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"It's not too hot?"
"It's fine," I said, and closed my eyes. "How long have you been doing this?" I almost expected her to say I was her first client
"Five years," she said.
I snapped open my eyes.
"Five years? How could-- how old are you?"
"I'm twenty-one." she said. "As soon as I was sixteen, my father put me to work in his salon."
"Your father?"
"Renardo de Palma." she replied. "I am his daughter."
"His daughter?" The receptionist was his niece. Was his whole family employed here?
She began to scrub mare vigorously as if she was angry about revealing she was his daughter and put all her anger into her fingers. She was giving me a virtual head massage.
"He wants me to become a beautician like him. but I told him I had other plans for myself," she muttered well under her breath, "He keeps me here helping, hoping I will give in and graduate to cutting and styling. My father doesn't look it, perhaps, but he is behind the times. He believes in the old-fashioned idea that a parent should design his child's whole life. He has even picked out the man I should many, a fifth cousin.
"You would think in this day and age, parents don't choose who their children will marry," she added.
You'd be surprised at how many parents still think of their children as their property, puppets to manipulate, I mused, thinking about Bunny Eaton, but I didn't say anything. I tried to relax instead and enjoy being pampered. After washing my hair, she put in the conditioner her father had prescribed and then told me it should sit for a full five minutes. I felt my scalp tingle delightfully,
"I can get you a magazine, if you like," she offered,
"No, I'm fine."
She stepped back but remained at my side. I opened my eyes and glanced at her.
"You're from Joya del Mar. My cousin was telling me," she said.
"Yes."
"You've never been here before, maybe on my day off?"
"No. I've just moved to Palm Beach," I told her.
"That's where Mr. Eaton lives. I know because I just shampooed his fiancee yesterday," she said with some pride.
"His fiancee? Who are you talking about?" I asked, lifting my head. Was she referring to
Thatcher's sister?
"The lawyer, Mr. Eaton." she replied.
"Who told you he was engaged?" I asked, a little more aggressively than I intended, She actually backed up a few steps.
"Well, it's in the paper. I'm not making it up. I shampooed Miss Raymond and she was talking about it. too. She conies here twice a month with her future sister-in-law, but I don't shampoo her. She always asks for Carol Ann," she said, glaring at another young woman across the way who was working on an elderly lady.
"You said it's in the paper? A recent paper?"
'Si. You want to see it?" she asked me.
"Yes, please," I said, lowering my head. My heart felt as if it was sliding down to the bottom of my chest.
She went to the front of the salon and spoke to the receptionist, who reached under the desk and handed her a shiny newspaper. Then she hurried back as if she were delivering an important telegram to the Queen of England.
