Page 2 of Dahlia Made A List

I walked on autopilot and when I reached the salon, punched in the passcode to enter through the back door from muscle memory. The exercise and familiar routine worked to muffle the buzz in my brain. Steadied the tremble in my fingers.

Six months ago, I walked away from everything familiar and relocated to Weston Mill. Landing a job at Maia’s Beauty Spa cemented my move as the best decision I could have made. Maia called it a spa, but we just did hair. Twice a week Daesha came in and did nails. She would be here today, another cheerful face to distract me.

But I arrived at the shop first, as usual, and set a pot of coffee to brewing and checked the pods and supplies at the front for the guest coffee. Maia liked to trim costs where she could and the pods were pricey even when buying in bulk, so we kept a separate stash of loose grounds for ourselves in the back.

The shop kept four stylist’s booths: one for Maia, one for me, one filled with Daesha’s nail stuff and the last for Maia’s sister whenever she swung through town. We each stayed busy, booking out for weeks with regulars. A bit of stability I hadn’t had at the fancy salon in Richland.

The Richland salon thrived on competition, cutthroat and constant. By nature, I was a people pleaser. I found my place with co-workers by filling whatever role they needed: a cheerleader, a sympathetic ear, a helpful assistant. But people in a city like Richland were transient, here today, gone tomorrow to some other bigger and brighter opportunity. They’d eaten me alive and every time I thought I’d found a niche, the faces changed and the cycle began again.

I watered the pretty pothos plant perched on the counter in my booth. I’d never kept the same booth for long in Richland, never settled in and made any space my own. Didn’t dare when assignments were shuffled around at the drop of a hat. The routine and familiarity of Maia’s salon eased the tremble from my fingers, gave me the strength to straighten my shoulders.

A chime sounded from my phone. I’d turned it back on once I arrived at the salon, but kept it face down beside the plant. I couldn’t ignore the phone forever. I would have to look at it. I could be missing an important message. Maybe Maia would be coming in late. Or another tree had gone down in the last storm and Daesha’s street was blocked.

It could even be something from my parents, though I nearly snorted at the idea of them reaching out. They would call versus text, if they reached out at all. Six months ago when I came to Weston Mill, I’d made it a point to call and check in every Sunday evening, but when Mom started ending the calls earlier and earlier because she had food cooking or had to start a load of wash or whatever other paltry excuse she tossed out, I started skipping Sundays, then stopped altogether. Neither asked questions. Mom never reached out to check why I missed our call. I hadn’t spoken to either of my parents in seven weeks now.

They knew how to find me if they needed me. But it seemed most of the time, they didn’t much think about me.

At the front of the shop, I flicked on the neon pink “Open” sign, and unlocked the front door. An old cork board hung from suction cups on the wide pane glass window fronting the salon. The board was decorated with fliers for the local car club cruise-ins and whatever cause they were supporting this month, a couple of dangling tear-offs for Cara’s House Cleaning, and a notice for volunteers to help with the upcoming Kite Festival that I’d already snapped a pic of with my phone. I hadn’t flown a kite since I was a kid and the idea brought a tiny smile to my lips.

I flitted around making sure everything was just as Maia liked it as I avoided my cell phone. An hour later, my phone chimed for the hundredth time, and Ms. Minerva settled into my chair, a queen atop her throne.

“Dahlia, give me a makeover. I can’t look at this tired white mop another day.”

I eyed her soft pale hair in the mirror lining the wall of my stall. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something to keep your mind off whatever you’re avoiding on that cell phone of yours.”

Heat flushed my cheeks as I met the older woman’s light blue eyes in the mirror, lowering my voice as I answered her unspoken question. “Brandon didn’t come home last night and I’m not ready to listen to his excuses yet.”

Minerva’s lips pursed in the mirror. Behind me, I heard Maia’s soft “Oh, hun,” and concentrated on not stiffening my shoulders.

Minerva shifted in my chair. “So what’s your plan?”

I inhaled a steadying breath of ammonia, hair product, and the honey myrtle oil Maia used to diffuse the harsher salon scents. “Well,” I said, not bothering to lower my voice again since everyone was listening anyway. “I tossed his stuff off my balcony before I came in this morning. And changed the deadbolt on the door.”

Minerva’s lips flattened to disguise her smile. “Good start.”

“Isn’t it supposed to rain today?” Maia asked no one in particular.

“Does he know yet?” Daesha asked without looking up from Mattie Gilmore’s nails.

I did Mattie’s highlights every five weeks, but she didn’t look up from whatever masterpiece Daesha was creating on her nails this morning.

My gaze flicked to the digital time display in the bottom corner of my mirror. Twenty minutes before ten. I thought of the increasing chimes on my phone as the morning wore on. “I’m thinking he knows.”

Ms. Minervahmmed. “That’s all well and good, but I want to know what yourplanis, Dahlia Whitcombe.”

Taking in my baffled look, she continued. “Alright, I can see this is going to be a long conversation. Why don’t you give me some of those blue and silver highlights like I saw on the TikTok.”

I smiled.The TikTok. “Great granddaughter was over again, huh?”

“She might have put some ideas in my head.” Ms. Minerva fluffed her soft white hair. “But I need to explain some things to you, things I’m thinking your mama failed to teach you about being a woman. We’re gonna need all morning to get that done, I’m thinking. Call whoever’s after me and tell them I’m gonna be taking up your whole morning.”

My belly twisted, pushing emotion up my throat. My mother never had the inclination to teach me much of anything, be it antiquated definitions of womanhood or otherwise. “Blue and silver, it is.”

By lunchtime, I’d rearranged appointments, immersed myself in the adventure of dyeing Ms. Minerva for the first time, managed to dodge her efforts to “teach me about being a woman,” and relegated all thoughts of Brandon and screwing upyet againto the back of my brain.

No one in Weston Mill dared gainsay Ms. Minerva Conway, so we coasted through the morning until she had me elbow-deep in color with her hair divided up just so. Not looking up from the magazine in her lap, Ms. Minerva spoke. “Impressed you had a new deadbolt on hand.”

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