Page 5 of Claimed By the Don

“Faith Garvin,” she says, shaking my hand. “Let me finish this and we can go to my office for a minute.”

It’s all I can do to keep still when I want to look around. Judging by the fact that six stations have a client in the chair and there are two more waiting, business is good even at 9:30 in the morning.

When Faith returns, I follow her into a small office and sit down. I offer her my resume and a letter of reference from my boss at Dune.

Picking up reading glasses, she looks over the papers I hand her while I smile too brightly and try not to fidget. Excitement edged with nerves spirals through me while I wait.

“My niece just had her first baby.” She says. I nod, waiting for her to elaborate before I offer to step in and cover a maternity leave with no hope of a permanent job. “She says she’ll come back to work in two months. I’m not sure she’ll want to. I’m not in the habit of turning clients away.”

“What are you suggesting?” I ask, fighting the urge to offer to work anytime she’ll let me.

“Before I decide what I’m suggesting, tell me why you left Dune and moved here.”

“I’m from here and moved away six years ago. I loved Washington, and I’d still be at Dune if not for my mom’s car wreck. She’s doing okay, but needs help, so here I am.” I say.

“I’m glad to hear she’s okay. Do you plan on going back to Washington once she’s recovered.”

“Thank you,” I say. “My son will start kindergarten here in the fall and I don’t want to move him back and forth in school, so we’ll be staying permanently.”

“Good to know. So what hours are you available? Not trying to pry, but most of my stylists are moms and childcare can be a hassle.”

“He starts day camp on Monday. I’ll be able to work between nine and two Monday through Thursday.”

“We’re closed Mondays. Looks like we can take you on schedule Tuesday through Thursday ten to two. What about Friday?”

“Mom’s still in a wheelchair and I don’t feel comfortable leaving him with her all day, so I’d need a sitter for Friday. I’ll see what I can work out. Can I let you know on Tuesday if I can find a sitter for Liam?”

“Yes. If you can make it on Friday, I can work you nine till close. You’ll be on a two-week trial basis to get you settled, see how you fit in with the staff and what the clients think. During the trial period you’ll get fifty percent of the services you do—cuts, color,chemical processes, and I’ll pay you an hourly rate. Then we’ll meet and discuss terms.”

“Thank you. I can’t wait to get started.”

“Here you go,” she hands me a tablet so I can fill out some informational forms and sign on to work the two weeks.

The terms show fifty percent of services plus eighteen dollars an hour to start, and tips are mine in full. I sign it, thank her, and leave to tell my mom and son that I have a job trial. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it becomes permanent. I stop for an iced coffee and come home bearing a low-fat caramel frappe for Mom and a chocolate milk for Liam.

They are ready to listen to every detail of my visit to Snip. Once I’ve given the spiel, I tell Liam more about his day camp and show him pictures of it on my phone. It’s at the school where he’ll go to kindergarten in the fall. Breakfast, lunch, intramural soccer and arts and crafts. His face lights up when he sees the sensory table with sand and water and dinosaur toys.

I help Mom with her stretching for rehab and talk the week’s schedule over with her so she knows I’ll be here for her appointments.

“I wish you didn’t have to do all this. I’m used to taking care of myself,” she fusses.

“I know. So, take a break and let me take care of you for a little bit. Please. I want to,” I tell her, squeezing her hand.

“You had to move home because your decrepit old mother needs rehab.”

“Decrepit? No way. When I was talking to the manager at Snip, she asked why I moved back. I told her you were in an accident,but I love it here, how I’m happy that Liam and I are home. I want him to grow up near his grandma and to have the kind of childhood I had—the best kind.”

“I hope it works out like that,” she says, “I want you to stay, I’m just afraid to hope for it after all these years, you know? I understood why you left when you did, but it broke my heart. I’m lucky to get to see you guys when I can, but do me a favor,” she says. “If you’re not sure you’ll stay here, don’t tell me you will. I can’t go through that again.”

I sit with that. I need to think it over, how much my fear and selfishness has hurt my mom after she devoted her life to raising me.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, and then I trail off because sorry doesn’t cut it this time. I let the tears track down my face silently. She’s crying too, and she holds my hands in hers. I want to promise her I’ll never do that again, run away like a scared kid. I’m a grown up now, and I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. I’m excited for the life I’m starting with my son. Something stops me from reassuring her, however. Self-doubt or self-sabotage, I’m not sure, but I don’t want to overpromise and disappoint her.

I just say, “My plan is to stay here, enroll Liam in kindergarten and hopefully work full-time at Snip. Unless my fairy godmother shows up and gives me a low interest loan to open my own salon,” I joke, “I can’t think of anything that would make me want to relocate again, but I can promise to tell you what’s going on and if I start to freak out about anything, if I panic, I’ll talk to you about it. We can figure it out together. Does that work?”

“That works, baby girl,” she said, her face so sad and full of love.

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