Chapter 11 Georgia
Georgia
“It’s fifty thousand dollars.”
I say it because I hate watching Junie in the hot seat, and I hate that I can’t pluck her out of it like I have more than
once before. Like when, in her exuberance, she announced a neighbor’s pregnancy to a full crowd at June’s before the mom-to-be
had a chance to notify her in-laws. I swept in and swore everyone to keep it zipped. Or like when she painted the windows
of June’s with a winter wonderland scene for the holidays but forgot to check if the paint could be removed. Thankfully I
was able to broker a killer deal for replacement glass. At least the predicaments she gets herself into are lined in good
intentions.
“Look, I think this is workable,” I continue. “We can figure it out.”
“You don’t have any bit of that amount?” Cece pushes her lips into a sick-and-tired line.
She looks like living proof of the fact that I’m the problem here.
“I could go into it at length, but it’s not going to fix this situation. I don’t have oodles of cash sitting around. Money
is invested, put in closed retirement accounts. I’m not a human bank.”
I’ve happily gone above and beyond to help and protect Junie, but even outside of my messy existence, this is a massive ask. People can’t be expected to turn this sum around on a dime. And even worse, it’s all hypotheticals, and I’m still a liar.
Cece sighs directly at me, but before she can deliver a barbed reply, Tina pipes up. “I think Georgia’s right. We can figure
something out. When does Goldilocks need the funds?”
“Uh, like, yesterday,” Junie says.
“ASAP. Got it,” Tina says.
“There have to be ways to make money in this town,” I add. “And the community will support us, if we let them.”
“That’s fine, but I don’t want handouts,” Junie says. “The whole idea of this was supposed to be me taking care of the shop.”
“Of course, but it’s not like we can keep the situation secret if the place looks even remotely like it does now,” I say.
“Honestly, we’ll need the regulars to keep things a bit hush-hush so the licensing board doesn’t get wind of it. Which I’m
sure won’t be an issue.”
Junie gulps. “Already got that covered. But Misty Prince . . .”
“What’s her deal?” I ask.
“There are several ways I might answer that, but what matters here is that she said something offhand, something catty about
our current status”—Junie gestures to the construction site around us—“and hinted that we might get in trouble with licensing
if we don’t mind ourselves.”
I roll my eyes. Misty was in my graduating class, and it seems she still hasn’t grown up. Even back then she couldn’t mind
her own dang business, delighting when she found a way to get someone else in trouble.
“June’s is as much a staple of this community as the church, let’s be honest,” Tina says. “Folks don’t wish us any ill will.”
“Aside from All-Star Cuts,” Cece adds. “They’d rat us out in half a heartbeat.”
“They don’t count.” The comment flies out of my mouth and right toward Cece like an unintentional missile.
I don’t actually have a problem with her, but it feels like she doesn’t give me a choice.
I’ve always wondered if—hoped—she might come around to me, seeing as the two of us aren’t so different. Cece did attend beauty
school, like the rest of them, but she barely passed. In fact, it took her two rounds through the program before she was awarded
her certificate, and even at that rate, there was talk of Mama and Tina pulling strings behind the scenes. Inevitably once
she arrived at the shop, she botched one too many hairdos and was eventually exiled to the washbasin.
Cece quit the beauty shop, and no one blamed her. She took a job working the reception desk at the auto shop a few streets
over and has since climbed the ranks to general manager of the place.
Cece scoffs. “And what about their official report wouldn’t count?”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, really, think about it—”
“Doesn’t matter who—any report would send someone snooping around,” Cece says.
“If you’d let me finish—”
“Will y’all please cut this out?” Junie says. “We’ve already got a big enough problem on our hands without you two at each other’s throats.”
I nod as I flush red. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” I tell Junie. “How about we get down to some real brainstorming?” I stand
and look around our small circle. “Ladies, I’m heartbroken about not being able to write a check and make this go away, but
I’m all in on making something work. Let’s raise our glasses and get to work. The higher the hair . . .”
“The closer to God,” the three of them reply.
We can’t help ourselves; it’s in our blood.
We tip our cups together in a silent cheers, and everyone settles back in their seats.
“We need markers, paper, a whiteboard—something for notes,” I say.
“Like we’ve got a whiteboard lying around in the beauty shop.” Cece says it under her breath, and I choose to ignore it. I can’t be of any help if I’m snarled up bickering with Cece,
who seems to be itching to get me out of her hair.
Junie hops back up. “I’ve got a Sharpie, and I don’t know . . . I guess you can write on the drywall since we’ll have to cover
it for clients anyway—before it’s painting time, that is.”
I take the marker from Junie and give the wall a once-over.
I pop the top off the Sharpie and write in all caps, finishing with a strong underline:
GETTING BACK TO GOOD HAIR DAYS
I twirl around to show them my smiling face and ask, “What’ve y’all got in the way of ideas?”