2. Cam
CHAPTER 2
CAM
“PLATINUM” - MIRANDA LAMBERT
M y feet hurt, my back aches, and I’m pretty sure I can’t feel my fingers anymore. Working in a salon may look glamorous, but I’m here to report, it’s anything but. Today alone, I’ve washed fifteen heads of hair—and I don’t mean just lather, rinse, repeat. There’s an art to giving a proper scalp massage, and a reason Daveed named the shampoo area the Lather Lounge. I’ve candled some ears (gross) and waxed more things than I care to explain. Some things just can’t be unseen!
When I took a chance and moved here, I thought I’d be carefully styling the locks of the Tampa elite, not serving them butter cookies and cucumber water while mixing endless bowls of bleach and cutting thousands of foils. Heaven help me, I can almost hear my mother’s smug remarks about me being a “shampoo girl” all the way from Iowa.
Apprenticeship is part of the gig, though, a rite of passage into this profession. I’m fortunate that I get to train under the best. Daveed is world-renowned, as he likes to remind us whenever we complain about repeating any one of the various skills he’s taught us. But it could be worse; I could be training under someone far less talented or far less caring.
Training with the best is only the first step to fulfilling my dream, though.I’ve wanted to be in the beauty industry for as long as I can remember. Not because I’m incredibly vain, or even one of those women with a knack for style, but because I truly love the feeling of making others feel good about themselves. Life is hard, and people often are dealing with struggles that can’t be seen or identified at first glance. It’s not always easy to love what you see in the mirror; I know I don’t at times.
When I was about fifteen, my mom’s friend Luanne opened up her own beauty shop in town. A small, three-chair boutique salon catering to women from all the neighboring towns. Luanne needed someone to answer the phone, schedule appointments, and fold towels on Saturdays, and I needed cash to save up for something other than the old farm truck to drive. It was a match made in heaven.
Working those Saturdays gave me one day a week that I could explore my more feminine side, without dirt under my fingernails or hay to bail. It fostered my independence, and I adored listening to all the small-town talk that ran through the place.
I remember one Saturday in particular. One of the stylists, Sara, had a client in her chair looking for a big change. She was recently divorced, had moved back into a small bedroom at her parents’ house with her two-year-old, and was looking for work. The appointment went off without a hitch—the client raved about her new look afterward and left with an extra pep in her step.
As we were closing up, a knock on the already-locked door alerted me that she was back. Assuming she forgot something, I hurried to let her in and asked how I could help her. She immediately burst into thick sobs, wrapping me up in a fierce hug. When Sara rushed out to assist, the woman shared that she had planned to end her life that day. She explained how dark of a place she had been in when she came to the salon, and how Sara’s willingness to listen, her ability to help her see the beauty and light in herself, renewed the woman’s strength and hope that she could, in fact, keep going.
It was one of those moments that you know will forever change you. Like her story had been woven onto the very fabric of my heart, I understood right then the importance and power that we have over other people, even strangers—not just hairstylists, though it certainly gives us an easier way to build connections. But all people, if we allow ourselves to be open enough to truly see what someone else is going through without judgment. I wanted it then, and I want it now: to be a safe space, a judgment-free zone, a person people can turn to in their darkest hour.
I straighten my spine as the sound of the galley door swinging open jolts me out of my own head.Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep, renewing breath in an attempt to check my emotions.
Daveed saunters into the small room that’s tucked in the back. As usual, he’s dressed to the hilt in all black with skintight denim pants and a black satin button-down shirt. This room serves as a place for laundry, brush cleaning, washing out color bowls, and general bitching about clients. Daveed’s aura and startling beauty, with his curly jet-black hair and piercing golden-brown eyes rippling with flecks of amber, don’t fit in this space. He was made for the front of the house, where the magic and beauty radiate off of him like the rays of the sun.
“Cam, how’s my favorite sweet girl doing? You have bags under your eyes, do we need to talk?” he asks, mock concern etched in between his brows.
His passive-aggressive way of telling me that I look like a bag of shit hits like a punch to the sternum, causing me to suck in a breath. It’s fair—apparently, I look how I feel. I offer him a small smile in reluctant acceptance of his observation.
I could tell him the story I was just reminiscing about, but opting not to be too vulnerable, I say, “I’m great, just finished up the towels and I’m going to clean the brushes next. I was wondering, could I watch you do your men’s cut at four? I really want to get better at blending, but my mind isn’t letting it click for some reason.”
“Oh, my sweet girl, of course you can. You know you’re slaying this job, right? And you’re adorable to boot. There’s a reason I hired you. I mean, other than I’m clearly a genius and was doing you a favor,” he says, rather self-assuredly—his usual vibe.
“Thanks, I’ve just been a little off recently, trying to reinvent myself and start dating again, which is just ugh...Why are men worthless?” I ask, sure my face is painted with weariness.
“Cameron!” Daveed crows loudly. “Not all men are worthless. I find them particularly delightful most of the time.” He winks at me with a flirty grin.
