Harriet MacNamara and The Grande Dame salon are a character and setting of my own creation, the rest of the characters and their respective worlds, I do not own.
NICKNAME: LEXIE
Glenbogle, Circa 1988
Harriet MacNamara stood before the first panel in a row of mirrors which ran from waist to ceiling height and spanned the entire length of her hair salon, The Grande Dame. Turning from side to side Harriet's summation was that she was quite pleased with her reflection. Everything appeared to be in order, no threads hung teasingly from her clothing waiting to be snipped, no annoying little dusting of dandruff flakes needed to be brushed off her shoulders. Her lipstick hadn't feathered out, settling into the fine array of wrinkles surrounding her lips, a neat application of a nude toned liner—an invisible barrier, assuring against this cosmetic migration. Yes everything appeared to be all in the right until, upon closer inspection, she found something was amiss, and stepping forward on one foot, poised like a ballerina en pointe, Harriet angled for a better view. Coils of wiry hair, errant strands loosened from her tightly coiffed chignon, were sticking out all over like wisps of broken guitar strings, filaments freed from the tension which once had held them taut. Gently coaxing each strand back into place with the pointed end of a banana yellow comb, she picked up a can of hair spray and in one smooth motion swept the fine, misty fixative evenly across her crown. Hers was the typical cosmic joke, like the makeup artist who knows how to deftly paint someone else gorgeous but is herself ever clad in drab black with not a lick of color to her face or the talented artist able to create scenic watercolor or oil displays, worthy enough to rival the best nature has to offer but is in truth himself colorblind. For Harriet MacNamara's skills with scissors and rollers, with dyeing and foil techniques, an aptitude with hair design discovered at a very young age and honed under the tutelage of her predecessor, the Grande Dame, Lady Tress-Strand of Glenbogle, were lost on her own head of hair, a dastardly mop of cowlicks and corkscrews which, nearing her 27th birthday—oh so long ago—had all at once turned a dull shade of ashen grey. Not silvery or pure white or even what was often called a pretty salt and pepper, just plain, lackluster monotonous grey.
This primping finished to her satisfaction Harriet took a seat at the front desk and glanced at her watch for the fifth time. At half past seven her new hire was late—again. This was exactly why she never hired young'ns. They were unreliable. And, of this new girl especially, Harriet had suspected she may have taken some creative allowances where her employment application was concerned, age and former residence included. Though the rest of her staff wasn't expected in until 8:30 am, she had hoped to train her newest employ in setting up the stylists' stations and performing all of the preparatory work Harriet herself had done for years. Instead, she'd spent these past few days doubling up on her efforts to keep things running as usual while monitoring the teen, correcting her bad habits and pulling her from one task to the next in an attempt to figure out just where—or if—she'd fit in.
Harriet hadn't even been looking for any help when she took on the girl, there was just something about the wayward slip of a thing that had grabbed her attention, watching the lass not a week before, trying desperately to scrounge enough coins from her pockets and purse to purchase a paper cup of lemonade—sans ice—and a small packet of bacon-n-cheese flavored crisps. Perhaps it was just the twang of pity she had felt that motivated her or the prospect of honing her very own protégé. Whatever it was that had moved Harriet MacNamara to stroll boldly—yet gracefully—across the village green to approach the teen, helping hand extended out fully in front of her, it seemed like a good plan at the time. Her husband had often warned Harriet about employing the riff raff as he called them. But what did he know, really. Harriet's gesture was a nod toward good will, an act of kindness and common decency, the paying it forward of the foothold once given to her, to someone less fortunate.
Except now she had feared she was regretting her decision.
The rumbling sounds of steps on the stairwell set adjacent to the shop alerted Harriet to the new girl's imminent arrival, and she set to unlocking the front door.
"You're late again Alexandra." Harriet did all put waggle her finger back and forth as the girl passed into the shop, her shiny brunette hair separated by a neat, zigzagging part into two pigtails which fell straight and danced on the tops of her shoulders as she moved about.
"Well," The teen snapped a piece of gum and offered a feeble explanation, "I had trouble getting here."
"Trouble getting here? But you're living in a spare room above this shop, what could possibly have kept you?"
Slipping the trainee's mandatory light pink shapeless frock over her much tighter jeans skirt and patterned shirt, she incredulously replied, "It's just a bedsit."
"Yes, a clean, free bedsit besides. That's thanks to my accommodating husband who owns the building and fortunately is easily enough swayed."
