Good Hair Days

Chapter 1 Georgia

Georgia

I belong to a generations-old line of hairdressers, women who snipped and sprayed and teased each head of hair to perfection

in our small-town beauty shop. Well, I did belong until I was lovingly cast out. Nevertheless, salon blood runs in my veins.

And since I can’t go home, I visit local salons like a meditation, like a pilgrimage, like a desperate grab at the life I

wish I could’ve had. Even when my bank balance hovers around zero, I never regret an appointment. Not for a sniff of that

life or the family I miss most.

Because good hair is not negotiable.

Not in my life, and not in my heart.

The floral perfume of the glossy, high-end salon wafts over me as I step inside, despite the fact that I absolutely, positively

cannot afford it. It’s my first time here, and the familiar scent of tea tree oil floats by, pushed my way by the warmth of

a blow dryer. It’s like a reminder that everything just might be ok. The music, a soft pop track, plays at a pitch-perfect

decibel. Every employee is well-mannered, unruffled. Without question, these folks are professionals.

A blonde woman with pink streaks and a nose ring introduces herself as Sadie and wraps a towel around the back of my neck.

I know the drill, and as she lifts my thick red hair like a velvet curtain from my back, I recline into the washbasin, my breath pouring out in a sigh as the water rushes over my crown.

I was raised between the basins, under the feet of my mother, my aunts, and my grandmother, two hours north of here at June’s Beauty Shop.

It’s the best hair salon in north Georgia—or at least in our small town of Whitetail—and it’s the most wonderful place on earth.

Well, to be entirely transparent, it’s also an outdated, hole-in-the wall shop slathered in Dolly Parton memorabilia. And

there is no guarantee that the June’s staff is always on their best behavior—even if they try. But we cut folks a break when

they’re out of a job, or down on their luck, or their transmission just quit, and we get by. With a little help from the occasional

gambling tables we set out after hours.

June’s is where the women of my mama’s family have worked and lived and loved for generations. June’s is the reason every

firstborn daughter in the family is named June. It’s the reason every June grows up to run the beauty shop, with the other

women by her side. What can I say—we take our traditions seriously.

“Water a good temp?” Sadie asks. She’s definitely a hair apprentice, the person who will sweep and take out the trash until

she’s a full-fledged stylist.

“Great,” I tell her.

I close my eyes and hear the quick squish of shampoo being pumped from a commercial-size bottle, and the tension in my neck

unwinds as Sadie’s fingers begin to massage my scalp. Being the person in the chair feels like tossing someone else the keys,

a break from the responsibility I’ve assigned myself. A chatty young woman sits down at the basin beside me, smacking her

bubblegum loud enough to punctuate the music. She launches into a detailed account of her recent promotion and the vacation

to the Bahamas she and her fiancé have planned. Must be nice. Still, I shouldn’t compare. I’m at the beauty shop; I shall savor it.

“Cutting the water back on,” Sadie announces, then starts to rinse.

Look better, feel better. That’s what my mama always said about a good hair day. June Louise Scott was the fourth June of her kind, and she died when

I was only thirteen. Those of us left behind—me, my sister, and our maternal aunts, Cece and Tina—follow her mantras like

a beacon, like a ritual of love.

Sadie turns off the water with a clunk when she’s finished and says, “Let’s get you back over to the chair.”

With a towel wrapped around my wet hair, I follow her across the shiny tile floor, past the mirror-lined stations where expensive-looking

clients clutter the seats. Sadie clips me into a cape and heads back to the wash station as my stylist arrives.

“Hey there, thanks for coming in. I’m Jaxy.” She has a short-cropped Afro and is wearing a skintight denim jumpsuit I could

never, not in my wildest dreams, pull off. “What can I do for you today?”

I have the script memorized. “Only a trim, please. I’ll keep the long layers and not too choppy around the face.”

She nods. “I hate it when it looks all clunky when it’s pulled up.”

“Yes. You’re reading my mind,” I say, and I know I’m in safe hands.

Jaxy flashes me a pearly white smile, then gets down to untangling and cutting my hair as professionally as she represents

herself. I feel myself loosen up with every stretching comb and quick snip, and eventually my eyes close.

The office where I work is right above us.

One of many offices stacked on top of the retail spaces at street level, like this salon.

