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I gave my credit card to the woman at the reception desk.
“You can’t be going around in jeans and T-shirts anymore,” Lula said to me. “That hair deserves better. You need a new look.”
“She needs a black leather jacket,” Potts said.
“Absolutely,” Lula said. “With studs and bedazzle shit on it. And then she needs a black leather bra to go under it. Or maybe a red satin bustier.”
“That would be hot,” Potts said.
I took my card back and put it in my messenger bag. “I don’t think I would be comfortable in a leather bra.”
“You gotta see the whole picture,” Lula said. “The hair is sexy in a sweet way. And then you pair it up with nasty clothes, and it says Hey, look at me. I’m complex.”
“I don’t feel complex,” I said.
“That’s on account of you’re in a transitional phase in your life what with the new hair,” Lula said. “You leave it to Potts and me and we’ll get you sorted out.”
“I’ve got a lot of ideas,” Potts said. “I’ve been reading the fashion and makeup magazines while I’ve been waiting.”
I looked at Lula. “I thought Connie said you had a temporary crown in place of the one that got damaged.”
“Yep. The cracked crown got popped off and the new temporary one got stuck on,” Lula said.
“And it was in the front?”
“Yep.”
“It’s gone.”
“Say what?” Lula felt around with her tongue. “What the heck!” She went to a makeup mirror and looked at herself. “Damn! I lost my temporary.”
“I bet it got stuck in that big pretzel you ate,” Potts said. “You probably swallowed it. So, you didn’t actually lose it. You just have to wait until you poop it out.”
“I can’t wait,” Lula said. “I’m unsightly. I got an image to protect. We’re going to have to delay the makeover until I get another crown stuck on. It won’t take long.”
Lula hustled out of the salon, and Potts turned to me. “Now what? We could go shopping without Lula. Or we could wait for Lula. Or we could go to the car and make out.”
“Not only will we never make out, but if you ever suggest it again, I’ll shoot you.”
“You don’t have a gun,” Potts said.
“Okay, then I’ll have someone else shoot you.”
“Just for suggesting we make out? That’s extreme.”
“You could punch him in the face,” the receptionist said. “That might be more appropriate.”
“I don’t like to bleed,” Potts said. “It gives me anxiety. I guess it would be okay if I got punched in the forehead.”
An alarm went off on his phone.
“What’s that?” the receptionist asked.
“It’s past lunchtime. I get low blood sugar if I don’t eat on schedule,” Potts said.
“There’s a food court in the mall,” I told him. “You can get something to eat there.”
“I can’t eat at a food court because of my allergies,” Potts said. “There’s all kinds of cross-contamination. I break out in hives and I get diarrhea if I walk through a food court. Did I tell you I’m extremely sensitive to gluten? And they let anyone work at those places. I know for a fact because I got a job at a chicken place in a mall once. Anyway, I only worked there for a couple days because of the diarrhea from the gluten spewing out of the fry station. And that was when I moved back to my parents’ house.”
