Chapter Seventeen-Donny
“Well, what have we here?”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up like a static-charged wool sweater as two of my most ornery clients strutted into Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow like they owned the joint.
The Chickie twins.
Saints preserve us.
Now, on a normal day, these two were a cauldron of cranky in matching orthopedic shoes.
But today? Oh, I could already tell.
Today, they’d arrived with a purpose.
And that purpose was to ruin mine.
They wore their usual ensembles—shapeless, violet, tea-length dresses that somehow made them look simultaneously washed-out and radioactive.
Add in knee-highs that were exactly two shades darker than their winter-parchment skin and sensible beige shoes from the ninth circle of fashion hell, and boom.
Fashion crime scene.
I touched two fingers to my temples and rubbed in slow, calming circles.
Breathe, Donny.
Inhale, exhale.
They may look like elderly grape-colored throw pillows, but they were still high-ranking Witches in our community.
And while I might be a badass stylist with a flair for flair, I wasn’t looking to get hexed into a toad for serving attitude.
The thing was, lately they’d stopped hiding their age.
That meant they were getting ready to move on—to the Next Amazing Journey or their next magical phase, whatever that was.
Either reincarnation or retirement in some heavenly version of Boca. Who knew?
But seeing them like this—flesh sagging, wrinkles unapologetically flaunted—was a reminder that I, too, had an expiration date.
I might be magical, but I wasn’t immortal.
My birthday loomed like a vulture on a sugar detox, and the idea of getting older was starting to itch under my skin like a poorly placed lace thong.
Still, I pasted on a smile that could rival Miss America.
“You know, dear, blonde is a nice—” Denice began.
“—look on you,” Candice finished for her, per usual.
“But we do not approve—”
“—of eating in the shop.”
Their gazes landed on the coffee-stained napkin and flaky croissant crumbs littering my sleek waiting area like I'd been running a damn Bed & Breakfast instead of a salon.
I flushed.
“Oh! That’s mine! So sorry, ladies,” Celeste chimed in brightly.
Bless her. My assistant—part-time receptionist, full-time chaos half-Goblin—swooped in like a blue-haired Valkyrie and started scooping up the mess.
I blinked at her in confusion. She never took the blame for anything. Like, ever.
“Hmmph,” Denice grumbled, watching Celeste with a glare that could sour milk.
“I don’t know, DeDe. I liked her better as a brunette,” Candice whispered, still staring directly at me like I was a zoo exhibit.
“Excuse me,” Celeste said again, darting in front of me as she gathered up the garbage.
It was then that I caught her wide eyes and a flash of true panic.
Look down, she mouthed.
I did.
Oh forking fudge.
My hands were glowing gold.
Not cute shimmer glow.
Not spa-day sparkle glow.
Nope. This was full-on you’re-about-to-explode-with-witch-rage glow.
I was seconds away from reducing the Chickie twins to smoldering piles of orthopedic ash.
With a squeak, I turned to the sink and stuck my hands under cold water like I was prepping for surgery.
Goddess take the wheel.
My magic was out of control.
AGAIN.
Celeste, the beautiful, annoying, slightly feral creature, kept her cool. She made a million apologies, bowed like she was in a Jane Austen novel, and even offered to get the twins fresh tea.
Tea!
Like we served that here, for fork’s sake.
I owed her a raise. I also owed her an apology. I would do neither, of course. But I’d think about it while I faked washing my hands.
Once the glowing faded and I was back in control, I took a moment to assess the damage.
My reflection stared back at me.
I was a stranger.
But maybe, just maybe, I was more myself now than I’ve ever been before.
And that shook me to the core.
Honey blonde locks. Shimmery. Shiny. Possibly even beautiful.
The Domodouchebag had done too good a job, the smug little familiar freak.
Plus, his spell proved impenetrable, and my natural brunette glory was nowhere in sight.
Forcing a smile, I turned back to my favorite pain-in-the-asses.
Time to get to work.
“Well, maybe she’ll do it right this time,” Candice whispered to her sister.
“Doubtful,” DeDe replied.
Hours later.
Hair dye was still washing down the drain, the curlers had been set with precision, and the industrial-strength hair spray was still about, making the air taste like regret and lilacs.
But I did it. I got through it.
No magical explosions.
No combusting biddies.
No bleach mishaps.
Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow didn’t smell like your average mortal salon.
No ammonia or acetone disasters here. Nope.
We had standards.
And a magical crematorium in the back.
All organic, eco-friendly, and highly flammable.
See, Witches like me were bound by sacred hairdressing oaths.
You don’t mess with a client’s free will.
You don’t enchant a blowout to last six months.
You definitely don’t sneak a glamour spell into a pixie cut without consent.
So, like always, I renewed my vow.
I stepped into the center of the salon, took a deep breath, and whispered the sacred words under my breath:
“Goddess on high,
We pledge to thee,
Maker of all things, beautifully,
To tend the creatures big and small,
To cut their hair, nails, beards, even balls,
Our craft is sacred, we owe to thee,
Our talents without duplicity.
Never to use our patron’s prize,
To do magic or harm or change their lives.
To serve magic, our only goal,
To bring others joy tenfold.
As you will, so mote it be.”
My magic hummed in agreement, soft and sweet like the purr of a happy kitten.
I grinned.
Even when my hair was blonde and my day was trash, the Goddess still had my back. And that was a good thing.
Witch’s honor.