Acts of Violet(34)
“Well, if she does, I’ll be the first one to kick her ass for putting you through all this.” Her eyes sweep the walls, taking in the photos and posters. “I see you have some new additions to the shrine.”
My sister’s presence lingers like heavy smoke, impossible to air out or wave away. Countless people have walked into the salon with reverence, like this is a Violet Volk holy site. The first time Sally entered the salon and saw the photos, she said, “Blech, I hate magic. No offense.” It was all I could do not to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her on the mouth.
I can’t resist asking, “Hey, were you being honest when you said you hated magic? Or were you just trying to get on my good side?”
“Ha, no, I blurted that out and meant every word. Magic is just so … cheesy. The vests, the smoke, the melodrama. At the same time, it’s boring! If I can figure out the trick, it’s stupid, and if I can’t, I feel stupid. We know people can’t really fly or teleport or read minds, so why pretend they can? How can I be entertained by somebody trying to manipulate me and make me feel dumb?” Catching herself in a rant, she slows down; her face grows thoughtful. “But you know, recently I realized it goes deeper than that.”
“How so?”
“Setting aside the small subset of magicians who are women, a lot of magic seems to be about the different ways a man can control a woman’s body. Think about it. You have the man sawing a woman in half, stretching her out, throwing daggers at her, levitating her…”
Is this why all of Violet’s assistants were male? As I mentally rifle through her illusions, men are the ones being contorted and manipulated. And whenever something was happening to her, whether she was on fire or bleeding or levitating or disappearing, Violet was doing it to herself. She was always the one in control.
We regard the walls in silence, then each other. I lower my voice. “Can I confess something to you?”
“Is it that you hate magic a little less, knowing your sister subverted a lot of that bullshit?” Our nods are slow, synced, and reluctant. “Can I confess something to you?” Sally counters.
“Is it that you don’t want to chop half your hair off and have it look like an oil slick?” Our nods are slow, synced, and punctuated with giggles.
“I do think it’s great how willing you are to try new things. I’m such a creature of habit,” I say.
“Unlike Violet, no doubt.”
“I’m glad she got me out of my comfort zone once in a while. Sometimes I worry being a creature of habit has closed me off from new things. And maybe that’s had a negative impact on Quinn. She has more ambition than I ever did, but she’s still a nervous kid in some ways. I mean, she got into good schools all over the country but stayed local. She wants to make the world a better place, but she doesn’t seem curious about seeing much of it.”
“You’re not holding her prisoner in Willow Glen.”
“Fair enough. But I wonder if my reluctance to branch out made her too insular. Or if she has a whole other life I don’t even know about. Quinn can talk to me for hours about what she wants to do to our garden, but I’ve met maybe two of her friends the entire time she’s been in college. And I’m completely shut out of her love life. I don’t even know if she has one.” Sighing, I rub the spot between my eyebrows, like my mother used to do whenever she caught me frowning. “I just don’t want her to end up alone.”
“Is this about Quinn not wanting kids? Because that’s a valid choice, and she needs to know that. Just look at my fabulous child-free life.” Sally makes a flourishing gesture.
“No, I mean … I wonder if she’s struggling with her sexual identity or gender identity or I don’t know what. And she won’t tell me because I’m so…”
“Cisgender and straight?”
“Yeah.” If Violet were around, I bet Quinn would’ve opened up to her by now. “Does she talk about any of this stuff with you?”
“What your daughter and I discuss is our business.” A contemplative pause before Sally continues. “You know, the only time I ever have second thoughts about choosing not to breed is when I’m around Quinn. You did good with her. But you do need to talk to her. Really talk.” Her mouth forms a sly grin. “Now can we discuss something more important?”
“Like your hair?”
“Like my hair. Since you’re all in your head about not trying enough new things, you can live vicariously through this.” She shakes out her blond mane. “Right now. Go nuts. Try anything.”
It’s dark out by the time her new look is complete and I’m spritzing Sally’s hair with finishing spray.
I swivel the chair and hold up a mirror so she can see the full ombré effect in her newly platinum hair: a pastel spectrum of lilac, aqua, and pink.
Sally gasps, laughing in pure delight. “Now this is motherfucking magic.”
“You should’ve been born with mermaid hair.”
“Right?” Sitting up straighter, she turns to admire herself from different angles.
When my mother owned this salon and I was too young to do more than sweep up hair, I’d watch for the moment when clients viewed her finished work, when that spark of confidence would appear in their eyes. And it always did. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they left the salon looking and feeling better. In the rare case when a client was displeased, my mother still found a way to improve their mood, whether by giving them complimentary beauty products, offering a free follow-up appointment to fix any perceived hair slight, or taking them to the back room, where she’d serve hibiscus tea and ginger biscuits. (“Sometimes it’s not the hair they are unhappy with,” she’d say, “and having a little snack and chat is enough to cheer them up.”) Violet may have made a career of magic, but I experienced more wonder observing the way my mother interacted with people, making them feel more beautiful, lifting their spirits with her perennial smile and quirky Russian expressions, listening to their stories. It’s invaluable, having a place to go where you can feel seen and heard.