Mighty Old Bones Read Free Page B

pushed the gearshift into park. She turned to me, adjusted her Hollywood shades, and said an enthusiastic, “Yeah, baby. Call me Bullitt.” With a cackle and a rearview mirror check, she hopped out of the car, waving for me to follow.
    The Beauty Barn was neither a barn nor a beauty in the usual ways. Its appeal was in the primitive look of its exterior, like something from bygone homesteader days of the West. And, of course, if it had been built in the last days of the 1700s, as it looked, this part of northwest Alabama had been considered the West not long before. The dark, almost black, weathered beams stood out in contrast to the more modern buildings surrounding the odd-shaped patch of grass that comprised the Barn’s lot.
    We walked up the steps into the porch’s deep shadow. Phoebe shoved the door open to a brightly lit room. The heady scent of fruity potpourri rose from a number of large wicker baskets set about the floor of the reception area. Farther in, we were met with the unmistakable smells of hair salons the world over: shampoos, hair sprays, and the chemicals of hair dyes and permanent waves.
    We had only just stepped past the vacant reception desk when a loud voice hailed us from the back of the single large room. “Hey, Phoebe. Y’all come on in.” A tall dark-haired woman wiped her hands on a towel as she walked toward us.
    On the way, she checked the progress of other ladies’ style preparations in various stages of completion. She waved the towel in the direction of a row of bubble-headed hair dryers and gave orders to one of her assistants. “Sherry, would you check on Mrs. Thompson’s wave rods for me? Sometimes she curls fast. Especially in front. But check all over, please. Laura, you can go ahead and get the mix ready for Jennifer’s blond highlights.”
    She stood before us at last and smiled. “You must be Jane. I’m Bonita. Nice to meet you,” she said as she put her hand out to shake mine. “We’re ready for both of you. Come on back.”
    Phoebe and I followed her through the middle of the floor, with a row of stylist chairs to our left in front of a wall-sized mirror. To our right, we passed Mrs. Thompson in her dryer chair, wincing as she endured Sherry’s careful but apparently painful inspection of the tight curlers. Other ladies under the dryers’ bubbles beside her waved to us and smiled.
    When we reached the back of the room, Bonita ushered us into an alcove that contained four sinks for shampoos. Only one was in use. Its occupant raised her head, ignoring the strong spray of water intended for her rinse, letting her medium-length hair drip down her back.
    “Phoebe! It’s about time you got here. And you must be the famous Jane. Welcome to Tullulah. I hope you like it here. I’m Glynnis Brown. My husband runs the hardware store on the square, so if you ever need anything, anything at all, all you’ve got to do is give him a holler and he’ll fix you right up.”
    “Glynnis, you’re soaking yourself,” said the young woman who held the sprayer. She smiled up at the two of us, giving us a wink while she snapped the wet towel from Glynnis’s neck and replaced it, quick as can be, with a dry one. “Okay, lie back where I can finish.”
    Another teenaged girl came around the corner and introduced herself. “I’m Teresa. We’re so glad to have you in Tullulah, Mrs. Thistle. I hope you’re getting settled in all right.”
    “Oh, yes, quite well, thank you. It’s very nice to meet you all. And what a lovely shop you have here. I’ve been looking forward to coming in. Phoebe has told me so much about it.”
    Once our own towels and capes were fastened into place and the shampoos begun, we were able to relax at last after our morning’s ordeal. With Bonita taking care of Phoebe and Teresa taking care of me, the soothing process of shampoo and scalp rub combined would have lulled me into a semiconscious state had it not been for Phoebe’s recount of events at the