27. Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Sam
Although a piece of my brain is listening to my client’s story about her horrifying first date experience, my entire brain is still fully focused on every slight brush I make, painting lightener onto specific strands of hair.
It’s like some people say they have a second stomach for dessert—I have a second brain for listening while my first brain concentrates on hair color.
Mia, the college student in my chair, saw a friend post a balayage I did on her hair. Mia contacted me on Instagram, begging me to squeeze her into my already-full schedule for the week, claiming to need fresh hair before recording videos for a brand deal.
When I saw how many followers influencer Mia has, I found a spare couple of hours in my Saturday.
It means I won’t be able to attend the Crowns game tonight, a bummer since I was planning to sit with Lily in the suite for the first time. But since I’m still new on the cosmetology scene, I’m prioritizing every new client I can.
Mia came in and told me she wanted an “even better” balayage than the one I did on her friend’s hair. “Like, make it the most subtle, blended balayage you’ve ever done in your whole life,” she said—as though I ever intentionally don’t blend a balayage.
I’m taking her command to heart, though, intent on meeting her every expectation. The process has taken me even longer than usual, but Mia seems content to regale me with story after story of her extremely interesting life as a college student slash social media influencer.
In her defense, she’s a very good story teller. And if half of the stories are true, she does lead a very interesting life.
When I’m finally satisfied with my painting job, I set a timer for ten minutes.
I tell Mia, “I think it’s going to take around thirty minutes to achieve the color we’re going for based on the texture of your hair.
But I’m going to check every ten minutes to be safe.
Can I get you something to drink while you wait? ”
She requests one of the trendy energy drinks Adele keeps stocked in the customer fridge, and I leave to quickly use the restroom before bringing the drink to Mia.
At the thirty-three-minute mark, I see the right shade I’m looking for in her hair, so I rinse out the lightener and apply a toner.
She decides she wants to cut a few extra layers to add to the transformation, so I continue asking questions and listening to more stories as I cut her hair.
When it’s time to blow-dry, Mia insists on turning away from the mirror. “I want to record a first-reaction moment,” she says.
Panicking, I clarify, “Live?”
“Oh no,” Mia says. “I never live record anything too important. I have to be able to edit the footage before I post it. And I’ll recreate my live reaction if I don’t like the way I look the first time.”
“Okay,” I agree, holding back a disbelieving head shake.
After blowing out her hair, I use a combination straightening and curling iron to create subtle waves that will accentuate the sun-kissed pieces blended into her brown hair.
I have to admit—I outdid myself with this one.
I sure hope Mia has a positive reaction because I think I nailed it.
“I’m all set. Ready to react?” I ask her. She nods, getting her phone camera ready.
“Wait.” I stop her. “Let me sweep up the hair and take off your cape so you get a cleaner camera shot.”
“Oooh, yes,” Mia says, snapping her fingers. I quickly shake off the cape and clean up the floor, then place my hand on the back of the salon chair, ready to swivel.
Mia hits record and says something about needing fresh hair after a bad breakup, then invites her audience to see her new look along with her. She signals me, and I spin the chair around so she can see her reflection in the mirror for the first time.
Her mouth drops open, and she stands up from the chair, leaning closer to the mirror as she runs her fingers through her hair. I think she’s almost forgotten about the camera in her hand as her arm starts to droop. Then, she squeals and turns to hug me, never once dropping the camera.
“This is even better than I was picturing!” she exclaims, whirling back around to admire her reflection again.
She says some sort of sign-off into the camera, then hits the stop button.
Setting the phone on the counter, she uses both hands to hold her hair up at every angle, examining the subtle color job.
“I’m seriously blown away,” she says. “You can expect to see me every month. Please, if any of my friends come your way, promise to do a slightly less good job on their hair?”
I huff a laugh until I realize she’s serious. “Mia. I can’t just do a bad job at my job.”
She pouts her lip, clasping her hands in a prayer pose. “Please, please, for me? At least promise to save your very best work for me.”
Unsure exactly how to respond to this odd request, I say, “I promise that I will always do the best of the best job on your hair, Mia.”
She seems satisfied and scans the QR code to pay rather than running a credit card.