Mine is a customer care center where phones ring incessantly and are answered in far-too-loud voices, almost as if the company’s success is measured by volume.

I’d be lying if I said it was my dream, but it’s not all bad and I do my best to be a top-notch performer.

I’m an executive assistant to the boss, the VP of customer support, Felix.

I manage his schedule, his calls, and occasionally his moods, and my well-organized brain and take-charge attitude are well-suited to the job.

I remind him about appointments, flag his documents for spelling and grammar mistakes, and generally cover his rear when he gets flustered.

Which isn’t infrequent.

I open my eyes, and in the mirror, Jaxy looks laser focused as she measures and trims. Before long she reaches for the blow

dryer, and I let myself sink into the white noise and warm air surrounding me.

Now this is what life’s about. Hair nirvana accessible only from a premiere service.

Even if I’m doing fairly well as a secretary, this is where I want to be—in the salon.

Well, June’s Beauty Shop specifically.

Jaxy takes my thick red hair in sections, curls it, and rakes it into waves with her fingers once it cools. She hands me a

mirror and turns my chair to give me a 360-degree view. “What do you think?”

“It’s exactly what I wanted. Thank you,” I say. “You’re a killer stylist—and that’s coming from a fifth-generation haircare

family member.”

Jaxy’s cheeks flush. “Well, hopefully I’ll see you next time.”

I assure her that she’ll be my first-choice stylist for next time, but in my heart I know next time will be a long time coming.

I should be someone who can afford it, and if anyone were to ask my family back home in Whitetail, they would assure them I could.

Because I am a hometown hero, the class valedictorian and varsity athlete, sent to college on a full scholarship. A Star Child

who worked her way up to a job as a VP of customer support in only eight years. Or at least, that’s the lie I let them believe.

After Mama died, I was something they could point to that was going well.

I gave them something hopeful to look at, something to brag about around town.

Something to tack up on their fridges and the beauty shop walls in pride.

Something to assure their friends that their lives had a silver lining.

How could I tell them it all went wrong?

That the family superstar had burned out?

It would mean laying hurt and embarrassment on them. And I couldn’t do that.

Jaxy walks me to the checkout desk, and we say goodbye. I settle up my tab—on a credit card—and leave a generous tip.

I push out of the glass storefront into the thick, warm summer air. I hear the rumble of Atlanta traffic stopping and starting

on the main road adjacent to this side street. It’s evening rush hour, which seems to last most of the day in this city with

our overloaded highways.

I turn the corner and extend my badge to unlock the entrance that leads to the floors above. In the vestibule I press the

button to call the elevator down. When it arrives, the doors opening with a friendly chime, a small group of colleagues empties

out.

“Georgia!” Mercedes, an early-twenties bundle of energy, calls out. “A few of us are heading down to Russo’s for happy hour.

Want to join?”

I smile as I brace an arm across the elevator door to hold it. “Thanks, but Felix doesn’t have anyone for Sophie, so I agreed

to keep her.”

Mercedes shoots me an impressed look. “You really go the extra mile for him. He’s lucky to have you.”

I playfully look left and right, then whisper, “Don’t tell him, but it’s for Sophie, not for him.”

Something about Felix’s daughter reminds me of my little sister, Junie, the person I love most in this world. I step inside,

and once the doors close, the elevator zips upward lightning-quick, making my insides flip-flop briefly.

I love home, and I love June’s. But I love my sister, Junie, in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever loved anyone or anything else.

It’s probably a good thing, considering she got the name. In our family, every firstborn daughter is supposed to be named

June—except when it came to me.

Mama bucked tradition. Well, she tried. She only made it halfway until, for some mysterious reason, she changed her mind and named her second girl June.

And in naming her so, Mama also gave Junie the rights to June’s Beauty Shop.

It was tradition after all. In her typical fashion, Mama put a good spin on it for me.

I was the star of the family. I was destined for more.

I shouldn’t be chained to the rickety old salon unless I chose to be.

So she gave me a new name and an open door to any possibility.

It was a dream I believed in too. Even if I couldn’t quite outrun the small but constant tug June’s had on my heart.

Since I didn’t get the name I was due, my consolation prize was my middle name, Louise, Mama’s maiden name, the last name

her sisters Tina and Cece still held. Tina and Cece always called themselves Louises, and as girls Junie and I joined in too.