Chapter 58 Georgia
Georgia
Back at the Clementine, Junie heads for the shower “to wash off the medical juju and all,” as she says. I call the aunts—Tina
first, who doesn’t pick up. Then Cece, who answers, clanging and chatter in the background.
“Hey, how’re the pies coming?” I ask.
“As good as can be expected considering how chatty these Silvers are.” Cece lowers her voice toward the end of the sentence.
“But we’re done and cleaning now.”
“That’s great news. Because we need an emergency Good Hair Days. Junie needs us.”
“She says jump, we ask how high.”
“Does three-ish work? I know it’s going to be tight, but I don’t want to make her wait.”
“What’s really happening, Georgia Louise?” Cece’s words are loving and heartfelt, and she’s as tender as she can be when it
comes to dealing with me.
I let out a breath. “She needs to cut her hair. Tina needs to bring the wigs and prepare to do the cut. Junie doesn’t want
it mopey, so no sad puppy looks or tears. And she wants to go out afterward.”
I hear only the sounds of a kitchen for a moment. “Say no more. See you at June’s as close to three as we can.”
Just over an hour later, Junie is freshly showered and dressed in a flowy top and jeans. She and I push into June’s, and Tina
and Cece are already waiting, wearing Dolly Parton–inspired wigs from the shop collection. A speaker is set up with a bopping
party playlist, and the aunts have brought donuts, popcorn, and drinks. They’ve decorated one of the hair chairs, wrapping
pink feather boas around it with glitter scattered on the floor.
Junie stops at the sight and pulls me into a side hug. “Thank you,” she whispers in my ear.
“Now, we know your mother, God rest her soul, would have our heads for the glitter on the floor, but we figured if there was
an occasion that calls for glitter, it’s today,” Tina says.
Junie giggles as she closes the gap between her and the aunts, pulling them into hugs one at a time. “And I trust Georgia
told you: This ain’t something sad. Ok? No tears, no blubbering. We’re playing dress-up, alright?”
“Message received,” Cece says seriously, then breaks into a dance routine that is entirely out of character. She’s trying.
Junie plops into the hair chair and says to Tina, “You know what to do. But let’s do the scissors, no trimmer.”
“As you wish, my queen,” Tina says with a bow. “Would you like a donut while we work?”
“Why the hell not,” Junie says.
The reality of the moment hits when Tina cuts a large lock from Junie’s hair and it hits the ground, mixing in with the glitter.
It’s heavy even if we will it not to be. Still, in light of what we’re making out of this moment, I assure myself it could
be worse. I now fully understand how this would be ten times more difficult if we were huddled around, teary and sobbing,
as our beloved lost her hair.
Tina cuts and snips, and Cece and I keep the music running and spirits light with an array of ghastly dance moves that Junie laughs at, reflected in the mirror in front of her.
We hand Junie drinks along with too much food, but it’s not necessarily for consumption.
The food and drinks we ply her with are more like offerings at her altar, our acts of love laid out because in moments like these, there is nothing about the depths of our love we’re willing to leave unstated.
It doesn’t take long before Tina is finished, and Junie looks striking with her short-cropped hair. It’s not buzzed; it’s
styled into a super-short pixie. She turns in the chair.
“Junie Bug, I know it’s not your first choice, but you do look really great,” I say.
“I hope you’re not trying to talk me out of my wig,” she says. “And by looking at yours, Georgia, you and I both need to pick one out.”
Tina helps Junie pick a wig, and again, she rocks it. It’s a shoulder-length chocolate-brown number styled in modern brushed-out
curls. It makes the green in her eyes pop. Junie admires herself in the mirror, and though there is a hint of sadness, she
looks confident. Like she can manage. And like she knows she definitely looks good.
Tina wrangles me into a blonde wig that washes me out, but I don’t argue. She’s baked pies all day, two days in a row, styled
Junie, and now I’m asking her to fit a wig? Please, I can see to myself.
“Alright, ladies,” Junie announces. “Let’s get cleaned up, then it’s dinner and the honky-tonk. We’re celebrating life.”
I sweep the floor. It feels appropriate considering my rank among the present company, all of them with more hair experience
than me. I don’t mind, and if I’m entirely honest, it actually feels good to be part of it. Really and truly a June. I don’t
even need the name—I just want in.
In some ways I feel like I’ve already been accepted, but this small act of service, sweeping up Junie’s red locks swirled
in glitter, feels like a moment.