Mallory
The Olive Festivalis still a few days away, but I'm not waiting until then to get started. I want to know all there is to know about this town. Its history. Its inhabitants.
Normally I'd say one of the best places to go to reach that goal is the local bar. A hole in the wall kind of place with peanut shells on the floor and something sticky on the countertop no matter how many times it's wiped down.
It's too early in the day for that, so I'll try my luck at the next best place. A spot where the gossip is sure to be fresh and flowing.
The Rowdy Mermaid hair salon. I'm not in need of a trim, but I think I'll be getting one today anyhow.
Lucky for me, Rowdy Mermaid accepts walk-ins. There's one stylist available, a round-faced young girl who looks like she cannot be older than eighteen years old. Her name tag readsMiranda.
She is shy and a little nervous with hands that shake. Her jitters don't worry me. It would be hard to mess up my long layers and no framing around my face. My hairstylist in Phoenix is always joking she's basically robbing me blind because of how expensive her haircuts are and how simple my preference is. That may be true, but she's the only person who has ever put color in my hair, and I trust her completely. When a brunette finds a hairstylist who can give her dimension without making her brassy, it essentially means they mate for life.
Miranda leads me to her station at the back of the room. All the other chairs are full, and the conversation slows as I walk through. Their eyes are on me and I don't only feel it, I see it reflected in the individual mirrors in each station. If this were Phoenix, I'd be uncomfortable, fearing I was suffering an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. But this is a small town, and newcomers are noteworthy, warranting a slowdown in the pace of chatter.
I say nothing. My plan is to keep a low profile, stay quiet with ears open. I'm listening and learning.
Miranda guides me into her chair. "What can I do for you today?"
"A simple trim, please."
Relief cascades over her young features. "I've only been out of school for a few weeks," she admits. "I hope that's ok."
"Of course it's ok," I tell her. "Everybody has to start somewhere."
Her shoulders relax. The chatter in the salon picksback up. Miranda leads me to a row of basins and begins to wash my hair. I've been in salons where they have a dedicated person to do the washing, but the Rowdy Mermaid is small. Intimate.
"Is the water temperature ok for you?" Miranda asks, running the back of her hand through the water to test it.
"It's a little bit hot," I confess. I'm the type of person who would've grinned and beared it, not wanting to complain, but one of my goals this year is to feel more comfortable with asserting myself. Even if it's as simple as admitting the water temperature is too hot for my comfort.
The new life growing inside me is the reason for my goal. Suddenly, there's this pressing need to be all the things I've always wanted to be, but did not feel incentivized to go after or change about myself. I want to be an assertive woman, a mom who says what she likes and what she doesn't like. I don't want my child to grow up with someone who doesn't know how to draw boundaries. If I want my child to be a person with firm boundaries, I have to draw them for myself.
Miranda finishes the wash and settles me back into the chair in front of her station. She tries to engage me in small talk, the usualwhere are you from? How long are you in town? What do you do for a living?I do my best to give short answers that don't lead to follow up questions, and when she asked what I do for a living, I outright lie.I'm in grad school.
People tend to be very interested in true crime, andpodcasting, and when those two things are put together, the questions are endless. Right now, I'm focused on listening in on conversations, so I can't be engaged in one myself.
The women getting their hair done today are older than me by quite a bit. Fifties, maybe sixties. The chatter volleys around the small room as they interrupt and talk over one another. They must be familiar with each other, because that's not the behavior of strangers. With strangers you take your turn and appear to listen politely, but really you're planning what you're going to say next.
There is one woman, perpendicular to me, and in the seat as far away as possible, who acts a little differently than the other women. She has a refined air about her, despite being covered in the same unbecoming smock as the rest of us. I'd say she's haughty, though she's trying to come off as regal.
"Who is the woman in that first chair?" I ask under my breath. "The one closest to the window?"
Miranda, face set in determination as she gives my haircut her undivided attention, whispers, "Liane Rooney. The mayor's wife."
My first inclination is to nod, but I have to keep my head still. "Gotcha," I say. Now it makes sense, the way she acts like she is a part of the conversation, but above it.
"My mom doesn't like her," Miranda says, sectioning off the hair near the front of my face and combing it down over my nose. She compares the length, then uses her scissors.
Snip snip.
"Why not?" I ask, matching Miranda's hushed tone, taking care not to glance at the woman.
I find it interesting that she's trusting me, gossiping in that way young people do.
Miranda shrugs. "She calls her a wolf in sheep's clothing. I know what it means"—she shrugs again—"but I don't understand why. They serve on the school board together, and they've been on a shit ton of committees together over the years. My mom is kind of quiet, she's not a take charge kind of person. But Liane is." A third shrug. "I think it's more that my mom doesn't like being around that personality type. It overwhelms her."
I absorb the information, but try not to stay on one topic too long. "You seem to know your mom pretty well."
