Chapter 10
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” Odessa says to us, “Some of my stylists are working the tables, and I need to check on them.”
“Of course,” I reply. “Thanks for helping us jump the line.”
While Odessa walks away, Momma, Wavonne, and I look around and take in the scene . . . and I think it’s safe to say we are all quite impressed. The crowd control happening on the other side of the doors, along with a string quartet softly playing in the far corner of the spacious ballroom make Monique’s House of Style a tranquil oasis away from all the commotion on the main floor. The tables displaying the multitude of Hair by Monique products are draped in varying shades of pink fabric. Fresh flower arrangements are strategically placed between the hundreds of pink boxes, bottles, and tubs of follicle-boosting serums, scalp infusion treatments, hair lotions, deep conditioners, and, of course, Monique’s marquee product, Sleek. The displays are manned by attractive young women sporting tailored sleeveless dresses made from the same pink-colored fabric used to cover their respective tables. I see Odessa chatting with one of them.
At the front of the room, Monique is busy posing for photos with fans while Nathan directs the same cameraman who filmed at Latasha’s salon yesterday, making sure he gets footage of Monique interacting with her adoring public.
We’re each handed a flute of sparkling cider while we peruse the room and look at the displays. We move from table to table, getting an earful from the attendants about the products on sale and the magic they will work on our hair. One of the attendants, a salesgirl really, talks Wavonne into buying Monique’s Moisture Growth Shampoo and another one persuades Momma to purchase her Nourishing Deep Conditioner. They both pick up a few more items and are probably out more than a hundred bucks between them by the time we stumble upon Alex. We find him manning a refreshments table. He’s talking in Spanish with one of the maintenance workers. They seem to be trying to fix an issue with the electrical cords for one of his chafing trays.
“Mmmm,” Wavonne hums as we approach the table. “Free snacks.”
“Hey there,” Alex says to us as Wavonne begins to fill a plate. “So glad you came by.”
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I reply, introduce him to Momma, and check out his food. “What a great spread you’ve got here,” I say, although I don’t really mean it. The table is a mix of basic fruit and veggie trays, crackers with a salmon spread, various chips and dips, and a couple of chafing dishes filled with some sort of cheese-based concoction—it all looks fine, but certainly nothing to write home about.
“Thank you,” Alex says. “Are you enjoying the event?”
“Yes. It’s quite something. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. There are hair products on display that I didn’t even know existed. I’d never heard of a humidity shield or a scalp exfoliator before today.”
“Well, clearly you don’t need any of them. You have beautiful hair.”
I see Wavonne and Momma exchanging glances after that remark, which falls from Alex’s lips like honey. His rich voice and Dominican accent make everything he says sound sensual, but compliments are particularly emotive.
“So you’re Monique’s private chef?” Momma asks. “Does that entitle your wife to a discount on her products?”
I give Momma a look that she pretends not to see. I already caught her checking out his left hand to see if a wedding band was on it, but I guess she wants to be sure he’s unattached before she starts playing matchmaker. You’d think her trying to fix me up with the barber on the main floor would be enough humiliation for one day, but apparently Momma does not see it that way.
“I’m not married.”
“Girlfriend?” Momma asks.
Alex laughs. “No. Monique keeps me pretty busy. There isn’t much time for all that.”
“You’ll just have to make time,” Momma instructs. “I’m always telling Halia here that she needs to make time for a love life, too. Maybe the two of you could make some time together.”
“Momma!” I say, mortified.
“What? You two clearly have a lot in common. You’re both in the food service industry.”
“Yes,” Wavonne chimes in. “And one of you is in his thirties, and one of you was in her thirties . . . like a million years ago,” she says just out of Alex’s earshot. Then she starts with “Rock-a-bye Baby” in a barely audible hum.
“We do have a lot in common.” Alex says this to Momma, but he’s looking at me. “I suspect I could learn a lot from you after tasting some of your wonderful food last night.”
I swallow hard after that comment. This beautiful man is actually flirting with me. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Not at all,” he replies as another technician appears with an extension cord. “Can you excuse me? I need to take care of this.”
“Certainly. We need to get back to Sweet Tea anyway.”
“Come by the restaurant anytime,” Momma says to Alex as we turn on our heels. Then to me, in a hushed voice she adds. “You should have given him your phone number.”
“He knows where to find me, Momma . . . and I’m old enough to be his . . . well, not quite his mother, but I suspect I’ve got a good ten years on him.”
Momma purses her lips to respond when I hear Maurice’s voice at the front of the room. “Okay. Ladies . . . ladies,” he calls, trying to quiet down the room. “We’re going to start the demonstrations.” He looks around at the crowd. “Who would like to volunteer to take part?”
“I wouldn’t have worn a wig if I’d known Maurice would be doin’ demos.”
“So take it off,” I say.
“I’m not takin’ my wig off in front of these people. My hair’s all matted down underneath this thing.”