"I'm just saying it's not like I have free reign of the loo or anything." Rummaging through her sequined purse, the teen found a thin flexible cord which she used to cinch in the waist of the unflattering sack of her work kit. "And it's Lexie."
"I'm sorry?"
"My name, it's Lexie."
"Hmm," Unlocking a file cabinet Harriet pulled open a drawer and whisked a piece of paper out of a folder. Sitting straight-backed at the desk she donned a slim pair of reading glasses. "Mm-hmm, just as I thought. You've written here on your application," she flipped it toward the girl, "the name Alexandra McTavish. You see?"
"Aye, 'cuz that's my proper name, isn't it?"
"Yes, I should hope so."
"But I go by Lexie! That's short for Alexandra."
"That may be the case but," Harriet adjusted her glasses.
"Oi! Look," Snatching the paper from Harriet's hand the girl searched for a writing implement, finding none within reach, she grabbed instead an eyeliner pencil from a nearby display and in big violet letters wrote across the top of the form NICKNAME: LEXIE. "There," she said smacking paper and makeup stick on the desktop, "now the form says Lexie, all right?"
Harriet chose to ignore the outburst. "Fine, I shall now and for ever more call you Lexie." Smiling smugly, the teen irritatingly snapped her gum again causing Harriet to shudder. "Lexie, what are you chewing? Whatever it is, it smells horrid."
"It's m'breakfast."
"You mean to tell me that synthetically-scented fruity wad is all you've had for breakfast?"
"Aye," Lexie blew a huge bubble in demonstration then popped it loudly with a fingernail which was varnished in a rich shade of metallic blue, "watermelon flavored, my favorite. Actually," narrowing her eyes, the teen sneered, "I was hoping to ring up for some room service this morning but I couldn't find the phone. Besides," she whined, "I didn't have any time to prepare something."
"Yet you've had ample time to put on your makeup I see." Though Lexie wasn't exactly "all tarted up", the frosted blue eye shadow and glossy raspberry-colored lip treatment she sported had almost, but not quite, crossed the line from young and fun to brassy and garish. One thing Harriet knew for certain, it was all applied with an expert hand.
"Listen lady, you can't be telling me what to do with my free time!"
"No, you're correct. Technically however, you arrived a half hour late this morning. So that was my time, wasn't it?" Conceding, Lexie shook her head. "You need to learn how to prioritize your time Alexandra."
"Och you're really crampin' my style with that! The name is Lexie!"
"Yes, yes all right please forgive me." Harriet waved her hands in dismissal. "I had a momentary lapse, it does happen. Why don't you go to the break room and plug in the large pot for tea then fix yourself a plate of biscuits, hmm? And mind you," Harriet clapped her hands together twice "you'll need to be sharp today. The laird's wife, Mrs. Hector MacDonald has an appointment. And always remember, the way you behave is a reflection on me."
Curtseying in a manner blatantly impertinent, Lexie walked to the break room mimicking her boss to a tee. In school, she had kept her friends in stitches impersonating all of their teachers, she had a real knack for picking up on all of their idiosyncrasies, but Lexie knew she had to be her own audience now. Helping herself to a few extra biscuits, she brought Harriet's tea—in a dainty china cup, and one for herself—in a sturdy beaker, back out to the front of the shop.
"Oh no," the older woman glanced up from the appointment book laid out before her where she was checking over the schedule for the day, "where do you think you're going with those?"
"First off," Lexie stood with one hip jutted out, a look of contempt on her face, "I have your tea here and when you're finished there, I'm going to take my place at the desk. For now, I'll just sit at Shirley's station." Plunking down on the client chair, Lexie placed one foot, shod in a 3 inch wedge-heeled shoe on the chrome footrest and used the other to giver herself a push so the seat would swivel around on its base.
"No, I'm sorry Lexie you will not be on the desk today."
"What? Why?" Lexie stopped her swiveling short. "I thought we agreed I'd be taking the calls."
"Initially yes, that was the plan for yesterday. But, um let's see, how shall I put this? While on the phone, you were a bit abrupt with people."
"Aye and I had reason to be! People can't make up their minds, can they? You ask 'em, when would you like an appointment, mum? And they say, Any time you have free is fine with me lass. Then you suggest like 15 different times and they have a nutter! They're all, Oh I can't possibly come in then! Well why didn't ye just suggest a time in the first place then you ol' cow? 'Stead of putting us both through all of this back and forth aggravation. The only fun is tellin' the customer that their precious time slot's booked!"
