I take the mirror and hang it back on the hook on the wall of my station. “Daisy is ready,” I say calmly. “She’s a doll.” I point to where she’s sitting in the waiting area. “Do you like the blue? I think she’s really excited about it.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Shayla says, snapping off her smock and tossing it over the chair. “I’ve got to make a call. I’m going to go out to my car for some quiet. It’s so loud in here, I can’t hear myself think. How soon until my girls are done?”
“Holly’s washed, and I’m cutting her next. Sheshould be ready in about a half hour,” I tell her, my stomach sinking.
The fact that she complained but doesn’t want to talk about it and now wants to go out to her car… I can just imagine the crappy review she’s about to post someplace. But that, too, is part of the burden of owning a business, so I lift my chin and give her a smile, sure that I’m pouring the last drops of my professionalism into my voice. That well is about to run totally dry. “Thanks so much for coming in today. I’ll let you know as soon as the girls are ready.”
I have no illusions that I’ll be earning a nice tip or even a return customer after this, but I’m still going to give the elder daughter the beautiful cut she deserves.
Shayla storms into the waiting area and whispers something to her daughter, who looks up and gives her mom a look but then furiously goes back to her phone. When the woman is gone, it’s like a storm cloud moves past the salon and the sun shines a little bit brighter.
Shayla’s elder daughter is on her phone when I get to the station where Cynthia is putting the finishing touches on her blow-dry.
“Hi,” I say brightly, and the girl’s hands disappear underneath her smock. “Thanks for being so patient today.” I turn to Cynthia. “I’ll finish her up. Have you taken your break yet?”
Cynthia shakes her head. “I let the other girls go first since I’m the most experienced. I figured I’d stay on the floor in case you need me.”
I’m so touched. I put a hand on Cynthia’s shoulder and say softly, “Go on, hun. I’ve got it from here.”
“Okay, but if you need me,” Cynthia says quietly, “I’ll come right out.”
I want to hug the girl, but the more time we spend talking, the more behind I’ll get. I give her what might be the most genuine smile of the day and turn to the teenager waiting in the chair.
I finish blowing out her beautiful long hair, so dark it’s nearly black. She must get it from her father because her mother’s natural shade under the complex color I just did is an ashy blond.
Thankfully, I’m almost finished with the drying because the girl seems agitated. She keeps looking down at her phone, moving her arms under the smock and hiding what she’s texting. This doesn’t seem like normal teenager stuff. She flicks her eyes to mine in the mirror, looks worried, and goes back to pounding away at her phone.
Whatever is going on is none of my business, so I put away the hair dryer and grab my shears from a drawer. “So, Holly, we’re just freshening up your long layers? You want me to leave as much of the length as I can, or did you come up with any other ideas while you waited?”
When I turn back to Holly, her younger sister Daisy is standing at my station, glaring. “Tell her,” Daisy says to her sister, her voice practically a growl.
Holly looks at me, and a fiery red blush pops across her cheeks.
“Hey.” I rest my hand on Holly’s smock-covered shoulder. “What is it? Is there something wrong with your hair?”
I don’t know who to be more worried about right now. Daisy, who keeps throwing nervous looks back at the door, or Holly, who is fidgeting in the chair like she’s ready to run.
Daisy shoots me a look. “We’re so sorry. Holly, tell her.”
Daisy runs back to the waiting area and sits, but she stares daggers at us from across the salon.
I lower my face a little so my mouth is close to Holly’s ear. My mom instincts are not just tingling. There’s a three-alarm worry fire in my belly. Two kids furiously texting, an angry mom, and now, something they are afraid to say. If these girls are in some kind of trouble—or, God, maybe their mom is—no amount of work stress is going to stop me from doing everything in my power to help.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I keep my voice low so the whole salon hopefully can’t hear me. “What does your sister want you to tell me?”
Holly’s lips tremble like she’s about to burst into tears. “Would you maybe let me use your phone? Your cell phone.”
My phone is tucked into the back pocket of my jeans, but before I hand it over to a nearly crying teenager whom I don’t know, I need her to tell me what the heck is going on.
“My cell phone is right here, but why can’t you use yours? What’s happening?” I press.
The hum of the hair dryer clicking on at another station muffles her voice, but I can make out enough ofwhat she says for her words to hit me like a flamethrower to that ember of worry in my gut.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers miserably. “My mom is gone. She left. She texted us to call a rideshare when we’re done and to pretend we’re coming outside to get her. She wants us to leave without paying the bill.”
2
PHANTOM
