Mothered (23)

“I guess I’m not used to so many changes,” Grace said, trying to rationalize it for herself.

Barbara looped an arm through hers and started walking her through the salon. “I should’ve called, checked in with you, I’m sorry. I meant to, and then I got bogged down with my own troubles. But you were the one I was most worried about.”

“I was?” That genuinely surprised Grace.

“You’re like a daughter to me, you’ve been with me since you started, and I know work was the stabilizing force in your life.” She patted Grace’s hand. “We’re alike that way.”

When Barbara smiled the lines around her eyes crinkled. With her trim stature and endless energy, it was easy to forget she was sixty-seven, though, like Jackie, Barbara had recently let her short hair revert to its natural silver.

Grace felt her cheeks pinken with a bashful sort of pleasure. Barbara only had one child, a son in DC, who didn’t come back to Pittsburgh unless someone died. Many times over the years, Grace had wished that Barbara was her mom. In Jackie’s absence, it had been easy for Grace to build a life for herself with Barbara as such a steady and supportive presence. Not wanting to get weepy again, Grace swallowed her emotions and turned her full attention to the new salon.

“This place is so cute.” The walls were a creamy mauve with white trim, and everything looked crisp and new—the light fixtures, the flooring, the well-laid-out stations where each stylist would work. “So bright and modern.”

“It’s getting there. Not as fancy as what we had before—”

“We don’t need fancy.”

Barbara laughed. “You don’t need fancy.” They reached the area behind the partial wall. “Only two sinks. And there’s a tiny back office and a bathroom. I don’t want it to seem too cluttered, so I had some shelving installed in the basement for storage. It’s a little gloomy down there, but everything will be off the floor.”

“I love it.” Something about the layout reminded Grace of the first floor of her house, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The proportions maybe. Grace clapped her hands together. “What do you need me to do? Unpack, set up the stations?”

“Both, yes, but first . . .” Barbara fingered the pink ends of Grace’s hair. “Can I be honest?”

Grace deflated a little, certain of what Barbara was about to say. “You hate it. I know, it was a dumb idea.”

“I don’t hate it at all. I just don’t think it’s you.”

“That’s what Miguel said.” Wait, he wasn’t the one who said it; Grace had made that judgment on her own.

“It’s a cute cut . . . Maybe I can just trim off the pink ends? And give you back a little more color?”

“What, I don’t look like a natural albino?”

Barbara laughed; her teeth didn’t look as pearly white as Grace remembered.

Seconds later Grace was in the nearest chair, and Barbara whipped open a black cape to drape over her shoulders.

“I’ll just dry cut the ends first, and then once we get the color right I can trim it however you like.”

“You don’t need to do this right now—I’m supposed to be helping you.”

“Are you kidding, I live for this. I guess I’m gonna have to work until the day I die.”

It was meant to be funny, but the thought of Barbara dying bothered Grace. With sharp compact scissors, Barbara snip-snipped the blemished ends of Grace’s hair. She watched her mentor in the mirror—how dexterous and quick she was with the comb and scissors.

Something red dribbled down Grace’s reflected neck. Had Barbara accidentally nicked her? It happened to the best of them, and she understood if Barbara was a little rusty after a few months off. But then the pain came, a searing sting. Grace winced. She expected Barbara to stop, to apologize, to say she was mortified. But Barbara kept hacking at her hair, a demented smile on her face.

“Mona can finally have that handbag.”

What?

Horrified, Grace’s hand shot to her ear. She screamed when she touched it. Her fingers came back dripping blood. Warm red rivulets streamed down her neck.

Barbara dropped Grace’s severed earlobe on the counter in front of her, cackling. “Your sister’s been waiting a long time.”

Grace collapsed over the chair’s arm, ready to vomit. Her mangled ear dripped perfect round spatters on the salon’s new floor.



Queasy, Grace lifted her face from the sink and met herself in the mirror. The pink ends of her hair were gone, chopped roughly, but there was no blood. Checking, she found her earlobe intact. Oh my God, what happened? Her right hand seemed like a foreign object as she raised it, gaping at the scissors still clutched there. Her white sink basin was furred with pink.

“Fucking hell.”

She’d cut her own hair.

A part of her hated that the dream wasn’t real, such was her desire to spend her days alongside Barbara again. No, her mentor had really retired, and was probably holed up in a seaside retreat with Shlomo. Still only half-awake, Grace sought a logical answer: she’d known the hairstyle wasn’t right; her subconscious—in the form of Barbara—was encouraging her to fix it before she started her new job. Fine, she could accept that. But the earlobe, the pain she’d felt? And how had she managed to cut her hair while asleep?