10. Mallory
Chapter 10
Mallory
The Olive Festival is still a few days away, but I'm not waiting until then to get started. I want to know all there is to know about this town. Its history. Its inhabitants.
Normally I'd say one of the best places to go to reach that goal is the local bar. A hole in the wall kind of place with peanut shells on the floor and something sticky on the countertop no matter how many times it's wiped down.
It's too early in the day for that, so I'll try my luck at the next best place. A spot where the gossip is sure to be fresh and flowing.
The Rowdy Mermaid hair salon. I'm not in need of a trim, but I think I'll be getting one today anyhow.
Lucky for me, Rowdy Mermaid accepts walk-ins. There's one stylist available, a round-faced young girl who looks like she cannot be older than eighteen years old. Her name tag reads Miranda .
She is shy and a little nervous with hands that shake. Her jitters don't worry me. It would be hard to mess up my long layers and no framing around my face. My hairstylist in Phoenix is always joking she's basically robbing me blind because of how expensive her haircuts are and how simple my preference is. That may be true, but she's the only person who has ever put color in my hair, and I trust her completely. When a brunette finds a hairstylist who can give her dimension without making her brassy, it essentially means they mate for life.
Miranda leads me to her station at the back of the room. All the other chairs are full, and the conversation slows as I walk through. Their eyes are on me and I don't only feel it, I see it reflected in the individual mirrors in each station. If this were Phoenix, I'd be uncomfortable, fearing I was suffering an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. But this is a small town, and newcomers are noteworthy, warranting a slowdown in the pace of chatter.
I say nothing. My plan is to keep a low profile, stay quiet with ears open. I'm listening and learning.
Miranda guides me into her chair. "What can I do for you today?"
"A simple trim, please."
Relief cascades over her young features. "I've only been out of school for a few weeks," she admits. "I hope that's ok."
"Of course it's ok," I tell her. "Everybody has to start somewhere."
Her shoulders relax. The chatter in the salon picks back up. Miranda leads me to a row of basins and begins to wash my hair. I've been in salons where they have a dedicated person to do the washing, but the Rowdy Mermaid is small. Intimate.
"Is the water temperature ok for you?" Miranda asks, running the back of her hand through the water to test it.
"It's a little bit hot," I confess. I'm the type of person who would've grinned and beared it, not wanting to complain, but one of my goals this year is to feel more comfortable with asserting myself. Even if it's as simple as admitting the water temperature is too hot for my comfort.
The new life growing inside me is the reason for my goal. Suddenly, there's this pressing need to be all the things I've always wanted to be, but did not feel incentivized to go after or change about myself. I want to be an assertive woman, a mom who says what she likes and what she doesn't like. I don't want my child to grow up with someone who doesn't know how to draw boundaries. If I want my child to be a person with firm boundaries, I have to draw them for myself.
Miranda finishes the wash and settles me back into the chair in front of her station. She tries to engage me in small talk, the usual where are you from? How long are you in town? What do you do for a living? I do my best to give short answers that don't lead to follow up questions, and when she asked what I do for a living, I outright lie. I'm in grad school .
People tend to be very interested in true crime, and podcasting, and when those two things are put together, the questions are endless. Right now, I'm focused on listening in on conversations, so I can't be engaged in one myself.
The women getting their hair done today are older than me by quite a bit. Fifties, maybe sixties. The chatter volleys around the small room as they interrupt and talk over one another. They must be familiar with each other, because that's not the behavior of strangers. With strangers you take your turn and appear to listen politely, but really you're planning what you're going to say next.
There is one woman, perpendicular to me, and in the seat as far away as possible, who acts a little differently than the other women. She has a refined air about her, despite being covered in the same unbecoming smock as the rest of us. I'd say she's haughty, though she's trying to come off as regal.
"Who is the woman in that first chair?" I ask under my breath. "The one closest to the window?"
Miranda, face set in determination as she gives my haircut her undivided attention, whispers, "Liane Rooney. The mayor's wife."
My first inclination is to nod, but I have to keep my head still. "Gotcha," I say. Now it makes sense, the way she acts like she is a part of the conversation, but above it.
"My mom doesn't like her," Miranda says, sectioning off the hair near the front of my face and combing it down over my nose. She compares the length, then uses her scissors .
Snip snip.
"Why not?" I ask, matching Miranda's hushed tone, taking care not to glance at the woman.
I find it interesting that she's trusting me, gossiping in that way young people do.
Miranda shrugs. "She calls her a wolf in sheep's clothing. I know what it means"—she shrugs again—"but I don't understand why. They serve on the school board together, and they've been on a shit ton of committees together over the years. My mom is kind of quiet, she's not a take charge kind of person. But Liane is." A third shrug. "I think it's more that my mom doesn't like being around that personality type. It overwhelms her."
