A/N: Charlaine Harris owns all of her characters. Evil genius that she is, she has created the Sookieverse for our pleasure.
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Chapter 2.
The previous night's near raid on Shiseido products during my shift at Belk's cosmetics counter had left me flush with extra commission dollars. Thursday nights were always busy. The too-much disposable income crowd treated it as a no-holds barred reason to stock up for their weekend activities. In my case, without a store discount, I could not have afforded much of it. Still, I'd gone ahead and purchased several new shades of eye-shadow including the Pale Zen. I'd immediately felt much better.
I would need the new shadow for Friday night's activities. Although I hadn't had much free time in between the scheduled makeup consultations and walk-ups, I'd finally resolved to lose the blue-black hair color I'd adopted when my Granmere had passed. It had been her natural color, a major clue to her Cajun roots. I'd return to the shiny blonde color I preferred. Maybe I was letting go of her just a little, I mused. It had been more than a year since the accident.
I'd been circling the area around the shop for several minutes when the parking gods granted me an unexpected favor. Offering up my thanks, I swung my Honda into an unmetered spot three blocks from the shop. I had arrived about ten minutes early and thus was able to sprint over. I'd watch from the street corner to gauge the type of traffic Irick's business attracted.
Hey, it appeared to be busy. The door was no longer stuck unless the women entering were more muscular than their casual but chic clothing would suggest. Satisfied I was making the right choice, I entered CBGB Salon, an odd name for a beauty salon, I mused. Was it a play on Max Azria's BCBG line? I'd ask my stylist. She'd spill about the name and the colorful owner once my tender locks were distracting her from my unseemly curiosity.
Opening the door, I was assaulted by the typical smells associated with women hoping to plump their assets. Thankfully, it was overlaid with a heavy vanilla almond flavor; the smell of ersatz cookies was very comforting to the estrogen crowd. I should know. The consumption of the real thing after my breakup with Sam had been the calorie-laden source of those pounds I couldn't lose.
Waiting at the counter and dressed in a dramatic combo of well-tailored black satin slacks and patterned pink silk tee, just oozing masculine charm, was a new face. I eyed his name plate (no tacky name tag for him): Felipe. Felipe regarded me with evident pleasure as we made our introductions; he was no Irick, but he was darkly beautiful in a casual Latin male sort of way. Irick was nowhere in sight. I idly wondered if they were lovers.
Felipe quickly found my name on the schedule, excitedly chittering when he saw I had signed up for the Special. I wasn't sure of all the special covered, but I wasn't going to be pissy about it. I had the money and knew from the price it would be a boatload of treatments. I'd leave the shop the delectable creature Will would be unable to resist.
In a few minutes, I was wallowing in the warm womb of the establishment, my true Southern accent and Louisiana origins completely winning over the shampoo girl. She handled me as if I had agreedto introduce her to my good friend Louisiana native Britney. Eyes closed now as the coolish rinse water cascaded over my head, the slightly harsher Atlanta accents flowing freely around me, I ceased thinking of Will for a few brief minutes. I let my mind wander, random thoughts welcome. I knew Granmere would sniff if she could overhear the coarseness of these ladies. The sounds were sweet, but the sentiments expressed could have sliced the nearest baluster in half.
Shampoo completed and parked in an open slot while I waited for my stylist, I was thinking about William when an excited buzzing in the ranks piqued my curiosity. I lazily opened one lid to determine what had happened. Did the governor's wife step naked from a limo to make her pedicure appointment? Maybe a teacup poodle had escaped a handbag and was running amok in the dressing rooms? Or was it something of actual interest?
Glancing around, I saw no cause for alarm, just the arrival of the shop owner, Irick. He looked even better today, clad in stonewashed skintight jeans and what had to be a blue and white striped Nautica long-sleeved rugby shirt. I smirked. Couldn't my fellow debs see the obvious? He just wasn't available. I wondered again if he and Felipe were shagging after I saw him walk over to the receptionist and ruffle his hair.
