“I’m trying to tell you, and you keep talking.”
“I’m not talking now.”
“You still are…”
“Gina…”
“Fine. Whew, does it stink in here… I hope that’s not me?”
Nettie wrinkled her nose, leaning back against the headrest as she imagined the salon reeking of scorched hair and ammonia.
“Smells like Nair lit on fire? Honey—that is you.”
“Is that what a perm smells like?”
“Yes.”
“Oh gosh—and people do this? Often?”
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
“You needed help, remember?” Nettie reminded her, slipping the key into the ignition but not starting the car yet.
“Oh yes—thank you so much! Um. I really need help because I am still curler-deep and…”
“You still have curlers in your hair?” Nettie blinked.
“Yes.”
“What time did your appointment start?”
“Four-thirty…”
Nettie slapped her forehead with her palm. “Okay—she needs to wash that perm stuff outnowand yes, I will bring you a hat, Baldy McBaldrich…”
“No, no, no! You are distracting me still. The perm stuff just now got put on my hair and we’ve been yapping—sorry Kim—and we’re running behind, so I’m not going to be able to go feed Tate’s kitten like I promised I would and…”
Nettie sat up straighter, her pulse skipping.
Tate.
“Ginaaa!”
“I know!” she wailed. “I don’t want to let him down, so I need my bestie to bail my butt out of a sling.”
“Why did you set an appointment for your hair this late?” Nettie muttered, already knowing the answer.
“I started this morning, and when the PMS gods speak—you listen.”
Nettie rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. Classic Gina logic.
“I don’t want to explain it, but let’s just say that my morning started out with Tylenol, chocolate, cold pizza, and snowballed downhill from there. Will I look weird with blonde highlights?”
“Your hair is dark brown—so yes. Don’t do the highlights. You’ll be crying again…”
“She suggested auburn…”
