mother’s friends. She sent invitations to business owners in the area. She excluded Allegrezza Construction but had an invitation hand delivered to Helen’s Hair Hut. For two hours her salon was packed with people eating her strawberries and drinking her champagne, but Helen didn’t show.
Gwen did, but after half an hour she’d made up a dumb excuse about having a cold and left. It was just one more expression of her mother’s disapproval. But Delaney had stopped living for her mother’s approval a long time ago. She knew she would never get it anyway.
That next day, Delaney moved into the apartment above the salon. She hired a few men with trucks to haul her furniture from the storage unit to the small one-bedroom. Gwen predicted Delaney would be back in no time, but Delaney knew she wouldn’t.
From a small common parking lot behind the salon, a set of old wooden stairs climbed the back of the building to the emerald green door of her new home. The apartment was run-down and needed linoleum, new curtains, and a decent stove
Delaney unpacked what she considered her business clothes and hung them in her closet. She bought a few groceries, a clear plastic shower curtain with big red hearts on it, and two braided rugs for the worn patches on the kitchen floor.
Now all she needed was a phone and a few new locks.
Three days after she opened for business, she had her phone, but she was still waiting for those locks. She was waiting for the stampede of customers, too.
Delaney sat her first customer in the salon chair and took the towel from her head. “Are you sure you want finger waves, Mrs. Van Damme?” She hadn’t done finger waves since beauty school. Not only had it been four years, but a whole head of finger waves was a pain in the backside.
“Yep. Just like I always get ‘em. Last time I went to that shop around the corner,” she said, referring to Helen’s Hair Hut. “But she didn’t do a very good job. She made it look like I had worms laying on my head. I haven’t had a decent hairdo since Gloria passed on.”
Delaney shrugged out of her short vinyl jacket, then shoved her arms through a green smock. The smock covered her raspberry Lycra shirt and vinyl skirt, leaving her knees and shinny black boots exposed. She thought of her old job at Valentina in Scottsdale and of her clients who knew a little something about fashion and trends. She reached for her shaping comb and began to remove the tangles from the old woman’s nape. She’d found some waving lotion in the storage room, left there by the former owner. Normally, she wouldn’t have agreed to style Mrs. Van Damme’s hair, especially after the woman had bartered the price down to ten dollars. Delaney’s intuitive talent lay in her ability to see nature’s flaws and fix them with cut and color. The right cut could make noses look smaller, eyes bigger, and chins stronger.
But she was desperate. No one wanted to pay more than ten dollars for anything. In the three days she’d been open, Mrs. Van Damme was the only person who hadn’t taken one look at her prices and turned and run out. Of course, the woman could barely walk.
“If you do a good wave, I’ll recommend you to my friends, but they won’t pay more than I do.”
Oh goody, she thought, a whole year of frugal old ladies. A whole year of tight roller curls and back combing. “Do you part your hair on the right, Mrs. Van Damme?”
“On the left. And since you have your fingers in my hair, you can call me Wannetta.”
“How long have you worn your hair this way, Wannetta?”
“Oh, for about forty years. Every since my late husband told me I looked like Mae West.”
Delaney seriously doubted Wannetta had ever looked anything like Mae West. “Maybe it’s time for a change,” she suggested and snapped on a pair of rubber gloves like a surgeon.
“Nope. I like to stick with what works.”
Delaney snipped off the tip of the bottle, then applied the lotion to the right side of the woman’s head and began to shape the waves with her fingers and comb. It took her several tries to get the first ridge perfect so that she could move on to the second and third. While she worked, Wannetta chatted nonstop.
“My good friend Dortha Miles lives in one of those retirement villages in Boise. She really likes it. Food’s good she says. I’ve thought about moving to one of those villages myself. Ever since my husband, Leroy, passed on last year.” She paused to slip her bony hand from beneath the cape and scratch her nose.
“How’d your husband die?” Delaney asked as she formed a ridge with her comb.
“Fell off the roof and landed on his head. I don’t know how many times I told that old fool not to climb up there. But he never listened to me, and look where he is now. He just had to get up there and fiddle with that TV antenna, so certain he could get channel two. Now I’m alone, and if it weren’t for my worthless grandson, Ronnie, who can’t keep a job and is always borrowing money, maybe I could afford to move into one of those retirement villages with Dortha. Only I’m not certain I would anyway being that her daughter is a”-she paused and lowered her voice-“lesbian. I tend to think that sort of thing is genetic. Now, I’m not saying Dortha is a”-again she paused and whispered the next word-“lesbian, but she always did have a tendency toward very short hair, and she wore comfortable shoes even before her arches fell. And I’d hate to live with someone and discover something like that. I’d be afraid to take a shower, and I’d be afraid she’d run around the apartment naked. Or maybe she’d try to get a peek at me when I’m naked.”
The mental picture that flashed through Delaney’s head was frightening, and she had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. The conversation moved from Wannetta’s fear of naked lesbians to the other disturbing worries in her life. “After that house out near Cow Creek was robbed last year,” she said, “I had to start locking my doors. Never had to do that before. But I live alone now, and I can’t be too careful I guess. Are you married?” she asked, peering at Delaney through the wall of mirrors in front of her.
Delaney was getting sick of that question. “I haven’t found the right man yet.”
“I have a grandson, Ronnie.”
“No, thanks.”
“Hmm. Do you live alone?”
“Yes, I do,” Delaney answered as she finished the last ridge. “I live right upstairs.”
“Up there?” Wannetta pointed toward the ceiling.
“Yep.”
“How come, when your mamma has such a nice place?”
There were a million reasons. She’d hardly spoken to her mother since she’d moved out, and she couldn’t say she was all that upset about it. “I like living alone,” she answered and formed a row of tiny curls across the woman’s forehead.
“Well, you just watch out for those crazy Basque Allegrezza boys next door. I dated a sheepherder once. They have mighty funny ways.”
Delaney bit her cheek again. Before she’d opened the shop, running into Nick had been a concern of hers, but although she’d seen his Jeep in the common lot behind the two buildings, and their back doors where only a few feet apart, she hadn’t actually seen him. According to Lisa, she hadn’t seen much of Louie lately, either. Allegrezza Construction was working overtime to complete several big jobs before the first snow, which could come as early as the beginning of November.
When Delaney was finished, Mrs. Van Damme was still old and wrinkled and looked nothing like Mae West. “What do you think?” she asked and handed the woman an oval mirror.
“Hmm. Turn me.”
Delaney turned the chair so Wannetta could see the back of her head.
“Looks good, but I’m going to take off fifty cents for those little curls in the front. I never said I’d pay for extra curls.”
Delaney frowned and removed the neck strip and silver plastic cape.