When Irick spied me, sitting in the bay closest to the reception area, befitting my status as a new client, he stopped and stared. It took him a moment before he appeared to remember me from yesterday's visit, hair wrapped in a maroon towel or not. I quickly looked down to confirm the robe I was wearing wasn't gaping. It was. Oh well, no worries in this place. I tucked the fabric more firmly under the sash.
He nodded and made his way to me, a smile on his face. I felt a small swoon coming on, but reminded myself of the futility of it all.
"Darling. Here you are. Ready for a ravishing new cut and color today?" Up close, he was even more tantalizing.
"Well hi to you, Irick. All ready here. I'm more of a natural blonde. This black color is one I did myself and should come out easy. Do you offer baliage, you know, painting?" I'd been to New Orleans once and had my hair painted. It had looked amazing.
He carefully removed the towel, and gathered up my hair, which was so long and heavy I always tied it up in a chignon for work. Rubbing the wet strands between his elegantly shaped fingers, I noticed his nails were painted a darker green shade today. Probably needed to match an outfit he'd be wearing this weekend.
He was taking his time with my hair, tracing the hair's length from my scalp to the tips, his expression intense as he planned who-knew-what. I shivered in anticipation of the verdict. Would he want to cut it, make a dramatic change? How would I talk him down if the proposed cut was too radical? Sometimes it was dangerous to blithely enter a new hair care establishment. Disasters could befall the uninitiated that could take months to overcome. I seemed to be more vulnerable to these sorts of injuries than others I knew. (I still had the photos from my prom, graduation, and homecoming dance to prove it.) I trembled, waiting for him to begin.
Gathering himself, he leaned down to look me in the eyes. "Yes, I'll take you blonde, sugar." The wink he gave me was so good; I felt a little squirm happening where it shouldn't be. I winked back, and why not? I reminded myself I was practicing for my future with William.
"But first, I propose we cut this, divesting your sweet self of broken ends and other evidence of sad mistreatment. If I take no more than twelve inches off, will you agree to anything I ask?" Since I doubted he could propose anything more daring that drinking sweet tea out of a paper cup, considering his proclivities, I readily agree, tossing caution to the wind. As I've rashly said many times before, it always grows back.
There was a small gasp from the woman in the next bay. Since I didn't think a haircut was a gasp-worthy event, I ignored her and prepared to once again throw myself and my hair on the mercy of a virtual stranger. I hoped he was not a closet misogynist.
"You'll have my top colorist, Pammi, my sweet. Then, my best cut." I enjoyed the drama he was producing. I hated to interrupt, but I did have a practical question for the Tress Master.
"Does your Special package also include a facial?" I was hoping he was offering some of the same products he used on his own wondrous skin. I'd felt a foolish compulsion, repressed of course, to touch his face when he'd bent down earlier to my level. I snuck a quick look at his feet. Yes sir, those were suede tan boots peeping out from under his jean clad legs. Wow, he really had long feet. Guess they matched his long legs. I was snapped back to reality by the moving presence of those boots. Sadly, I could have predicted his footwear choice had anyone bothered to ask. Considering his hair length, my second choice would have Birkenstocks.
"Always" was his cryptic reply. I wondered if my facial would be before or after the color, but they were the experts; I'd abdicated responsibility for my body today; just count me as a casual observer. Experienced in the ways of the average salon, I knew better than to anticipate any protests I made would be too carefully considered. Sometimes out-and-out screaming would work, though.
I was mentally prepared to surrender to Irick and his team.
The music playing in the background was from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, I noticed. Nice touch. I recognized it from the ladies restroom at the Store where it ran on a continuous loop.
Remembering I'd had no coffee that morning, I humbly made a last request, wondering aloud if chicory coffee was available. Irick did not deem such a question one he should have to answer. Luckily, Felipe had overheard me. He darted over, suggesting he'd fix me an espresso. Disappointed, I accepted as graciously as possible. Giving me a much-too-enthusiastic smile, he told me he could tell I was a Child of the Mississippi by my accent. Irick looked quizzically at me. "You're not a native Georgian?"
Feeling just a little naughty, I shook my head 'no' and laid the Cajun accent on thick just for his benefit. "Allons, cher! Aks mo sometin." At his mystified expression, I said. "Mo chagrin."