“That’s not fair, you haven’t been on a dating app recently, and you aren’t getting random dick pics from the bros of Tampa. It’s slim pickings, as my momma would say.” Pouting slightly, I cross my arms and lean back against the counter.
Daveed rolls his eyes and puts one finger to his lips, carefully considering his next move as my skin begins to tingle. I’m wondering if I just played too much of my hand. The goal was to avoid vulnerability, and here I am spilling all the beans. I mean, who openly admits their patheticness to their perfect, fabulous, probably D-list celebrity (don’t ever tell him I said that) boss, especially when you know they’re going to meddle?
Apparently, I do.
It came to me last night when I was lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling to make sure Mr. Palmetto Bug didn’t show up back in his favorite spot. Yes, we need an exterminator, and no, we can’t afford one. Anyway, I made a deal with myself to be more open to possibilities and to be honest with those around me, like that client was with Sara and me back in the day. This is the first step, I hope.
“I’ve got it!” He snaps his fingers and twirls his index finger, pointing at my...face? No, my hair. “You’re naturally blonde already, but as I always say, what doesn’t kill you makes you blonder.”
Welp, those lyrics are actually from a very famous country song, but I doubt he knows that or would even acknowledge it if I corrected him. I’m also unclear on how making me over is going to change the currently available dating pool—actually, cesspool. The currently available Tampa dating cesspool.
“Umm...that’s great, but have you seen what you charge? And also what you pay me for that matter?” I ask, wearily.
A makeover by one of the most talented stylists in the world wasn’t something I’d imagined in my wildest dreams. Certainly, it’s not something I would have asked for, or am even sure I deserve. But if he’s offering, who am I to say no? It can’t hurt, and even if it doesn’t change the dating options available, it may help me feel better about myself, which is something I desperately need.
“Oh, sweets, it’s on the house. Come on, you can observe me finesse a man’s hair even if you have a full head of foils. Plus, I’ve been wanting to discuss your career path. What better time than when I have scissors and bleach in hand?” There’s that smirk again. He knows how embarrassing it is to work with a head full of foils, and yet, he couldn’t care less with his idle threats aplenty.
Daveed saunters out as I trail behind, unsure what exactly I just signed up for but also unwilling to pass up the chance to have his skilled hands carefully crafting my new look. This is good—no this is great. Having Daveed Jones do your hair is on par with winning the lottery. Maybe my life’s turning around already. Now, if only I could hit the actual lotto...
Two hours later, poised in Daveed’s sleek black-and-gold styling chair under the static noise of a hair dryer, the beauty of this place he’s built floors me. Every room is appointed with modern niceties, yet a relaxing calm envelops each client who walks in the door. The styling area was designed for the ease of our guests with comfortable hunter-green velvet couches to wait on, purse or bag hooks at each station, and crisp gold script lettering to label the doors leading into each adjoining room. Daveed also considered us, the stylists, by providing ergonomic work spaces, saddle stools, and top-of-the-line equipment. He’s one of the best in the world not only because of his creative prowess, but also because of his ability to create an experience for guests and employees alike.
The dryer clicks off and he spins me around in the chair. Shock and awe strike me. I didn’t believe adding foils to my already-light-honey hair would make such an impact, but I can practically feel my hair moving while my head is completely still. It’s vibrant yet soft, and the way he molded a tiny bump to the ends makes them twist just a tad. Thank God he steamrolled me into it.
“Forgive me, but—holy shit. The movement and texture, you’re a miracle worker. Thank you so much!” I squeal as I jump up to wrap him tightly in a hug.
Daveed gives me a cocky look that asks why I would assume anything less than perfection. “It helps when you have a great canvas, and damn, sweets, you have hair for days. I’m actually considering going home with you for Christmas just so I can get some of that good Iowa grain in me and grow a beard.”
Giggles erupt out of me. I can only imagine what Gram would think of my openly gay boss wearing a skirt to Christmas dinner. I love the woman, but she’s far removed from the LGBTQ+ community. She’s not judgy—believe me, Daveed and her would have quite the time laughing and swapping stories about all of their sordid affairs—but you never know exactly what’s going to come from the woman’s mouth. It’s literal word vomit at every turn...Maybe that’s where I get it from.
“I’ll let Gram know you’re coming, that will get her planning months in advance. The gays are coming for Christmas,” I say with a quick snap of my fingers and a stifled giggle.
Daveed smiles slyly at me with that twinkle in his eye, confirming what I already know. He would have her eating out the palm of his hand in less than ten minutes. No doubt in my mind, Gram would trade me in for Daveed in a heartbeat, and I couldn’t even blame her.
I thank him again with a quick hug and hustle back into the galley to pick up the tasks I left hanging for the other assistants. I appreciate what he did, but I don’t need any of my coworkers thinking I’m asking for special treatment. I want to earn everything I’m given with no one helping me. Maybe I’m a badass bitch after all.