“Are you sure about this?”
“God, yes. I need these off my head.”
“All right.” My mother pushed open the door to The Haven Hair Loft.
I’d been expecting the ancient salon chairs and streaky mirrors of my youth. Mildred McKenzie had owned the place for as long as I could remember. Instead, the room was now open and airy. The old, drop ceiling had been ripped out to show the vaulted ceilings that were now finished with modern gray stained beams and sparkly chandeliers.
Soft gray chairs lined half the back of the room for washing stations. A curtained off area with a waxing and eyebrow menu on backlit glass took up the rest.
Bright, candy pink salon chairs took up the majority of the space with slick, well-lit mirrors. The stations had a mix of tools of the trade as well as products discretely labeled for sale. Four of them were manned by hairdressers with customers in the middle of varying treatments. Two were empty, with capes draped over the backs of the chairs.
Then, tucked away on the left was a black chair with a scarlet cape. There was a backlit glass cabinet with products and wigs along with a fleet of colorful dyes. My gut hummed with excitement. Maybe I wasn’t going to have a problem after all.
We stopped at the front desk.
“Hey, Megan.” My mom smiled at the woman. “We’re kind of last minute, but wondering if you could get my daughter in for a treatment.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
I held my hand out. “Hi, Megan. I’m?—”
“Ambrose.” She paled.
“Hey. It’s okay.”
Megan looked around the room. “All my girls are taken. God, I wish I’d known you were coming. I would have moved around appointments.”
“That’s okay.”
My mom leaned in. “Maybe you could take care of her.”
Megan sighed and lifted her hand that was tucked under the counter. “I just had carpel tunnel surgery.”
“Oh, honey.” My mom clucked. “I had no idea. You poor thing.”
Megan shook back her glossy curls. “It’s fine. The surgery isn’t like it used to be. I’ll be right as rain in a few weeks, but I don’t have anyone who could take her for at least an hour.”
“What about the black chair?”
Megan’s perfectly arched brows rose into her artfully placed curtain bangs. “Oh, I don’t know. Ramsey is...” She trailed off. “She’s super talented, but she’s more...artistic.”
“Perfect.” I smiled. “I see she also works with wigs. Does that mean she might have some knowledge of hair extensions.”
“Yes.” The voice behind me was smoky and bored all at the same time.
I turned around. “Hi.”
The woman wore a black Frank Turner T-shirt, the neck cut to fall off her shoulder. Beneath it was a blood red tank with a black fishnet undershirt that hugged her arms. It had holes cut into the fishnet to show off her impressive tattoos. She wore black cargo pants with about a zillion pockets with patches from various bands I’d never heard of.
Every part of her was anti-Ambrose.
“I need your help.”
The woman crossed her arms, a series of bracelets both silicone and silver stacked up one arm. The “fuck the patriarchy” black silicone bracelet cinched my decision. “Why would a pop princess want to get into my chair?”
“You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah, so?”
