Brittany
Hell, Kentucky shows its teeth real polite at first, like it’s smiling while it sharpens them.
It’s Saturday morning when I end up at Blow Me, the salon wedged between a vape shop and a tax place that’s been “under new management” since I was in middle school. The bell above the door jingles like it always does, too cheerful for the way my nerves keep jumping, and the smell of hairspray and hot tools hits me square in the chest.
This is where women come to pretend nothing’s wrong.
The waiting area is packed the way it always is. Mamas with toddlers, teenagers with bleach dreams, women my daddy’s age who still believe a fresh color can fix a stale marriage. Country radio murmurs from a tinny speaker in the corner. A fan oscillates lazy over the front desk like it’s too tired to care about anybody’s sweat.
I pick a chair and try to make myself small.
That used to work in Hell.
“Girl,” Tinsley says, snapping a cape around my neck like she’s tying me to a chair, “you look like hell chewed you up and spit you back out.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “That’s the look I was going for.”
She laughs, loud and mean, already combing through my hair. Tinsley is one of those women who could sell you a curse and you’d thank her for the pretty packaging. “You party too hard or you get your feelings hurt?”
I don’t answer right away.
The mirror shows me pale, eyes a little too bright, mouth a bit hung over still remembering a biker’s voice sounding like he cared about me. I tell myself that’s stupid. I tell myself I’m twenty years old and allowed to dance and drink and wake up scared without the world ending.
Hell disagrees.
Two chairs down, a woman I don’t know keeps glancing at me. Too often. Too pointed. She’s got biker ink peeking out under her sleeve and a cut folded over the back of her chair like she’s saving it from touching the floor. The patch on it catches my eye even from here.
Property of…
I don’t finish reading it. My stomach twists before my brain does.
She leans toward her stylist and whispers, hand cupped like secrecy matters in a room built for gossip. The stylist’s eyes flick to me, then away too fast. That’s worse than staring. That’s confirmation.
They look at me again.
I swallow hard, throat tight like I’m trying not to choke on my own name.
Tinsley catches it in the mirror. Her hand stills just a fraction, comb teeth caught in a snarl near the ends. “You piss someone off?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mmm,” she hums, not convinced. “Folks don’t look at you like that unless they already decided something.”
The woman laughs under her breath.
I hear it.
I hear the words too, quiet but sharp enough to cut.
“Like her mama. Messing with married men.”
My face burns like she slapped me.
Tinsley’s mouth tightens. She sets the comb down with a little more force than necessary. “You wanna say that louder, sweetheart, or you good being a coward today?”
The salon goes a hair quieter. Not silent. Never silent. But the kind of quiet that screams.
The woman stiffens. Her eyes flick to Tinsley, then away. She smirks like she won something just by being heard, then crosses her legs like she owns the air.