"Lexie, you have to have patience with them." Harriet smiled, "Haven't you ever heard of the saying the customer is always right?"
"No," Lexie thought for a moment, "But I don't think that's necessarily the best policy, you know? Och never mind. You don't understand."
"I do understand. It takes a good amount of patience to deal with customers, especially when they're being royal pains in the you-know-where but, until you can manage some tolerance, I'm afraid answering the phone is going to be off limits."
As Lexie slowly turned her chair to face the station's mirror, another thought occurred to her. "Hey!" Surprised by the excited outcry, Harriet nearly dropped her cup of tea. "What about the other stuff? You know, I used to curl m'mum's hair all the time. Oooh and I'm really rad with a crimping iron, used to crimp me and my mates' hair when we'd go out on the town."
"That's all well and good," Harriet winced at the idea of Lexie brandishing a crimping iron at one of her prim customers, "but to touch people's hair in a real salon, one must be fully licensed."
"Aye," Visibly crestfallen, Lexie slouched back against the seat, "well," she reasoned, "I'm touching it when I sweep it off the floor, aren't I?"
Saved by a ringing phone, Harriet chose not to comment. As usual, the girl did indeed have a point.
******
With the morning spent ridding the floor of fallen locks in every hue imaginable, wiping smudges off the endless wall of mirrors and stumbling about to fetch this and that, the afternoon offered Lexie a change of pace as she was sent out of the shop armed with a list of lunch orders. Though this would seem a task of drudgery to most, to the teen it was a little slice of freedom, pure joy. Visiting several different eateries, she crisscrossed the village square, walking atop the vivid emerald carpet of the center green and soaking up the scents of sweet hay and budding heather naturally perfuming the air—all things missing from the cramped, bustling city from whence she came.
Meanwhile, having arrived promptly for her appointment at The Grand Dame, toting with her a good book and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain round her neck, Molly MacDonald had already sat for her first application of goo and gunk and, with plastic cap all in place, was, when Lexie had returned from her errands, being comfortably settled beneath one of the driers at the back of the salon.
Distracted by the bubbly presence of Lexie in the distance, the Laird's wife took notice of how the teen interacted with the rest of the staff, flitting like a whirlwind from one station to another, depositing Styrofoam containers of sandwiches and salads along with beverages, napkins and straws all with the flair and ease of a supreme hostess and though she could not hear the teen's repartee, by observing the other's reactions to her, she judged it to be entertaining, if not witty.
"Harriet? Is that a new girl you've hired?"
"Why yes, Molly."
"She seems delightful, even charming."
"Ah, you haven't met her yet—looks can be deceiving. To be fair, she's a nice lass but also a bit of a handful, she is. And it's too bad really because she has so much potential."
"It sounds as though you're writing her off, Harriet."
"No, not really Molly," the salon owner seemed taken aback, "it's just that she has such a long way to go and well, I'm not so sure I'm the right one to show her the way after all." Harriet lowered the drier over the top of Molly's head, "You'll excuse me, won't you?"
Molly had just taken up her glasses and book when Lexie approached, buttoning and cinching her pink frock over her clothing once again.
"Hiya in there," the teen tapped gently on the clear shield covering the front portion of the drier, "are you doing okay under there?" Lexie was shouting a little louder than the situation warranted. "Could I get you a cup of tea or a magazine? Oooh," spotting the book Molly had tucked beside her in the chair, Lexie laughed, "I see you've brought your own reading material." Reaching over and tapping Molly's arm she added, "I hope it's one of them trashy romance novels, you know the kind!"
"Mm-hmm," Molly sniggered, "where everyone's bosoms are heaving and the men are dashing and tall! Bodice-rippers I think they're called!"
"Aye," Lexie shrieked, "those books are always good reading when you're having a bit of me time!"
"I agree, but I'm afraid this one's a mystery."
"A mystery? Well murder and mayhem are intriguing too, aren't they?"
Standing nearby, alarmed at the common, familiar conversation Lexie had mistakenly broached with the Laird's wife, Harriet hissed, "Alexandra!"
