Chapter 24 Junie
Junie
The other Louise women are pricing items pulled from the attic yesterday in preparation for tomorrow’s garage sale, but Junie
has taken a last-minute emergency hair appointment. She unlocks the shop and flips on the few remaining lights. In her other
hand rattles a cup holder with two iced coffees from the cute place up the street that always smells like cinnamon. Hopefully
it makes up—at least a pinch—for the lack of decor.
Junie sets down the coffees on the tiny workstation Tina set up for them and spritzes an air freshener that promises Spring
Rain. They discussed the makeshift setup yesterday in the attic and agreed to keep the stations as clean and as cute as humanly
possible. Tina even came by after she left Daddy’s house and spruced it a bit more, adding a glam mirror and even pasting
up a few Dolly items. Junie smiles to herself as she wipes down the chair and double-checks the station for products she’ll
need. She’s grateful she asked the guys demoing the shop to keep both washbasins in place all those weeks ago. Without them
there would be no appointments—licensed or not.
Michaela Rogers texted yesterday afternoon saying, 911 hair color emergency.
She stopped in at a salon on vacation and has been wearing a hat since.
Michaela and Junie were friends in high school, both involved in the musical theater community.
Michaela took to behind-the-scenes work while Junie remained center stage, fighting for a prime role in each production.
Like always, Michaela walks in right on time. She calls into the space, “You said you wouldn’t laugh, right?”
“Don’t you remember when I tried to do my own hair for my part as Cruella de Vil?” Junie says.
Michaela chuckles. “I’m basically Cruella’s sister.”
Junie snags the second coffee from its perch and slips it into Michaela’s hand. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
Junie walks over to the prepped chair station, waving Michaela to follow.
Michaela pulls off her cap, and as promised she reveals a mottled mess that looks like someone tie-dyed her dark blonde hair.
“I wanted something beachy, just a few highlights, but the girl talked me into doing some silver highlights. Anyway, I think
she just bleached patches then made others gray but not in a pretty way. We were both too embarrassed by the end of the process
to do anything other than part ways.”
Junie frowns empathetically along with the retelling. “She should have her license taken.”
Michaela shrugs. “I’m starting to wonder if she ever had one.”
Junie launches into her go-to botched hair pep talk. She starts by promising that the experience will make for a great story
at parties and then goes straight to tooting her own horn and explaining how easily she can fix it. Call her Fairy Godmother,
she practically has a wand. Her plan is to start by making the hair one color.
“Maybe you can make me brunette for a little while?” Michaela suggests.
Junie agrees, jumping and clapping in delight, before she goes to the storage closet to dig out a chocolaty shade that will complement Michaela’s complexion. She mixes the color efficiently and wastes no time in applying it.
“So what’s actually going on here?” Michaela asks, flapping her hands at the interior. “No offense, but this place has seen
better days. Was there a leak or something?”
Junie sighs with her whole body. “I screwed up—as usual. Got a great deal with Goldilocks Haircare for a reno, but it turns
out we didn’t have the money to finish up the project. Now we’re scrambling to make money to get this place operational—me
and Georgia and the aunts.”
“Let us sponsor you!” Michaela says. “The community theater. You know I’m over there, directing and organizing. We charge
for tickets, and the proceeds go to a good cause. We’re always looking for something local that will touch our own community.”
Junie stops and considers it. They could probably raise several grand, at least. The theater isn’t small, and the seats are
always filled.
“That’s really nice of you—”
“Don’t let me hear you say no,” Michaela jumps in. “This town loves June’s. We’d probably have folks two to a seat, filling up the aisles, getting the fire marshal called on us.”
Junie giggles. This shop really does belong to the town. To everyone. All of them. But this was supposed to be her moment
to prove herself, to show everyone she was up for this job.
“Can I let you know?” she says.
Michaela nods. She knows that’s not a no.
“Speaking of fire marshals—and those who aspire to be officers of the law,” Junie says. “Do you know Misty Prince?”
Michaela turns and eyes her. “I mean, I wish I didn’t, but who doesn’t around here?”
Junie scoffs. “Well, she’s trying to get us in trouble. Almost made Tina cry in the grocery store, said she’d report us to the licensing board if we keep doing hair in here while this place is under construction.”
