hide the diner’s tea-and-coffee station. At least the people who stared at me would have to take the chance of me staring back.
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