“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the first-ever Daughters of Honey Hollow Pin-Curl Pageant!” Her voice carries over the din with an authority that comes from decades of wrangling children, guests, and Suze.
She beams at the crowd, her pearl earringscatching the fluorescent light. “Today, we are honoring an essential pillar of 1950s femininity—the salon chair. The place where women gathered to share news, trade recipes, rehearse alibis?—”
A smattering of laughter ripples through the room.
“And, of course, perfect their crowning glory.” Mom adjusts one of her own curls with her free hand. “This afternoon’s activities are all about a little friendly competition.”
“Oh, I love friendly competition,” Carlotta murmurs. “Almost as much as I love the unfriendly kind.”
“Each of you lovely ladies,” Mom goes on, “will be judged in five categories.” She raises a manicured finger with each one she lists. “Best Vintage Pin-Curl Set. Smoothest Wave. Most Authentic 1950s Style. Fastest Roller Set.” She pauses to let the excited squeals run their course. “And, of course, Best Use of Bobby Pins!”
Someone in the back whoops. “That’s a dangerous category!”
“You bet it is,” Mom says. “We will have no scalp injuries on my watch. Safety first, glam second.”
“Speak for yourself,” Blanche mutters, snapping a comb in half as if it insulted her mother.
Mom gives her a look and continues. “At the end of the afternoon, we’ll parade our finished looks for photos, prizes, and eternal bragging rights at every future casserole competition.”
The room erupts into enthusiastic chatter.
I take a spot near the front desk, settling into one of the squeaky waiting chairs with Ozzy. He roots around my chest, and I figure what the heck—if a full-blown Jell-O melee didn’t stop me earlier, I can certainly feed my son in a room full of women who’ve breastfed entire generations.
I tuck a light blanket over us, and Ozzy latches on with the ferocity of a starving man at a buffet. Lainey bounces Corbin on her shoulder near the dryers, and I have a brief, surreal moment where I realize my babies are being raised in a place that smells like Aqua Net and banana pudding.
Somehow, it feels right.
The stylists get to work in earnest. Brushes swish, dryers whoosh, curling irons sizzle. Women lean toward each other to gossip as Blanche barks orders like a drill sergeant.
“Loosen that curl, or she’ll look like a poodle!”
“No, the other side, unless you want her walking around like a crooked lampshade!”
“If I see one more limp wave, I’m sending you all back to beauty school!”
Lainey settles into a station next to the front window, letting a younger stylist named Roxy fuss with her already immaculate hair.
Keelie slips in a few minutes later, with her bright blue eyes, a brighter smile, and a yellow polka-dot dress topped off with fresh red lips.
“There she is!” she sings, dropping a kiss on my cheek.
Lainey hands Corbin over without hesitation.
Keelie scoops him up and grins. “Oh my goodness, look at these cheeks. I have regrets about leaving Little Bear with my mother-in-law.”
“Is Lyla Nell destroying the preschool?” I ask.
“Last I checked, she was negotiating for more graham crackers in exchange for not leading a mutiny.” Keelie laughs. “She told the teacher, and I quote, ‘This is my class now.’”
Carlotta swoons. “I’ve never loved the little yip yip more.”
I groan into Ozzy’s hair. “Perfect. My two-year-old is staging coups, and my grandmother’s society is turning Blanche’s salon into a war room. This can only end well.” I hope.
Mom claps again. “All right, ladies! Round one—Speed Set!”
Blanche makes a sweeping gesture and several Daughters leap out of their chairs like they’re storming Normandy, hair clips clenched between their teeth. Roxy spins Lainey’s chair toward the mirror with an excited squeal.
“In three minutes,” Mom announces, “you willput in as many curlers or pin curls as humanly possible. Points for symmetry and survival. Ready? Set…curl!”