“Our volunteer will get a free bottle of Monique’s Crème De Curl and a fifty-dollar gift card toward Hair by Monique products.”
It takes about a nanosecond after Maurice mentions the words “free” and “gift card” for Wavonne to have her wig off her head and in her hands. “Here, hold Gladys.” She hands the wig to me and hurries toward the front of the room before anyone else has a chance.
“You again,” Maurice says when Wavonne reaches him. “What was it? Waverne? Whayette?”
“Wavonne.”
“Oh yes.” He runs his hands through Wavonne’s hair, looking like he just swallowed something distasteful. “Well, I do love a challenge,” he says. “Please, have a seat, dear.” He raises his voice to the audience. “So this lovely young lady’s hair has a . . . a bit of damage . . . from chemicals, probably.” He slides a lock of hair up through his fingers and says something about it having too much “porosity,” whatever that is. Then he goes on to demonstrate the use of a deep conditioner using an oversize plastic comb with widely spaced teeth. He talks about how he would normally have Wavonne sit under the dryer for several minutes, but since they do not have one available at the event, he proceeds to the application of what he calls a “heat-infused strengthener.” He applies a second cream to Wavonne’s hair in much the same manner as he did the conditioner and begins to glide sections of it through a flat iron. “This is the Hair by Monique iron,” he says. “It has ceramic rather than metal plates, which helps prevent damage. It’s on sale here today for $79.99.”
When Maurice is done with the iron, he adds a little mousse to Wavonne’s hair, and gives it a quick style, more with his fingers than the comb, and, I must say, the result is quite nice. He hasn’t worked any miracles, but her hair looks much better than it did when she first pulled Gladys off her head.
“I want you to repeat this process once a week and to only use Sleek to relax any new growth,” he says to Wavonne.
As Wavonne admires herself in the mirror that Maurice handed her, Monique takes a break from her fan photo sessions and approaches Momma and me. She’s looking fabulous in a bright purple pantsuit with ruffles along the sleeves and the lower part of the legs.
“I’m glad you stopped by,” she says to me. “Your restaurant was absolutely perfect. We had such a nice evening. Now that I’m living back in the area, you may see a lot of me and my entourage there . . . after the tour, of course.”
“So you’re living in Maryland full-time now?”
“I still have the apartment in New York, but home base is here now . . . in Mitchellville. We’ve barely been in the new house for a year and, with my hectic work schedule and travel . . . and planning for the upcoming tour, it took me most of that time to get the place furnished and decorated. It’s finally ready for prime time, which is good, as I’m hosting my annual white party there tonight,” she says. “You should come.” She looks at Momma. “And you as well.”
“And me.” Wavonne hurries over at the first word of a party, the mirror Maurice offered her still in her hand.
“Of course,” Monique says. “Starts at six p.m. Ends promptly at ten p.m., so I can get my beauty sleep.”
“A bunch of black folks throwin’ a white party . . . ain’t that somethin’?” Wavonne says. “I think—”
“Thank you, Monique,” I say, interrupting Wavonne. “But I have to work tonight. Saturdays are super busy.”
“Well, I don’t,” Wavonne says. “I’d love to come.”
“You’re on the schedule, too, Wavonne. I need you there.”
“Do you not realize what we’ve just been invited to, Halia? This party will be the biggest social event Prince George’s County has seen in years. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna miss it.”
“That Alex fellow,” Momma says to Monique before I can respond to Wavonne. “Will he be at the party tonight?”
“Yes. He’ll be supervising the food.”
“In that case, Halia,” Momma says to me. “I’ll cover for you at the restaurant, so you can go. And I’m sure you can find someone to take Wavonne’s shift.”
“I don’t have anything to wear to a party like that.”
“How about I make a deal with you?” Monique asks. “You bring a few of your Sweet Tea creations for the buffet table, and I’ll ask Maurice to take you shopping for something fabulous to wear to the party . . . and Wavonne, too. My treat.”
“Oh no. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Of course you can,” Monique says.
“Yeah,” Wavonne agrees. “Of course you can.”
“No, really, it’s not necessary,” I say, eyeing Wavonne as she gives me a pleading look. “Given that Wavonne will likely never forgive me if I deny her this party, I suppose I’d better accept your gracious invitation, but I insist on paying for our outfits.”
“Then I insist on paying for your catering services.”
“I guess it’s a deal.”
“Maurice,” Monique calls in his direction. “We’ll get one of Odessa’s stylists to do the rest of the demos,” she says to him as he steps toward us. “I’d like you to take these two shopping . . . help them find something suitable for the party tonight.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let me get a few things set up for the demos before we go.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me. “I’ll be a few minutes. Why don’t you give me your phone number, and you can walk around until I get things wrapped up. I’ll text you when I’m ready to go.”
“Okay,” I say, and type my number into his phone and hand it back to him.
“So I’m tasked with dressing the two of you,” he says, taking the phone from me and giving both Wavonne and me a good once-over before looking at Monique. “I guess I did just say that I love a challenge.”