Rolling her eyes, Lexie kept attending to Molly and, leaning in a little closer to her she whispered, "I'm supposed to be on my best behavior today, you see. Any minute now her royal highness, the queen of Glenbogle a Mrs. H MacD will be arriving. I mean who is she anyway? How's she any different from the rest of us, 'eh?" Molly shrugged in response. "And she," the teen nodded to her boss, "knows I prefer to be called by my nickname, which is Lexie. She claims she keeps forgetting, but," the teen winked, "I think it's done intentionally."
"Alexandra? Al-ex-an-dra! May I see you please?"
"Oi," Lexie whipped around, "you can see me from there, can't you? What is it anyway? Just what can LEXIE do for you now, Miss?" She had managed to catch herself before adding the nasty bit, you bloody cow.
Determined not to make even more of a scene, Harriet maintained her cool and with set jaw continued, "Please see if Mrs. MacDonald would like some tea."
"Aye, I will!" Unknowingly ignoring the request, Lexie moved to a stand of magazines, straightening each row.
"Lexie!"
"What?!"
"The tea! Harriet implored.
"Aye, I'll get to it. How am I supposed to ask her when she hasn't even arrived yet?" As soon as the words left her mouth, it occurred to Lexie that the pleasant woman, the one wearing the dark trouser style jeans, white blouse with blue stripes and sweater jauntily tied about her shoulders, the one with whom the teen was just having a lively, hip conservation about handsome men and buxom ladies, was none other than the Lairdess herself. Turning a deep shade of pink Lexie wished she could melt right down into the tiled floor. That not being the Lexie McTavish way of doing things however, she steeled her nerves and turned back to Molly.
Lifting up the drier hood, Molly smiled. "I'll take that cup of tea now, thank you."
Heading back to the break room, Lexie chose a cup and saucer from Harriet's reserved stash of china and fixed a steaming hot tea and a small plate of biscuits.
"I'd like to apologize to you, Mrs. MacDonald." Unsure of the correct protocol, if indeed there was even a correct protocol for meeting a Laird or his family, Lexie performed an awkward half curtsey.
"What in heaven's name for?"
"Well," the teen set the tea and cookies on a side table, "I was a bit rude to you, on account of my not knowing who you were. Though that's not an excuse, I suppose. I really shouldn't be rude to anyone—and I'm working on that. I have this way of just saying whatever comes to mind! Anyway, Mrs. MacDonald I don't mean any disrespect, but you don't look like a typical Laird's wife!"
"Thank you, you know that's probably the best compliment anyone's ever paid me. Lexie is it? Well I was having a bit of fun at your expense too, me not mentioning who I was. You're not local, are you?"
"No," Lexie laughed, "My Glaswegian accent gave me away, right? Mine's not a posh tongue."
"Well, Lexie from Glasgow, that's a pretty far off city. What made you decide to move here?"
"Och, I was just seeking some adventure, you know how it goes, getting a bit restless and all."
"Yes, I know how it feels to be restless. And also, to feel lost."
There was something in Molly's response, the ability to separate fact from fiction, an indication that she could sense the truth, even though it hadn't been spoken. "Actually," Lexie confided, "that's not exactly true. I mean I'm here because Glenbogle was the last stop on the lorrie driver's run I hitched a ride with."
"Ah," Molly smiled kindly.
"Och, I shouldn't be taking up your time with my prattle, Mrs. MacDonald."
"Nonsense, I'm interested in knowing more, Lexie." Molly offered the teen a biscuit, "I'm sure you're due for a break. Sit down and tell me all about you."
"Well there's nothing to tell really. What you see is what you get."
"Oh no, I'm not so sure that's true."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Lexie, I meant it as a good thing. I think there's tons more to you than all of this flash and fluff. Even Mrs. MacNamara thinks so, she said you have potential."
"Did she? Not so much the daft cow I thought her then, huh?" Realizing what she'd said, Lexie flushed again and slapped her hand to her head. "What does it matter anyway?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Well it's not as if I want to stay here all my life, do I? Sweepin' the floor and rubbin' those bloody mirrors."
"You could go to school, become licensed in, well, hair I suppose."
"Aye, but doin' hair? I mean doin' my own okay or setting m'mum's. But I don't think I could do it forever." Lexie stared into space.
"Here," Molly reached for her pocketbook and pulling from it a billfold, she leafed through its contents, secretly passing a folded stash to Lexie. "Take this."
"Whoa, what are you doing, Mrs. MacDonald? I don't accept charity!" Rising, red in the face, this time out of anger and frustration, Lexie crossed her arms on her chest and began anxiously tapping her foot.
