Wave Good-Bye Read Free

bit.
    “A widow,” corrected Mom. “Not a single mother. If you compared the cost of my services to those at any other area salon, you’ll see that we were less expensive until Snippets came along. But you have to understand, Mrs. Everly, it’s not unusual for a big chain like that to come in and undercut local merchants. They have the financial backing to go for years without making a dime. Once they run small salons like mine out of business, they’ll be free to charge whatever they want.”
    “Harrumph. That’s what they told me you’d say. Not that it matters. I’m switching my business.” Mrs. Everly moved her walker in a half circle so she could leave the way she came.
    Rachel Whitley, our seventeen-year-old shampoo girl, rushed to hold the door open for the elderly woman. What a contrast they made! Mrs. Everly with her short white hair and Rachel with her shoulder-length jet-black hair.
    “Mrs. Everly, if things don’t work out,” said Mom, “andyou decide to come back, I’d be happy to welcome you as a customer again.”
    “Will you do my hair for half price?” the old woman asked over her shoulder.
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Then don’t hold your breath!”

Chapter Two

“I FOLDED THE REST OF THE FOILS FOR YOU, GRACE,” said Rachel, an aspiring beautician, who wore her black chunky motorcycle boots with the silver buckles and chains on them every day, no matter how hot the weather got. As she handed them over, the “cracked” black nail polish on her hands gleamed menacingly. Rachel alternately experimented with Goth and grunge, frequently surprising us when she came into work.
    I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the pile of foils I’d already folded and put away in my workstation.
    With a nervous finger, Rachel twirled a lock of her hair. Usually she’s busy all day shampooing our clients in the sink of our former powder room. Today there’d been plenty of time to sort through and toss old magazines, wash andfold towels, prep foils, and address the birthday cards we always sent our customers.
    “Um, I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you…I’ve been offered a job over at Snippets.”
    I rocked back on my heels in shock.
    “Yeoow!” wailed Beauty.
    “Sorry!” I’d caught her tail under one of my tennis shoes. She streaked past me and took shelter under a styling chair. There she made a big production out of licking her toe pads.
    “But I told them no! I’m not taking it. No way! I mean, I went for an interview. Just to check them out. Kind of like a covert agent. Wow, is that place ever cool!” Rachel’s kohl-rimmed eyes grew wide, and her fingers plucked at a run in her jet-black tights. “I mean, it’s so modern and sleek, and like, big city. They’ve got this big saltwater fish tank smack in the middle of the shop. I could have stood there all day and watched the fish. And you’ll never guess who’s working for them. Lisa Butterworth. Yep, she’s, like, their manager.”
    “Crud,” I whispered. “That explains it.”
    Mom and Althea exchanged glances. My face burned red and I looked away. Suddenly, I felt sick, like the time I ate spoiled potato salad at the church picnic. But this wasn’t anything I gobbled down. It was something I’d done.
    For months I’d bugged Mom to start using social media as a marketing tool. “At least e-mail our customers with special offers,” I pleaded.
    “Don’t have the time or the know-how,” said Mom.
    One day Lisa Butterworth walked in and pitched us on hiring her as a part-time consultant. She had been two years behind me in high school. Obviously she was a late bloomer, because in high school, she’d been nicknamed “Mrs. Butterworth” for her matronly figure, dumpy wardrobe, and bad hair. The woman who sat across from Mom and me wore alovely gabardine pants suit with a silk blouse, tasteful pearls, and her hair had been professionally styled.
    “I know the beauty industry. I graduated from cosmetology