Page 44 of Dodge

Macie and I had spent many nights over the years drinking throughout our conversations on men, jobs, world slights, and any subject that took our interest. More like drunken bitch sessions about anything and everything, but this news about Dodge, I needed to keep it to myself for a while. “Nothing bad. I just have a lot on my mind. How’s the POS working out?”

Macie’s pointed look told me my subject switch didn’t fool him, but he let it go. “The point of sale is working just fine. Mallory is the only one who has a problem with it. I’m pretty sure I can get her up-to-date—that is, if she ever shows up for work again.”

Mallory had been absent for several days, and under normal circumstances, I’d have already fired her lazy ass. Since she was—ugh!—married to the man I wanted to be with, I was afraid that would open me up to more problems. Possibly the legal kind, but that would be hard to prove. Then again, the entire staff could back me up as to her job performance. The one and only night she worked for me, only the absolute minimum was done, and throughout the service, I heard her complaining about demanding customers.

“The old bitch at my table wants a new fork ’cause she dropped hers on the floor. It ain’t been on the ground that long.”

“Asshole over there’s mad about the onions in his salad. Yeah, he said he didn’t want no onions, but cain’t he just pick ’em off like everyone else?”

“Hm. That damn cow in a dress don’t need no dessert.”

I’d also observed her sneaking phone calls during the busy shift. From acidic grapefruit juice to sugary Southern sweet tea, she turned it on and off in the span of a heartbeat.

“I’m done at ten. Want me to bring you some food, baby?”

“I miss you so much.”

“I’m coming home soon, honey.”

I figured out it wasn’t Dodge she was talking to. He was at a car show that weekend, not to mention her vibe was wrong. Dodge was being manipulated. Anyone could see that, but was it my place to say something about it? Especially given my feelings toward the man?

It had been days since I’d seen him, but he stayed at the forefront of my mind. Over and over again I replayed each encounter we’d had. The nights he spent helping me in the restaurant. My car. The hot tub. The hotel on the morning I found myself in bed with him. Sometimes we simmered and sometimes we boiled, but we never quite reached temperature. I knew why now, and it was like getting blanched with an ice-water bath.

“I’m still married.”

Macie flung a hand at me. “If you’re gonna sulk about whatever it is all day, at least go sulk at the salon. You’re looking like a Pomeranian having a bad day.”

He was right. My hair needed cutting. Badly. I could no longer ignore the puffed-out frizzy mess on top of my head. Hair care had been a big deal for most of my life, but I’d let it slide the past few months because of time. The tiebacks and headbands no longer worked, and I had no choice left but to visit a salon. Tambre had offered to help me if I visited her place, and I didn’t know anyone else around here, so therefore, I took her up on it.

The door to the salon dinged when I opened it. A TV was showing some morning talk show with the sound muted and captions scrolling across the bottom. The buzz of hair dryers mixed with the country music playing over the speakers and a light pungent scent of perming solutions tinged the air.

A couple of ladies with wet hair sat in chairs. A girl with pink tips worked on one, and a pretty blonde worked on another. All of them were White. I wanted to groan out loud. Driving all the way to Asheville would take more time than I had to give, but did the hairdressers here have a clue about Black hair? I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but I also didn’t want to end up looking like a blown-out poodle either.

I was about to turn around and leave when Tambre came out the back. Her soft eyes lit up when she saw me in the waiting area. “Fauna! I’m so glad to see you. Are you here for a trim?”

I hesitated. Tambre had been nice and supportive ever since I met the woman. She and her husband—“old man” I’d heard her say once—were regulars at the bistro and came every Thursday night. Katie Grace usually served them and remarked that they were generous tippers. Tambre never struck me as a negative or prejudicial person. Perhaps her own heritage made it easier for me to voice my concerns. I took a big breath, then leaned in to whisper, “Um… can you handle my type of hair?”

Tambre smiled, and I let out a held breath. “I understand, and yes, we can. I’ll work on you personally if that would put your mind at ease. When did you shampoo last?”

In no time, I was sitting back in the shampoo room of her salon, my head leaned back in a sink and her hands running through the tangled mess on my head.

“Your ends are really dry. I think it’s time for a deep conditioning treatment. It’ll take an extra thirty minutes, but I’m sure you’ll like the results.” Her fingers dug into my scalp. “This is really nice, though. The curly texture is fine, but you have a lot of hair.”

“I have a Black mom and a White dad,” I said out loud. This surprised me, as I didn’t share that with strangers, but something about these Dragon Runner matrons seemed to emote calmness. The slow, deliberate movement of her washing my hair, the warm water over my head, the massaging of her fingers as they worked in the fragrant shampoo, all of it made me feel at ease, and I opened up. “My dad is the CEO at one of the largest banks headquartered in Charlotte. My mom does the charity thing. She’s on the boards for this and that—save the whales, save the books, save whatever the going trend is. My brother is a doctor. A surgeon, actually. One who gets his picture taken for all the medical magazines. I was supposed to be another doctor or lawyer, but I chose a different path. So far they haven’t forgiven me for it.”

“You feed people.”

“There’s nothing that special about me.”

She worked the sprayer, placing a hand over my forehead to shield my eyes. “There’s something special about feeding hungry people. I’m going to use the personal blend I make for my hair. It’s got jojoba oil, argan oil, and grapeseed oil in it. Not too heavy for finer hair shafts, and it’ll help with breakage. I have it for sale here, and Psalm carries it at her store.”

I gave a short laugh. “My mom used to tug and curse at my hair when she tried to style me as a kid. I hated when she used a straightener on me. She took me to a fancy salon once, but they messed it up worse. Knots the size of golf balls because the products weren’t meant for my hair type. They had to cut them out, and I looked like a sheared sheep for months.”

The wide teeth of the comb glided effortlessly through my curls. Whatever she had in that conditioner, I was going to buy a case of it. She kept talking as she worked her magic into my hair.

“I grew up on the reservation. I had one brother and three sisters, all of us living together in a three-bedroom trailer. My parents didn’t believe in owning a TV or video games, so that left a lot of time to fill after chores. My sisters and I would spend hours playing with each other’s hair. I learned to braid. Box, micro, twist, sometimes I did ombre and yarn weaves. We were the most stylish girls in school. Instead of cutting yours, I can do a few rows on top to keep everything away from your face and leave the rest to flow behind. Your curls are so nice—they just needed a little love. Want to try?”

Tears suddenly hit my eyes. “I never had braids growing up. My mom didn’t allow them.”

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