Chapter 37 Georgia
Georgia
I stew over All-Star and their sending us this client as we sit there oiling and combing out hair. All of us are focused,
working diligently and quietly, and soon we’re wrapping up.
I shouldn’t be adding new issues to my personal docket right now, but All-Star Cuts has officially seized the number one spot
on my personal hit list. I’ve hated them all along, as anyone in my position would, but this? Sending a kid with lice to another salon is akin to a crime punishable by death in International Hair Court.
Now, let me slow down. Murder is not actually an option in this case (for the record, it isn’t ever), but I can’t say I’d
throw them a lifeline if they fell into shark-infested waters. Fine, no bodily harm. Just an equal amount of emotional distress.
“You want a wash?” Cece asks me.
It’s enough to unfurl me from the anger tornado I’m deep within. Cece offering a hair wash is her version of an olive branch.
Is there a catch I’m missing?
“A wash? You sure?” I’d planned to ask Junie, but as I scan the shop, I see her curled up in a reclined hair chair under a
blanket that looks an awful lot like an emotional support item.
Cece looks at her too. “Not like you can ask her. You two hit the town last night or what?”
Junie only grunts and shuffles farther under the fleecy covering.
“If you’re willing, I’ll gladly take you up on it,” I say. “You’re still the best shampooer in town, even if you’re retired.”
I make my way to the shampoo bowl, stopping only to squeeze Junie’s leg. Tina has been washed already and calls a quick goodbye
on her way out. Soon enough Randy’s signature tire screech follows, and Cece and I exchange an eye roll.
I settle into the chair. “So you really think Tina will stick it out with Randy?” I ask Cece.
She sighs. “I hope not. But I think she’s building up her confidence, thanks to Good Hair Days. She mentioned her pies to
me the other day, and it genuinely sounded like she wanted to try to sell them at the fair. If she can pony up enough confidence
to put her baking up for judging, maybe she could get to the point of kicking him to the curb as well.”
The warm water and pulse of Cece’s hands relax my entire upper body. “I guess we can hope. Maybe revenge plotting against
the new competition could push her further in that direction.”
Cece grins. “You know I’m already brainstorming.”
“And you know I’m adding it to every Good Hair Days agenda.”
Cece squeezes out the ends of my long red hair and turns off the water. She wraps a towel around the damp hair. “Good as new,
June.”
It stops both of us. June.
“Sorry,” she says. “You’re just so like your mama.”
Cece and my mama had a special kind of love, their own brand of fun, but they also butted heads their fair share.
At least, that’s how they used to tell the story.
Whether it was the style of running the shop or the way they should support Tina or the way June should’ve behaved, it wasn’t infrequent that they’d find themselves at different ends of the opinion spectrum.
And they fought like the best of twin sisters.
Maybe it was just what I’d seen in the movies, but I always imagined that twins were from birth in tune with each other.
Weren’t they required to be best friends? Maybe Mama and Cece were that too.
“Guess I’ll take it as a compliment,” I say.
“As you should.” Cece rinses her hands. After grabbing a towel, she looks at me. “And before I go, I want to say sorry. The
way I acted at Cards was out of line, and you didn’t deserve it.”
I feel a small warmth rise in my chest. “Thanks.” I want to say more, really. I want to ask her the how, what, and why of her distaste for me. I want to ask for tips on making her like me. But just as much, I’m afraid that opening my mouth
might break this moment between us.
“I’ll let you two girls close up,” Cece says. She pauses almost like she’s considering reaching out for a hug, but the moment
passes and she turns and heads for the door.
I enjoy the afterglow of the moment in quiet. Even though apologizing for her certifiably horrendous behavior might be the
bare minimum, in a strange way, it still feels like progress.
I return to Junie’s side. “Hey, sleepyhead, you feel like closing up and assuming this position at home?”
Junie grunts.
I pull down the cover. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” She pulls it back up. “Just a lot on my mind.”
I channel my inner Mama and rub circles on her leg. “Wanna talk about it?”
Junie only shakes her head.
“How about we get you something good to eat? Ice cream? Drive-thru fries? Your pick,” I add.