"It's Cajun, Irick, don't you recognize it?" Felipe seemed to take some delight in goading the Owner about his oblivious reaction to my feeble attempt at patois.
"Sorry, honey bunch, guess not." The look he shot Felipe was not friendly. Lover's spat? I wondered. Had Felipe blown his chances for a Christmas present this year because of me? Either way, none of my concern.
But Irick's ignorance was showing when he surprised me by asking if I was interested in Zydeco.
Before we could get into his mysterious fascination with black Creole music, colorist Pammi, as if summoned, chose to interrupt our little regional explorations.
Irick looked pleased to see her, hugging her and calling her his 'chile', evidently for my benefit. She was a stunning woman with elfin features. Easily several inches taller than my five foot six height, she would dwarf every other woman in the immediate area. The drama of her appearance included artfully tangled blood red locks and a multi-hued ouroboros tattoo on her wrist. A larger tattoo was barely concealed below her breastbone, one claw clearly visible. She immediately corrected any misapprehension about her status.
"I'm Pam and part owner of CBGB Salon with lover-boy here. You know his rep?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
She gave me an odd look I didn't understand, and then physically pointed him towards another customer, as if to send him on his way. I briefly thought it was strange he was spending so much time with me, but whatever. Guess I was the novelty du jour.
After a brief consultation about my history in the chair and a recount of past disasters visited upon me, Pammi was ready to move forward.
"It's unorthodox in some circles, but I'm going to strip out all your color and see what's left before we settle on your shade of blonde. Only then can Irick take you."
"Can you do hair painting?" I asked, a little naively, judging by her look of disbelief.
"Just shush, girl. It's all goan be fine." She was definitely teasing me now. She bent over to stare into my eyes, as if to convince me further. However, I was not easily mesmerized. I let her continue to stare until she began to shift her weight. I was in a glorified hair salon, not a tent at the travelling circus.
"Pam, I'm getting the Special today." I told her so she'd know I had other places to be and other hands to pamper me today.
She gave me a snide look. "I'll share you only when I'm ready. Don't push me if you want my best work."
I could only pray she was not a female misogynist. If such a thing was possible, I figured it was just a matter of time before I ran across one eager to get her hands on my hair.
And so began the arduous task of turning me back into a blonde bombshell, tempered somewhat by the perks of Pam's talented seduction of new client me. I was going to be made verbal love to by one of the best, although I didn't know it yet.
It started with an innocuous question about my job. From there we progressed to my friends in the area. Since I had none, it was a dead end, conversationally. She gamely moved on to my family, building up to the inevitable therapeutic discussion about men. Really, was there any other topic worth killing hours discussing? It covered just about every social situation as the ultimate ice-breaker. I didn't know any Northern women, but I doubted we Southerners had a lock on the topic. Someone always had a hair-raising tale to share, no pun intended.
But first I had to tell the history of my family. After the usual feinting, I reluctantly revealed to Pam, my new confidant, that my parents were gone, killed years ago in a small plane crash on a trip to Houston with friends. She commiserated, asking if I had other family locally. I touched briefly on the recent loss of my Granmere. After her death by accidental ingestion of a mismarked household poison and the breakup with Sam, I had nearly convinced myself that maybe my career was all that was left to me. I did have a brother somewhere, I told Pam. Jason often took jobs on the oil rigs in the Gulf for months at a time with no communication from him, so I'd given up counting on him. I tried not to look as lonely as these facts made me feel, but I was twenty-two. It still hurt.
Pammi was instantly sympathetic. She gave me a supportive squeeze in the general vicinity of my forearm, all that was manageable with the chemicals in full application mode. While she didn't come right out and say I looked like a lost chicken in the road, I could tell she was thinking something along those lines.
Wondering out loud about my plans for the evening, traditionally a date night, I could tell she was more than ready to move into the relationship part of our talk. It was time to reveal my motivations for tackling the Special.
"Pammi, I know we are fast becoming bosom buddies. Yes?"
"You know it." She replied, pertly.