I absorb the information, but try not to stay on one topic too long. "You seem to know your mom pretty well."
Unlike me, Miranda has the ability to nod, and she does so vigorously. "We're, like, best friends."
"That's sweet," I say. "Being best friends with your mom."
Miranda holds a section of my hair out to the side, trimming at an angle. "Are you close with your mom?"
No matter how easily the lie slips out, it pinches my chest. Hurts something fierce. "Yes."
Though I live in the same city as my mom, I haven't seen her in months. My mom's best excuse is that her broken heart never healed. That's the one that sits on the surface anyway. Deep down, in an ugly dark place where nobody wants to look too closely, is where she holds her blame, and it's all pointed at me. She hates that she blames me, resents that there's anybody to blame at all. Instead, she ignores me.
I steal a glance at the woman across the room from me one more time. My guess is that she's at least ten years younger than the other women in the salon. "So, I guess whether or not you like Liane is dependent upon your personality type?"
Miranda huff's a laugh. "I suppose, but most people seem to like her. Or pretend to like her." Miranda's neck is bent, focused on her task. I'm grateful for that. Just because I have an easy hairstyle doesn't mean I want to walk out of here looking like Edward Scissorhands.
Miranda continues. "I think she's one of those people it's better to have with you than against you, you know? Not that she would do anything bad to somebody, but life is probably easier if she likes you."
Miranda's astute observation takes me by surprise. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," she answers, but the way she says it makes it seem like she thinks she's a grown-up. "I know, I know, I look sixteen with this round face and dimpled cheeks."
"One day you'll be very happy for that baby face," I comment, surreptitiously watching Liane Rooney from the corner of my eye. Her hairstylist removes her smock, revealing Liane's pale blue dress pants and white silk blouse. Liane leans forward in her chair, peering into the mirror. She fluffs her smart blonde bob, adding a smidge of volume on top. Her eyes shift in the mirror, finding my gaze. I keep my eyes focused on hers, but like most people my first instinct is to look away. Instead, I offer her a small smile, one that is just friendly enough without being too enthusiastic.
Something tells me Liane knows everything about this town. It's entirely possible that spending one afternoon bending her ear would prove almost as informational as thumbing through old police reports.
Our eye contact is broken as Liane spins in her chair. She loops a gold chain purse over her shoulder and marches my way. I would prefer to meet her with hair that's not wet and hanging in my face, but those aren't the cards I was dealt today.
Liane stops a foot from my chair, blonde bob bouncing, smile warm and expectant. The expression of somebody who is always well-received. To her face, at least. "I may not have a photographic memory, but I'm almost positive I've never met you before." She extends a hand. "Liane Rooney."
"Mallory Hawkins." I shake her hand, smiling at her through the mirror. "You are correct. I'm from Phoenix. Came for the spa, and decided to stay for the Olive Festival."
Liane's meticulously drawn-in eyebrows raise. "A young lady all by herself?"
Miranda drops the hair dryer on the tile floor, frowning sheepishly at the loud noise it makes.
"I have to go it alone sometime," I respond, keeping my smile in place.
"I suppose I'm being silly," Liane says, waving a hand. " No safer place than Olive Township. Especially coming from the big city."
"It certainly feels safe here."
Liane presses a palm to her chest. "I'm the mayor's wife, and every year I run the lemonade stand at the festival. It's tradition. Promise me you'll stop by for a cup?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I answer.
Liane sails from the salon with a final wave at everyone. There is a collective sigh around the place, as if Liane raises the frequency wherever she goes.
"Famous in a small town," Miranda mutters, and it makes me laugh.
Jolene: What exactly is an Olive Festival?
Mallory: I...don't know.
Jolene: Hold please.
Jolene: Ok I'm back with answers. The Olive Township Olive Festival is a one-day event that started as a way for the Summerhill Olive Mill to showcase its goods to the townspeople, but has grown over the years to include all local vendors.
Jolene: It goes on from there, but you get the gist.
Jolene: Per our old pal, the Internet.
Mallory: Love that guy.
Mallory: Sometimes, anyway.
Jolene: Do you miss me?
Mallory: It's been six days since I've seen you.
Jolene: Not the question I was asking.
Mallory: I miss you.
Jolene: Want to know what I really miss? The appointment I was going to with you. You know, the one where we were going to find out if you're having a boy or a girl?
Mallory: I only pushed it out to next week.
Jolene: STILL.
Mallory: I have to get going. The Olive Festival waits for no woman.
Jolene: Nooo I want to hear more about Hugo.
Mallory: I already told you, he's kind and obviously still very wounded.
Jolene: Like you.
Jolene: I want to hear you describe how gorgeous he is. How all that olive farming and fencing has worked in his favor.
Mallory: You don't need me for that. Consult your old pal, the Internet.