CHAPTER 4

“She got fired!” Yolanda screeched. “She’s been working here forever! What happened?”

“I don’t know. Man, fifteen years, ten of those being creative director. I wonder what she did to throw it all away.”

“I know! She looked so happy here. It must have been something pretty bad for Dee Dee to fire her. She treated her like a daughter.”

“Yeah, even better than her own daughter, Jackie. Let somebody give me a company car and a six-figure salary! Dee Dee could be talking about my mama and slapping me in the face every day at lunch, and I still would be the biggest brown-noser. I gotta find out what happened!” Natalie exclaimed.

“Find out girl! And then tell—”

“I know, I know. You’ll be the first to know. Look, I gotta stop running my mouth. I see my 9:00 up there, and I have to get my mind together to deal with all her whining,” Natalie said, heading to the rear of the salon.

“They didn’t buzz you yet; you still have some time left.” All the stylists had intercoms connected to their stations and in different areas of the salon and spa to let them know their client had arrived.

“No, we’ll talk later.”

“Hey, wait! Tell me what Maxwell said.”

Natalie gave her a look. Not now, she mouthed.

“C’mon, tell me what he said! Did Maxwell tell you anything good?” Yolanda said loudly.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask me and I’ll tell you if it was good or not,” a deep voice said behind her.

Yolanda stiffened, and she saw Natalie laughing as she slipped behind the door to the supply room. Yolanda took a deep breath and turned around.

“Hi, Maxwell.” This is your chance, say something clever.

“You look really…” Handsome? She noticed fine prickles of sweat on Maxwell’s nose. “You look really moist.” Moist? What was I thinking?

Maxwell quirked his eyebrows.

“Thank you, I think,” he said, a smile creeping onto his full lips. He ran his finger along his chin and waited for Yolanda to say more.

“I don’t exactly mean moist; I don’t know why that word popped into my head. I was just thinking of something to say, and then I started looking at you, and your nose has those little sweat sprinkles on them, which I personally think is cute.” You’re dying; just shut up already— “So I just thought of moist. It’s not like you have a booger or something in your nose.” Did I just say booger?— “It’s just slightly moist, you know, nothing to worry about. I mean everyone—”

“Yolanda,” Maxwell interrupted, putting his hand on her shoulder, “breathe.”

Houston, we have contact!

She looked at his hand on her shoulder. His fingers were long and wide, with short, clear nails buffed to a natural shine. Yolanda looked up at him. This was the second time in three years that Maxwell had touched her. Sure, the first one was probably an accident. She had dropped some change in the salon café and he had bent down and picked the coins up. When he dropped the cool pennies into her palm, his long fingers had grazed her hand. That was nothing compared to this. This was intentional. So of course I now have to ruin it.

“Natalie was just telling me some disturbing news about Sheila.”

He removed his hand from her shoulder.

“Really?” he said again, raising his eyebrow. “What have you heard?”

“I heard that Sheila got fired.”

Shaking his head, he looked down. “I forgot how fast news travels in this salon.” Looking up, he added, “Look, Yolanda, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. Sheila is thinking about leaving, but nothing is final. Can I trust you to treat this information with discretion?”

“Sure, Maxwell, I won’t tell a soul.”

* * *

“Yeah, you were right. Sheila got fired.”

“What did I tell you? I knew it!” Natalie said smugly, looking for a pair of latex gloves to apply a relaxer.

“Oh, hush, you don’t know anything.”

The supply room was big, bright, and neatly organized. Large colorfully painted shelves lined the walls and were filled with clearly labeled supplies. A wide oyster grey marble counter ran the length of the room, and a deep stainless-steel sink was in one corner. Under the counter were large white cabinets filled with combs, brushes, plastic caps, rollers—everything a stylist needed to make her day go smoothly. The eggshell-colored walls were covered with posters for color formulations, chemical applications, conditioning treatments, etc. A wide archway led to a chemical room, where all chemical applications, including relaxers and highlights, were done. The salon was beautifully kept, and Dee Dee wanted to make sure it stayed that way. She didn’t want any stains on her expensive floors or her custom-made styling chairs. The salon also provided its clients with an extra sense of security. Having chemical work done in a smaller room away from the hustle and bustle of the salon gave them the privacy that allowed them to lie to their husbands and friends about their natural color in a bottle.

“No, girl, I don’t color my hair.”

“Honey, I don’t get relaxers; I have ‘good hair’.”

In a virtual trance, Yolanda leaned against one of the walls and looked up at the ceiling.

“Did you hear anything I said to you?” Natalie asked, irritated. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you have that stupid look on your face?”

“He touched me.”

“What! Where? When?”

“When we were talking. He touched me right here,” Yolanda said, pointing to her shoulder.

“Oooh, somebody’s in love! Maybe you—”

“Who in love?” Maria said, interrupting loudly.

Maria Espinoza, the cleaning lady, had a habit of coming in at the tail end of a conversation. Her shoes were soft as clouds, so you never heard her walk up. Nosy people always had a way of getting information.

“It must be you, Natalie,” Maria said, her Spanish accent heavy like a bag of wet towels. “You always have new boyfriend. You so pretty and nice; I know you have no problem with the men.”

Maria’s dark brown eyes told the story of someone who had a hard life, yet smiled through it all. Her face was amazingly smooth for her age, and her dark, shiny hair was streaked with grey and pulled back in a tight bun. Her short frame carried an extra fifty pounds that might have looked odd on someone else, but on Maria it added softness to her round face and body.

“No, it’s not me this time Maria,” Natalie said, reaching for a black nylon apron, which was hanging on a nearby hook, to protect her clothes from any chemicals.

“Why don’t you ask Yolanda? Maybe it’s her this time,” she added, as she walked out of the room to attend to her client.

“Oh, Miss Yolanda, is you who in love?” Maria asked.

“No, Maria, it’s not me.” Not yet, anyway.

“If you filled out more, here and here,” Maria said, gesturing at Yolanda’s breasts and hips, “you would have no problem finding husband. Just eat more, then you find true love.”

Maria trotted off silently, leaving Yolanda alone and feeling a little hopeless in the supply room.