Page 4 of Knot Your Sunshine
She laughs and settles into my chair, already chattering about the spicy romance novels they’re discussing this week.
I catch my reflection in the mirror as I drape the cape around her. My eyes are a little tired, yes, but this is exactly where I want to be.
Creating magic, one woman at a time.
* * *
My legs feel like they're made of lead as I finally flip the salon's sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.' Eight hours on my feet, and every single one of them is screaming at me now.
I lean against the counter for a moment, letting my eyes close. The salon is quiet except for the gentle hum of the mini-fridge in the back corner and the tick of Grandma's antique clock on the wall.
The mail catches my eye from where I'd tossed it earlier. I pick up the small stack and lower myself into my vintage styling chair, the leather creaking in a familiar sound. Outside, the last streaks of pink and orange are fading from the sky, painting the salon in a golden glow that makes everything look softer.
A utility bill, a catalog for professional hair products… and a small envelope with my name written in Mrs. Gable's distinctive loopy handwriting in between them.
The paper tears easily under my fingers, and two crisp twenty-dollar bills flutter onto my lap along with a note.
Always happy to pay for your services, Mia. I appreciate the free coloring, but you're running a business. You can't go around giving freebies to your old customers! See you next month.- Gladys
My throat tightens, and I have to blink hard.
Dammit.
I know her pension barely covers her expenses since her husband passed. And here she is, trying to pay me for a simple touch-up that took all of fifteen minutes.
I fold the bills carefully, creasing them just so, and tuck them into my wallet in the special pocket where I keep my emergency twenty. Next month, when Gladys comes in, these will mysteriously appear in her coat pocket while she's under the dryer. She'll never know.
The chair spins slightly as I shift, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror again. My mascara has smudged under my left eye,and there's a streak of purple dye on my neck I hadn't noticed. Professional hairstylist, everyone.
I sigh, then fish my phone out of my pocket where it's been hibernating since morning, and switch off airplane mode.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
The screen lights up like a slot machine hitting jackpot. Sale notifications flood in, one after another, each one a little dopamine hit. I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I scroll through them. Fifteen... twenty... twenty-seven sales today alone. Even on pre-order, my next batch of hair oil is moving faster than I can make it. People are actually willing to wait a whole month for the new stock to be ready.
But the warm feeling in my chest lasts exactly three seconds.
Because there, beneath the sales alerts, are messages I definitely didn't want to see.
Alex(5:54 PM):I'm waiting for you in front of the exhibition.
My stomach drops.
Alex(6:07 PM):Mia?
No, no, no.
Alex(6:37 PM):Forget it.
Two missed calls from him too.
"Shit." The word echoes in the empty salon.
The art exhibition. How could I forget the art exhibition? We planned his friend's gallery opening weeks ago and I promised I'd be there.
My fingers shake as I hit call. One ring. Two rings. He picks up on the third, and I can hear the disappointment before he even speaks.
"Alex! Oh my god, I am so, so sorry." The words tumble out in a rush, tripping over each other. "I completely lost track of time. A client came in late with a color emergency, then I had to fix this teenager's home dye job… it was green, Alex, literally green, and I—"