“Ah,” Michaela says. “I’m going to have to cover for us in that case. She and her kids were at the pool yesterday. Of course,
she couldn’t help but ask about my hair—”
“Because she can’t mind her own dang business for a hot second.”
“And I said I was gonna come see you and have you fix it. I’ll just make sure she knows you did it at your house as a friend.
Not as a service in the shop.”
Junie lets out a breath of relief. “Thanks. She’s such a pest.”
“And poor Tina. Not that it takes much to make her cry, but Misty should know better.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“She kick Randy out yet?” Michaela asks.
“What do you think?”
“Bless her.”
Junie steps back and, happy with the coverage on Michaela’s hair, sets a timer to wash out. “Alright, time to let this soak
in. Want a magazine while you sit, hon?”
“Nah, I’m going to do some email on the phone,” Michaela says.
Junie pulls over a stool and rests on it gratefully. Although she likes to joke about it with Eddie, her bones, her hips mostly,
have started to ache. It’s probably from being on her feet so much plus being sick. She hasn’t even started chemo yet.
Eddie will certainly make her tell Georgia and the others before then.
The truth is, Junie knows she needs to start treatment. Even if she does act like a bit of a child to Eddie, dismissing his
pleas, she wrestles with the idea of telling her family each and every night. Hence the insomnia she’s been battling.
She’s not a complete idiot—only a partial one.
She could use their help. She could use their shoulders to cry on.
She could use every tissue passed and every meal cooked as she faces down the cruelty of reliving this nightmare her family has endured once already.
But how could she? She doesn’t have a choice about going through it, but she does have the option to save them from the pain of watching her suffer the treatment, the heartache of every reminder of Mama. To let them sit this one out.
Because this could be something fixable. Maybe Junie could get through the treatment and clue them in once the storm has passed. It would be
optimistic to believe it might be so easy, probably overly optimistic. At worst, naive. It’s difficult to make heads or tails
of where optimism ends and denial starts. Perhaps she’s inventing ambiguity where it doesn’t exist.
Movement outside catches Junie’s eye, a figure lurking suspiciously. Her brain shuffles the puzzle pieces together quickly,
and she leaps up and over to Michaela. Junie half pulls her from the chair as she whisper-yells, “Quick! Get in the back.”
Michaela, thanks to her trust in Junie, follows directions and jogs into the back office, then shuts the door quietly behind
her, no questions asked.
Junie pulls off the apron she had on to protect her clothes from the hair color and tosses it behind some stacked boxes. She
pulls her shoulders back and marches outside and turns to look at the front window. By this time, she sees the woman with
her face practically smooshed against the glass, shamelessly peering inside.
“Misty,” Junie demands.
Misty turns and doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.
Her blonde hair is big and bouncy, and if she weren’t such a miserable human, Junie might complement her on it.
She’s head to toe in athletic wear that looks expensive—probably thanks to her ex-husband, a surgeon who still resides in Atlanta and who rumor says granted her a generous divorce settlement in exchange for her moving on and out of his life.
“I saw someone in there,” Misty says. “You know you’re not supposed to be doing hair while the place is under construction.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and saunters a few steps closer.
“First, I’m not doing hair. I was chatting about design plans with a friend over coffee.” It’s not untrue. “And even if I was, why would you care? Don’t you drive to that salon in Atlanta for your services?”
Misty pats her hair. “You can’t expect me to hand this mane over to you.” She tuts. “And it doesn’t matter what I think. The law is the law.”
Junie shoves down a sigh. “What are you, the hair police? No one is getting hurt here. Nothing’s been stolen. Why don’t you
go home to your brood of Chihuahuas?”
The pack of yappy dogs is as infamous as their owner.
Misty turns and begins to walk to her car. She stops halfway, like she’s thought of something, turns back, and says, “I’m
going to catch you red-handed if you keep this up, Junie Louise.”
Junie waves as Misty cranks the car and takes off. She doesn’t even correct her that she’s Junie Scott. Maybe it’s because
they call themselves Louises.
Junie dips back inside the shop. By now it’s almost time to wash out Michaela’s hair.