Mothered (26)
If only she could pee on a stick to determine if she was losing her mind.
17
Grace cursed and white knuckled the steering wheel. According to the traffic app she’d left in plenty of time, but here she was stuck in a one-lane bottleneck, late for her first day at the South Hills Village salon. She’d never been late for a day of work in her life and had wanted to make a good impression; hopefully the effort she took in getting ready would compensate for the elements she couldn’t control.
Her hair had turned out shorter than she’d ever worn it, but with a bit more layering it looked full and wavy. And, per dream Barbara’s advice, she’d added in some color to make it look more natural. During the weeks at home she’d gotten out of the habit of wearing earrings, but this new start was a chance to break out of her casual malaise. Her ear bling matched a necklace that had been hibernating in her jewelry box for eons, understated enough to pass as a real blue topaz—though now people were probably only going to notice her scrambling and apologizing and looking flustered.
With nothing better to do, she checked her phone. If she’d been hoping one of her damsels might brighten her day, it was a miscalculation.
“What. The actual . . .”
Lexis224U had sent LuckyJamison a message:
I miss u baby! And with it, a nude selfie.
They’d messaged many pics back and forth over the weeks, and Lexis224U had teased the possibility of such photos before. But LuckyJamison was a stand-up guy, pragmatic and moral, and he’d advised Lexis to never send nude photos. To anyone. Ever. It could come back to haunt you.
See, this was the very reason Grace had been forced to ghost her: Lexis224U just wouldn’t take the good advice she was given. Although now that Grace was being ghosted by Miguel, she had a tiny bit more sympathy for the damsels she’d abandoned over the years. The traffic finally started inching forward; Grace tossed her phone into her purse without replying.
Just as she feared, all heads—sitting and standing—turned as Grace tornadoed through the salon’s door. She imagined they were all baring their teeth behind their mouth-covering masks, like territorial dogs. As well put together as she’d been before leaving the house, now she felt like a frantic mess. For once, she almost liked the anonymity her face mask gave her. She headed straight for Allison, the only familiar thing in the room.
“I’m so sorry! Construction and bumper-to-bumper—”
“I should’ve warned you.” Allison finished the last foil on her client’s head and promised her she’d be right back. Quickly, she showed Grace the layout of the salon, where they kept the extra towels, how they organized the hair color, and introduced her to the receptionist, who would cash everyone out.
There wasn’t time to get properly acclimated or meet her new coworkers, as Grace’s first client—one of the women she’d emailed days earlier—was glumly flipping through a magazine, waiting for Grace to get her shit together. Seeing a familiar face helped subdue some of Grace’s first-day-off-to-a-bad-start jitters, though a deeper anxiety burrowed in like a tick. What if the funny feeling in her belly wasn’t jitters at all but the dividing and dividing and dividing cells of a fetus growing inside her?
The pregnancy test had been positive . . . ish. It hadn’t screamed positive (the green check mark had been shy and pale), but the red X she’d been hoping for hadn’t emerged at all. For thirty-some hours she’d been qualmish and confused. Maybe—probably?—she’d taken the test too soon. In a few days she’d have to try again, but she was a little afraid of what an accurate test might reveal.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Marley—how’ve you been?”
“Good. So glad I got your email.”
They made small talk as Grace washed Marley’s short, punkish hair. She was a client Grace had hoped to lure back, as Marley was on the cusp of fame. She appeared at the local comedy clubs but had cultivated a national reputation for her dry-yet-congenial wit via her YouTube channel. People were calling her the Pittsburgh Hannah Gadsby, and her comedic specialty was dissecting song lyrics to prove various points about the abomination of patriarchy. Marley was a favorite client for other reasons too: she typically got her short hair trimmed every four weeks; she was a good tipper; she was nice and often funny. While Grace was dying to know the behind-the-scenes news—had Marley found a new agent or made progress toward a TV special?—she didn’t want to be a nebshit.
Back at Grace’s station, she carefully combed Marley’s hair. “Keeping it the same? Just a trim?”
“For today. Toying with new ideas, but I haven’t decided yet. I like what you’ve done with yours.”
“Thank you.” The compliment gave Grace a boost of confidence. She took out her scissors and started cutting. “It looks like the pandemic hasn’t slowed you down. I love the new videos.”
Marley’s eyes squinted as she grinned behind her mask. “Thanks. It feels weird to be this lucky—now, in the middle of everything—but the whole world’s gone virtual.”
Not quite the whole world. In the early weeks of the stay-at-home order, Miguel had talked about making a series of how-to videos for people who wouldn’t be going to a salon for a while. Then Grace had pointed out that it really wasn’t in their best interest for people to learn they didn’t need stylists anymore. She thought her mask hid any sort of grimace or doubt, but Marley must have seen something that made her realize it was a touchy subject and quickly changed the topic.