"Can you forgive me if I don't want to talk about 'it'?" My eyes were closed, waiting for the blow. Would my new hair color turn out a shade of apricot or chartreuse?
"Oh." She inhaled. "That bad, eh?"
"Six weeks and then nothing." Was I talking about Will after all?
"This is the best, least expensive therapy you'll ever get. What did he do, exactly?" She was persistent, no doubt about it.
Before I could start, she asked the one question I was dreading. "Did you sleep with him?"
I shook my head, but what came out of my mouth betrayed me. "Sorta."
She started on the inquisition in earnest. I didn't blame her. I would have had the same questions.
When she had wormed every detail from me, shifting focus only to check my hair every few minutes, I felt a bit empty, but grateful. Her interrogation techniques had drained the pain, the shame and the anger from my soul. I wasn't exactly reborn, but her therapeutic techniques would have rivaled anything I saw on Sally Jessy before the show was cancelled.
Suddenly, it was time for the return of the real Sookie Stackhouse. I was moved once more to the rinse sinks, and fingers crossed, kept my eyes tightly shut, sending silent prayers for a verdict in my favor.
The mirror offered to me by my new best friend, the aforementioned shampoo girl, was the moment of truth.
"Voila!" Pammi spoke loudly enough for everyone around us to hear. "Champagne Blonde." A flick of her wrist at me. "You'll match your drink of choice tonight."
Well, not exactly my original color, but I did look amazing, much better than Carrie Bradshaw and her snooty TV gal pals.
Several heads had turned in my direction at the announcement. The looks of envy and chagrin I saw on their faces convinced me Pammi had chosen wisely. Look out, William, I thought, maliciously. Unconsciously, I squeezed my arms tight against my sides to provide a little framing for my assets, a move I'd perfected over the years. Always worked, courtesy of the generous help I'd been given in that department.
I looked up to thank Pammi and found her also staring appreciatively at the results of my move. Oops. I should have been paying better attention.
"Now, Sookie, let's call in Irick. Then you can have your facial and your Brazilian." She was smiling a little too widely at me for complete comfort. I hoped she was too far up the food chain to double as the Salon's waxer as well.
When I stood to move to another section of the Salon for the haircut, I found Felipe by my side, holding on to my elbow to guide me to the secluded area where Irick evidently performed his transformations.
Even though there was no point, my brief exposure to Irick had me looking forward to having his undivided attention. Well, I'd have to share with my hair, but I could live with that.
Unfortunately, Irick was engaged in a phone call in his office, which was adjacent to where I waited. I couldn't make out any distinct words, but he seemed to be shouting. If he was this agitated, could he calm down sufficiently before he took up his scissors? I'd have to remind him about the twelve inches maximum we'd negotiated earlier.
The door to his office flew open. Caught grimacing as he exited the room, Irick seemed surprised to see me sitting in the chair. He stopped and I actually saw the Southern banter mask fall into place. He nonchalantly sauntered over, prepared to charm me as he'd done earlier, but he was too late. I'd already guessed he was from someplace further North than Baltimore, maybe a lot further, judging by what I'd overheard.
Smiling to hide my unease, I suspected he wanted to ask me if I had indeed overheard him. However, he was prevented from asking because he clearly didn't want to suggest there was any reason I shouldn't have been listening.
"Precious." Delivered in a tighter voice than his previous addresses to me.
"Yes, Irick." I batted my lashes at him, enjoying the unusual freedom of flirting without worrying about the consequences.
He halted a foot from my chair and stared a little more closely at me. "Love your hair." He took complete possession of me then. His fingers began to forge new inroads into the damp curls, my hair beginning to wave now with the extra body I was forced to attack and subdue with my blow dryer every morning. He released his grip on my hair, and then unexpectedly pulled me up tight against his rugby-shirted chest, laying his cheek flat against the top of my head, his arms locked around me. I stifled my own involuntary gasp as best as I could. Was this his technique for all new clients? Gay or straight, it seemed extreme. Although maybe not for a Northerner?
"You smell delicious, Sookie."
A/N:All errors are mine on these first few chapters.