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Lennon
I scribble my number on the note, situate it under the cookie box, and reluctantly walk away.
Going home isn’t really an option. That little house is way too quiet for my liking. A few minutes later here I am, driving through town, looking for something to occupy my evening. There are all sorts of quaint shops and restaurants lining the strip, but it’s a bright neon sign off to the left that catches my attention. Whipping my car down a side street, I pull into the empty lot. A bright pink neon sign flashes TEASE.
A bell dings when I open the front door. A large, wooden desk takes up the front entrance area. A mahogany shelf is tucked in the corner, stocked with a wide variety of hair products. The walls are bright pink, and Michael Bublé wafts from the speakers, his soulful voice in stark contrast to the bright, fun environment of the salon. There are four stations set up for stylists, but no one around. I stand for a few seconds before calling out, “Hello?”
“Be right there,” a delicate voice hollers. Before I know it, a young woman, probably close to my age, walks around the corner and stops in her tracks as soon as she sees me. What I expect is a warm greeting. What I’m not prepared for is the high-pitched squeal that comes out of her mouth.
“Oh my gosh,” she says, rushing toward me. “You’re Leni Barrick! I can’t believe this.” Stopping in front of me, she looks me over as if trying to convince herself that it’s really me standing here.
For a split second I’m hopeful that I can convince her otherwise, because this is exactly what I wanted to avoid b
y coming here.
I shake my head no. “I get that a lot, but I’m not Leni.”
“Yes, you are,” she insists. “I would know. I watched every single episode of Raising Ellen.”
Raising Ellen was a tiny little show I starred in from the ages of thirteen to fifteen before ratings plummeted, ending my short-lived acting career—something I was absolutely okay with, but my A-list-celebrity mother was not.
How this woman recognizes me all of these years later, I have no idea. I shake my head again, but she’s having none of it.
“I’d recognize you anywhere. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Leni Barrick is standing in my salon. I have to call Rachel,” she says, swiping her phone off of the front counter. “She’s gonna freak!”
“Wait.” Without thinking, I yank the phone out of her hand and hold it to my chest. “Please don’t call Rachel,” I plead. “No one can know I’m here.”
The woman smiles. “That’s gonna be sort of hard, don’t you think?”
“Not really, no. That show ended years ago.”
Her smile drops, a look of panic washing across her face. “Yes, but people still know who you are,” she says, stepping behind the counter. She digs and digs before jumping up and tossing a People magazine in my face. “Right here you made the front page!”
“Okay, yes, I’m aware,” I say, shoving the magazine away because Lord knows I don’t want to relive that horrific memory. “That’s why I’m here.”
“In my salon?”
“No, in Heaven.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding her head before shaking it. “I don’t get it.”
Lord, help me.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Charlotte.”
“I love that name,” I say, earning yet another blinding smile.
“Charlotte, do you have time to do my hair? And while you’re doing it, I’ll explain all about why I’m here and trying to fly under the radar.”
Something about Charlotte feels strangely familiar and comfortable. It seems manageable to tell a friendly female why I’m in Heaven. Hell, she probably already knows. It’ll be much easier than telling a hot guy who’s pissed off because I nearly ran him over.
“Wait.” Her eyes go wide. “You want me to do your hair?”
“Yes, do you have time?”
“Do I have time?” she says. “Even if I was in labor I’d make time.” Grabbing my arm, she leads me into the salon and ushers me to a large, black chair. “First,” she says, draping a cape around my neck. “Tell me what you want done.”
