Page 2 of Enemy Crush
It was a Saturday afternoon, almost four in the afternoon. Why on earth was she still working? Where were her staff? My blood boiled—after six weeks away, she couldn’t find the time to leave her precious salon and pick me up? My envisioned sweet homecoming was nothing more than an illusion.
Disappointed, but mainly furious, I hauled my suitcases out of the bus station, relieved not to see anyone I knew. I was tempted to take a taxi, but it was only three blocks to Mom’s salon. Awkward as it was to pull two suitcases, it wasn’t the end of the world, but I’d be sure to use this as ammunition against her some time in the future.
The lights in the salon were dim, but through the window I could see Mom standing behind a seated lady with foils in her hair.
“I’m back.” I announced my arrival with no subtlety, clanking my suitcases against the doorframe.
“Ah, Quinn, hello,” Mom said, looking at me through the mirror. “Welcome back.”
I didn’t recognize the client, a woman in her 20s, which was kind of odd. I’d have thought Mom might decide to work latefor a regular client, not a random. But it was also unusual that Mom was doing a color. I remembered her once saying that hair chemicals gave her dermatitis.
“You’re still working?” I tried to stifle my annoyance in front of the customer.
“Yes, of course,” Mom breezed. “Take your bags into the staff room and make a cup of coffee. I won’t be long.”
Forty five minutes later, the sound of the blow dryer alerted me to the fact that Mom was nearing the end. I left my coffee mug on the small table and readied myself to lash out in outrage. I stood beside her at the counter, fake smiling as Mom persuaded the woman to buy a special color shine shampoo, conditioner and hair masque. The woman paid and swooned over her ash blonde highlights, which admittedly did look pretty.
I waited for Mom to close the door behind the client before launching into my tirade about being stood up with two suitcases to lug from the bus station. But as she locked up, I scanned the appointment page, noticing she had bookings tomorrow—on a Sunday. Surely that was an error. I clicked to the next page. Mom’s column was fully booked out. As was the next day, and the day after that.
I sensed Mom’s shadow over me. “Why are you working tomorrow?”
Mom took the mouse from my hand. “It’s just two appointments. Cindy Doohan and Aileen Masters.”
“On a Sunday? Is there an event? Why are you doing it? Where’s Erin? Or Rachel?”
“Cindy Doohan’s going on a cruise next week and Aileen is hosting a mayoral tea party in the afternoon.” She pressed several buttons on the register. "It’s just a do-up.”
“And why are you working everyday?” I turned around to gape at her. “Are staff away?”
And that’s when I noticed how gaunt my mother looked, how tired her eyes were. Oh, her makeup was pristine, her signature dark red lips, her eyes perfectly lined, her skin pressed and flawless, but the definition of her cheekbones was less about the blush and more about a hollow, drawn look.
“Erin left,” Mom said, busying herself with a pile of paper receipts and tallying columns on the computer.
“Your manager left?” I asked. “Have you replaced her?”
“I’ve been too busy to replace her,” she said, pausing to pocket a bundle of notes from the tip jar. “Let’s get you home. There’s a lot to catch you up on.”
“There is?”
“How was...” she hesitated, like she changed her mind on what she was going to say, “everything?”
“It was fine,” I said, knowing there was no point in extending the bad mood. I was home, exactly where I wanted to be, and Mom and I were going to be in close proximity. Now was as good as any to start anew. “But I’m glad to be home.”
“Oh?” Mom’s eyebrow arched.
“Yeah. The city is okay—for a visit. But it’s too crowded, too many people everywhere.”
Mom’s face relaxed but her tone was as brisk as ever. “Well, I’m glad to have you back. It’s been quiet without you.”
“I don’t get why you’re working so much,” I said.
“There’s a lot to tell you,” she said, clearing her throat, “but let’s wait till we get home. Tell me about your father’s apartment. How is it living on the sixth floor?”
It wasn’t a conscious decision or tactic, but I found that when I was with Dad, I was fiercely loyal to him and talked down about Mom. And vice versa with Mom. So I had no qualms in telling her about his paper thin walls, his deaf upstairs neighbor, the out of service swimming pool, and how he never cooked for himself.
“Typical,” Mom muttered, “he was useless in the kitchen. I hope you didn’t just eat junk.”
I shook my head. “Hey, I think I’ll meet Celeste and Naomi tomorrow. We need to shop for school stuff.”
