1
POPPY
“Is it always like this?”a snarky voice asks.
I almost drop my color bowl when I look into the mirror and meet the eyes of the client currently sitting in my chair. She’s brand-new to the salon. She isn’t supposed to be my problem, but she’s been nothingbuta problem since she walked through the door.
She had an appointment with my sister, but my sister is home sick in bed with the flu, along with most of the shop.
I knew when I opened my salon that owning a business requires blood, sweat, and tears. But nobody ever told me about all the illnesses that are involved—like fevers, coughs, and congestion.
Today is the last Saturday before school starts back after summer vacation. That means my salon—along with all the others in town—is packed with teachers needing haircuts and students wanting fun colors before they go back to the grind.
Busy Saturdays are one thing, but thanks to this nasty late-summer flu virus, I’m three stylists short and have clients backed up waiting in chairs.
I have been run ragged since I opened the doors, trying to cover as much of the work that I couldn’t cancel and questioning every life choice that has brought me to this moment.
Another quick peek in the mirror confirms I don’t looknearly as hot and flustered as I feel.
“No, it’s not typically like this at all. Saturdays are always really busy, but usually, it’s not quite so chaotic.” My voice deserves an Academy Award for sounding professional and even perky. Though, inside, I feel like screaming. “This is absolutely not normal,” I assure her. “I’m really sorry about the extra noise and wait time. We really try to make the salon experience luxurious, but…”
I start to smile, I really do, but when I meet her eyes in the mirror, this customer, Shayla, is scowling at me like she smells something foul. Her grumpy expression shakes what’s left of my composure and calm.
I’m tired. God knows I’ve been tired for the last eight years. But in all the years I’ve owned this place, I’ve never had to deal with so many people out sick at the same time. I’ve needed to pee for the last forty-five minutes, and I’m so dehydrated, if I don’t get a sip of water, I’m going to start coughing like my sister was when she called me this morning.
It’s going to take every ounce of what’s left of my charm to get through this day. While I know this can’tbe the greatest first experience for Shayla here, I’m doing my absolute best. I only wish that were enough.
“Half my staff caught the bug that’s going around, so rather than cancel your appointment at the last minute, I wanted to cover you myself. I am sure next time you’re here, things will be much quieter,” I explain again, telling her the same thing I did in my voice mail messages—all of which she clearly ignored—from early this morning.
Shayla shifts in her seat so dramatically I have to yank my brush back so I don’t get any color on a place I don’t want it. Today is not the day for corrections. This woman doesn’t seem like the patient type. I want to get her color done and move on, finish up her daughters, and just get through this day.
Shayla booked a color and cut for herself and her teenagers. This should be a large bill and a really nice bit of return business—if she ever decides to come back.
I wait until she stops fidgeting, then finish her color, peel off my gloves, and rally another big smile. “I’m going to go check Daisy’s color. I’ll be right back.”
I’m already hustling over to another station, where I’ve got a bright panel of teal-blue color processing right around the younger girl’s face, when I hear Shayla snap, “Can I get a magazine or something?”
“Oh yes, of course,” I say, trying not to let my frustration show as I grab a few magazines from the table that is within arm’s reach for her.
I smile at the adorable girl who’s playing a game on her phone while I check her color. She has shocking blue eyes—crystal clear and bright like the ocean after astorm. She told me she’s thirteen and about to start her last year of junior high.
“This is going to be beautiful,” I tell her, getting sincerely excited. It’s just one bold panel that frames her face, but it’s going to set off her eyes beautifully. “You doing okay?” I ask her, folding the foils back down. “You need just a few more minutes.”
This is what I love about my work. The technical aspects of making something artistic and creative come to life. Her hair was damaged by the at-home colors she used all summer, so I’m thrilled to see the blue saturation is turning out exactly the way I hoped.
“I’m good, thanks.” Her smile is guarded but friendly, and she goes right back to her game.
Her elder sister is still in the waiting area, her head down, absorbed in her phone. I was hoping to get all three of them done close to the same time, but seeing how backed up we are, there is just no avoiding some waiting.
I head over to one of the voices who called my name earlier, my absolute favorite shampoo girl, Cynthia. She’s giving me a look while she washes one of my regulars, an older lady who is so sweet and loving, I wish I could adopt her for myself.
“Everything okay?” I ask, immediately concerned.
My client Grace lifts a shaky hand toward me and clears her throat with a rattle.
“I know you’re swamped today, honey, but do you think you could bring me some tea when you have a moment?”
Even though I have absolutely no time to run in theback and make tea, Grace has been one of my most loyal customers. There were weeks in the early days when I first opened the shop that she was the only client I had.
