Trudy emerged two hours later with soft layers, a swept bang and an auburn glow, leaving six inches of damaged hair behind on the floor and about thirty years behind in the mirror.
I emerged three hundred fifty dollars lighter in the wallet.
“I feel so...”
Trudy stops, touches her hair and then her glass of rosé.
“...wicked,” she finally finishes.
I chuckle. “Well, you know, Elphaba and Glinda were both beautiful, even if one was green.”
Trudy’s brows contort. “Who?”
“Wicked?” I ask. “The musical? The movie? The origin story about the witches fromThe Wizard of Oz?”
She shakes her newly coiffed head. “Oh, I’ve never watched any of those. Witches are evil. My faith didn’t allow my children to celebrate Halloween. It’s a celebration of darkness.”
I hold my neck stiff to keep my head from shaking in disbelief.
Have you met your granddaughter?I want to ask.
“You must have celebrated Halloween as a child?” I say. “And watchedThe Wizard of Oz?”
“We celebrated Halloween when we were very young, because of Mama,” Trudy says. “It was one of the few good memories I have with Teddy, but Daddy put an end to that. I had to always be Daddy’s little girl. I didn’t want to disappoint him like Teddy did.”
Trudy takes a sip of her wine and then pulls a compact from her purse. She studies her new reflection.
“I don’t even recognize myself,” she says. “What will people back home think?” Trudy combs her hair with her fingers, deflating the volume, making the layers less noticeable. She pushes her glass of wine away. “I shouldn’t drink.”
“Jesus drank.”
“Not on a Thursday afternoon in the light of day!”
“My mama used to always say, ‘Nothin’ good ever happens after midnight.’” I check my watch and smile. “It ain’t midnight yet. We got time.”
Trudy hesitates.
“No one is watching.” I wink. “It’s okay to have a little fun.”
Trudy’s face droops. “No,” she says. “It’s not. God is watching. God is always watching.”
I tilt my head at her. “I have to ask, is this a game you play with yourself? Happiness versus guilt? Because I’ve played that game for a very long time, too.”
Trudy opens her mouth to reply, but the waiter approaches.
“Have you decided?”
We have yet to crack our menus.
“I’ll have the chicken tenders and french fries,” Trudy answers.
The waiter laughs.Hard.
“Oh, honey, this isn’t a Cracker Barrel, and we don’t have a children’s menu,” he says. “In fact, we hate children in our restaurant. Sneezing. Sticky fingers. Spilled lemonade. We spend twenty dollars for their six-ninety-nine order. Did youreadthe menu?”
I smile. “We’ll both have the Nicoise salad. Thank you.”
As the waiter departs, Trudy asks, “Why do you all speak like that?”
