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I laughed as I shut the door. “She was so cute in all that pink.”
“Always. No other color.”
I didn’t see any harm in that.
“Well, are we ready to get fabulous?” I asked her. “Because I’m ready.”
Valerie unzipped her hoodie and shrugged it off, handing it to me when I held out my hand. “Yep! Let’s do it.”
I showed her to the room.
After getting her gowned up and situated with a cold beverage, I stood behind Valerie and met her eyes in the mirror.
“So, what are we thinking?” I asked, running my fingers through her long hair. It was soft and thick. “You said highlights on the phone. Do you only want highlights? Would you want some contrast in there? A little dark to break it up? And what about your root?”
We breezed through the consultation. Valerie knew what she wanted, for the most part, and loved the suggestions I made in terms of keeping with a more natural look. After mixing up her color, I sectioned off her hair and got to work.
Now, I have always said that if a woman gets her hair done professionally, she’s paying for not one but two services: hair styling, of course, and therapy.
Women like to talk. Some men do too, especially ones in this industry. And when you’re working on someone’s appearance for several hours, that’s a lot of time to gab. Some clients vent. Some ask advice. Some simply swap personal facts with their stylist.
Valerie didn’t waste any time. She shared how long she’d lived in Dogwood Beach—six years—and that she was a fourth-grade teacher who absolutely loved her job, not only because she’d wanted to be a teacher her entire life, but also because it gave her summers off with her girls.
Her girls were her life. Once she got on that topic, she stayed on it.
“So, yeah, my kids are with my sister,” she said, pausing to take a drink of her sweet tea. “She’s my only sitter. I’m lucky to have her. It’s tough sometimes, getting a moment to myself, you know?”
Nodding, I painted another section of her hair, foiled it off, and picked up another. “Mm mm. Time to yourself is so important, though.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What about their dad? Is he not around?”
She made a sour face in the mirror. “Don’t get me started.”
I chuckled. “Uh oh.”
“You don’t even want to know the half of it. My ex…I wasted so much time on him. It was my own fault, though. I knew exactly who he was. I tried to tell myself he could change. Whatever. I just feel bad for my girls. You know, their last memory of their dad is watching him get arrested?”
I stilled my brush.
“Yeah.” Catching my eyes, she nodded. “Nice, right? He’s not winning Father of the Year, that’s for sure. He’s out now and wants to see the girls. He must think I’m a fucking idiot. No way.”
I finished painting that section of hair and foiled it off, then quickly moved on to the next.
What…were…the odds here? It had to be Sean, right? But do I ask? I don’t know. And if it is, do I say I know him?
Shit! Why did people think this was a therapy session? It wasn’t. We should be talking hair and hair only.
Valerie took another drink of her tea, watching me work in the mirror.
I had to ask. I had to know.
“So, what does he do now that he’s not in jail?”
It was a terrible lead-in, but I couldn’t just say, Hey, what’s his name? That would be too obvious.
“He’s a cook. He’s always been a cook, but he’s never really held a job down. Not really the professional, hardworking type, if you know what I mean. He’s a loser.”
I bit my tongue.
I really didn’t want to hate Valerie, since I was liking her so much and really wanted to keep her as a client, so I kept telling myself she had reason to feel the way she did, and I wouldn’t judge her based on that.
“Anyway, he’s saying he’s kept the same job since he got out. I just don’t know if I believe him. Sean’s a liar.”
Bingo.
“Sean.” I met her eyes and stuck my hand on my hip. “You don’t mean Sean Molina, do you?” I asked nonchalantly.
Or, at least, attempted to ask nonchalantly.
Her eyes flickered wider. “Y-Yes. Do you know him?”
“I work with him.”
“You…what? What do you mean?”
“I’m a waitress at Whitecaps. That’s where he works. I work there too.”
“Get out of here!”
I chuckled. “Totally serious. Small world, right?”
“Wow, that’s crazy.”
I dipped my brush in the color and parted another section. “He’s, uh, been there for over a year,” I shared, glancing at the mirror.
She lifted her gaze. “He has?”
I nodded. “He’s really good too. His food kicks ass.”
“Sean’s always been a good cook. That doesn’t surprise me,” she said, biting her lip. “That’s…he’s really been there for over a year? Are you sure?”