“The only thing I want is impossible.” Her voice is small.
“Well, that sounds like a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.” I smile, and I hope she hears it in my voice. “And everyone knows
I like a challenge.”
“Cinnamon rolls.”
I know the ones she means, the impossible cinnamon rolls. They aren’t available for purchase, never have been. They’re our
mother’s homemade variety, and they haven’t been baked since she left us. A recipe exists over at our father’s house, but
no one’s been brave enough to try it, let alone release the genie of what retasting it would be like. Seeing Junie in this
state is enough for me to reconsider.
“You’re right, that one’s a little bit impossible. Especially for tonight. Let me help you to the car?”
Junie begrudgingly peels out of the hair chair and hobbles to the car on her own. I stay back to turn off the lights, double-check
the locks. We ride home in silence, Junie refusing my offers to stop somewhere for food.
In the silence I worry about Junie looking so pitiful with all her brightness stripped off, and I consider that cinnamon roll
recipe. What if we could use it as a remedy of sorts? Make cinnamon rolls and use them as a talisman to ward off hardship
and troubles. To hold bad luck at bay. It might be worth a try, and I’d rather take on that complicated recipe than lose additional
hours of sleep worrying about my sister.
I text my father before I show up on his doorstep. I don’t want him meeting me in the dark with a baseball bat and his bad
vision. I knock gently and wait in the warmth alongside the noisy nighttime bugs.
He opens the door with a pop. “I left it unlocked for you. Always just come right in.”
The house is lit only by a few table lamps, and I follow my father into the living room where I sink into the deep sofa that
feels like it hugs me back. I don’t plan to stay, but something about the coziness of the space makes me feel like I could.
“Junie was having a really hard day today,” I say. “She mentioned cinnamon rolls—Mama’s, of course—and, I don’t know, I was thinking maybe it was time to give them a try again.”
If he wasn’t perfectly lit by the table lamp beside him, I would have missed the way his expression lifts briefly at the very
edges.
“I saw the recipe book out the other day when I was here.”
“Your mama would want you to have it,” he says. “Can I copy the recipe down for you? Not sure I’m ready to part with the actual
book right this moment.”
“For sure,” I say.
Dad stands and makes his way into the kitchen, and I hear the rustling of papers and a drawer opening and closing.
“It’s funny how much the smallest things can make us feel close to her,” I say.
His face is earnest when he returns and hands over the paper covered in his scratchy handwriting. “Always.” He stops, his
eyes lingering on me as he smiles. “You’ve always reminded me so much of her.”
It surprises me, for the second time this evening, that anyone from this little enclave thinks of me like Mama. I run a finger
through my red hair. I sure try to be like her. Well, mostly to live up to her dreams for me enough not to make her dying
any worse. But I don’t feel like her. “Why?” I ask. “Why do you think we’re alike? How is what I mean.”
He leans back into his favorite armchair. “How much time you got?” He looks into his lap. “There are so many ways, from the
red hair to the first daughter schtick. But frankly, the only thing that just doesn’t quit is both of you being dreamers.
Big dreamers.”
My gut wrenches. Here comes the next part.
“Ever since you were a little girl, all you wanted to talk about with your mama was what kind of Georgia you wanted to be. She loved that she gave you a blank canvas, and she wanted to tour you through every single color so you knew you had options. She didn’t want the same old, same old, cookie-cutter Louise life for you.
I think to some extent she wished she’d had the same choice she handed you. ”
I sit silently, feeling like an inflatable yard decoration with a hole freshly slashed in it, slowly flattening into a lawn
pancake.
“Which is why I’m so glad you’ve got your life in Atlanta. You’ve got a nice job and success. Everything you’ve ever dreamed
of. Even if we miss you terribly and savor these weekends—or extended visits, as luck would have it.”
I smile, reach out, squeeze his knee, and say, “Thank you for always supporting my dreams. And thanks for the recipe.” I fake
a yawn. “I should probably get going.”
I stand, and he follows me to the door. Before I can slip out, he takes me gently in his arms and wraps me up. I hear him
breathing deeply. “I love you,” he says. “Come back and see me soon.”