Veronica walks into the room as Mia is admiring her hair one last time and taking approximately two hundred selfies.
Veronica skirts around the edge to stay out of the photo background, and Mia turns to give me an enthusiastic hug.
“You’re the best stylist I’ve ever worked with, Sam,” she says. “And trust me—I’ve made the rounds. Can’t wait to come up with a new look for next time.”
Mia bounds out of the room, recording a new video as she walks through the salon, and I stare after her, dumbfounded.
It’s only when my phone dings with the payment notification that I check it to see that Mia gave me a fifty percent tip on top of the rather pricey cost of a balayage treatment.
My jaw drops.
“New client?” Veronica’s voice sounds behind me.
Schooling my expression, I turn around. “Yes. I don’t typically come in on Saturday afternoons, but she really wanted me to squeeze her in this week. Since Lynsey’s out of town, I told her I could make it work today. What are you up to? I thought Lynsey said you take Saturdays off.”
Veronica nods. “I do. I’m typically on the sidelines cheering at one of my son’s flag football games or my daughter’s soccer games on Saturdays.
” I try but fail to picture this uptight woman who’s always giving me the cold shoulder sitting on the sidelines of a children’s sports game.
But then, I picture her yelling at a child on the opposing team for being too rough, and it all clicks together.
“I’m cutting a neighbor’s hair tonight, so I’m picking up my good scissors and a cape,” Veronica explains.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice of you.”
She shrugs, gathers her things, and starts to leave the room. She stops abruptly and pivots to face me. “That color looked good. Great, in fact,” she says, sounding as if the words tasted a lot like vinegar.
“Thank you?” I don’t mean for the words to come out as a question, but they go rogue as they pass my vocal cords.
Veronica’s scrutiny unnerves me as she stares, apparently corralling her own rogue words. Finally, she says, “You are very talented, Sam.”
I stare.
“I’ll admit I thought you got an unfair stroke of luck to be flooded with clients because of who you’re dating,” she continues.
The words sink in my stomach. My eyes drop to the floor. I hate being right.
“But I was wrong,” she says, and my eyes flick back up to hers. “You are very talented. It won’t be long before you outgrow half a seat in a shared salon space. It probably won’t be long until you outgrow our salon completely. And I wish you all the best when that day comes.”
Stunned, I silently stare far longer than is polite. I finally manage a “Thank you, Veronica.” Clearing my throat, I add, “That means a lot, coming from you. I’ve watched you blending layers, and it’s flawless. I’ve already picked up a few tricks from observing you.”
Her smile is reserved but real. “I’ll see you next week, Sam.”
After eating a quick dinner, I open my laptop on the kitchen table. Amber agreed to a quick check-in call, despite the fact that it’s a Saturday evening. When she admits me to the telehealth video meeting, I smile and wave at the screen.
“Hey, Amber! Thanks so much for taking some time on your Saturday night to chat! I promise to keep it brief,” I say.
Amber waves a hand at the screen. “Don’t worry about it. Our schedules were not exactly aligning well this past week. How have things been going with your new job?”
I give her a brief overview of the beginning of my career, my heart bursting with satisfaction when she praises my strong start. When she asks about my relationship with Adrian, my heart starts to stutter.
“I don’t know, Amber,” I begin, sighing.
Her eyebrows furrow slightly. “Are you having second thoughts about the relationship?”
“No!” I exclaim. “Absolutely not. Not even close. But I think that might be what’s confusing me.
I’ve never had doubts about a relationship until it was over and I could look back and see how unhealthy it was.
But I genuinely don’t think this relationship is the same.
I think it’s different. But can I trust myself to know that? ”
Amber is quiet for a moment, collecting her questions. “Let me ask you this—does it seem like Adrian is putting the same amount of effort into the relationship that you are?”
I nod vigorously. “Yes. He might even be putting more effort in than I am. But that also makes me nervous. The fact that he’s so .
. . so . . . he’s so everything. He’s fun and engaging and the life of every party.
He’s thoughtful and generous and expressive.
Not to mention wealthy, famous, and ridiculously attractive.
There are times that I question why he even wants to be with me.
When I’m so . . .” I trail off, hesitant to finish.
“When you’re so what, Samantha?” Amber prods.