"No, no Lexie please, sit down. You've gotten the wrong end of the stick. I'm sorry if I've offended you. This isn't charity exactly."
"Oi, then what is it exactly?"
"It's fare. To pay for a one-way bus ticket back home. Oh Lexie, you're miserable here, I can sense this. Go home, be with your friends and get on with your real life."
Overcome with this thoughtful and unexpected gesture, Lexie was at a loss for words. Sitting back down, she drew in a ragged breath and her eyes began to tear.
"Lexie? What is it, dear? Please take it; you don't have to worry about paying me back."
"No Mrs. MacDonald, it's not that, I mean thank you for your generous offer but," Lexie took a deep steadying breath, "going home, it just isn't an option. I'm never going back there." Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her trainee smock, Lexie stood and said quietly. "If you think you're all set now, that'll be me away."
******
Some time had passed and Harriet found Lexie in the break room clearing away the washed tea cups and beakers which had been draining in a small slotted basket beside the sink.
"Listen Mrs. MacNamara," Lexie launched into speaking before Harriet had the opportunity to start, "I'm sorry for the way I acted today and if you give me a second chance, I know I can…"
"Lexie," Harriet interrupted, "if you're quite free now, Mrs. MacDonald would like to see you before she leaves."
"Me? Why? I really don't have anything more to say to her. I mean I apologized to her and everything, honest."
"Yes, I know. But you were just being you, Alex—I mean Lexie. I had no right to try and change you."
"Well," Lexie was confused by her boss's new attitude, "you were just looking out for me, weren't you? It's like what you've said to me before; you were trying to make me a better person. And I appreciate that."
"You already are a good person, Lexie. Maybe you have a wee problem with authority and with managing your time," with this last comment, they both laughed. "Lexie, please don't keep Mrs. MacDonald waiting any longer."
"But," the teen attempted to protest.
"I think," Harriet whispered persuasively, "she might have a tip for you or something. Why don't you go and see."
******
"Mrs. MacDonald? Mrs. MacNamara said you wanted to see me."
"I'm afraid all I can offer you is a roof, a lumpy bed and a compassionate ear when you need one. Oh and," Molly quickly added, "a pretty fair wage."
"I'm sorry?"
"Oh Lexie, my husband and I need someone with your spunk and verve in our lives. Our children have moved away and it's just the two of us roaming around our ramshackle but respectable old manse. I've seen today that you're ace with the cleaning up and I know you can at least make a cup of tea—which is utterly quintessential I believe. Most of all, I think you'll fit in with us just fine. We're a quirky bunch too, you see. It's as though we've all been cut from the same cloth—we're, all of us, a crazy quilt, if you will. What do you say? Have we a deal?"
"What about the Laird?" Lexie asked nervously.
"What about him?"
"What do you think he'll say?"
"Hmm, you haven't met my husband. Well he's opinionated, that's for sure, but it's usually all about nonsense. You leave him to me." Molly waved to someone through a window in the front of the shop. "And speaking of the devil, here he is now." Lexie peered out to see two older gentlemen both fitted out in colorful golf togs, all clashing plaid and argyle. "Run along, Lexie. Gather your things and say your goodbyes and I'll meet you outside."
Leaving her bedsit for the last time, Lexie approached the trio. Assuming the Laird to be the balding, portly gentleman who was leaning against an antique auto, which looked as though it had been freshly washed and detailed, Lexie courageously offered her hand in greeting. "Hello, sir. My name is Lexie."
"Oh yes," the gentleman shook her fingertips lightly, "I'm charmed I'm sure."
"Lexie," Molly chimed in, "that is Lord Kilwillie, a neighbor of ours. This here," she patted the arm of the curmudgeonly-looking man she had attached herself to, "is my husband, the 14th Laird of Glenbogle. Hector, may I present to you Lexie. I'm sorry dear, what is your last name?"
"It's McTavish. My name's Lexie McTavish. Hello," the teen hesitantly stepped forward as the Laird eyed her up and down, his bushy grey brows rising in question, "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, sir."
"Hector," Molly spoke with an air of conviction, "Lexie is going to be our new cook and housekeeper." She held her breath waiting for her husband's response.
"Grand," he said without lingering, "what's she cooking us for supper?"
Thus was started the Glenbogle tradition of burnt suppers, a la Lexie.
The End