The Salon – Part 18

The Secret of the Rooftop Terrace

"God, this heat!" panted the woman with the thick, curly hair that fell all the way to her backside, as she practically collapsed through the door.

She didn't look at anyone, just dropped onto the couch, legs splayed out carelessly in her thin, striped linen trousers, as if she were lounging in her own living room. She moaned and sighed at length. Everyone in the salon stared, scandalized.

Lara shot Mia a baffled look, then glanced at the clock. She hadn't finished with her client yet; Nico had only just started on his, and Gael had already gone home ages ago. Something wasn't right.

"Who is this?" she mouthed.

She glanced sideways to make sure the stranger hadn't caught her looking. Mia got up from behind the counter and walked over. She put her hands on her hips.

"Can I help you?"

The woman huffed, then waved her off, as if to say she could get back to whatever she'd been doing.

"I'm here for my nails, but I've still got time. I just can't stand this heat. I'd rather sit here than at home. Ugh!" she grumbled. "My ass is so sweaty my underwear's got stains. Like I wet myself. Fuck."

She hauled herself up, patted her backside, and walked over to the counter. She grabbed the water pitcher and drank straight from it, not bothering with a glass. She sighed contentedly, shuffled back to the couch, and stretched out on it again.

"Fucking hot."

Then she closed her eyes.

The salon fell into a tense silence. The guest didn't even notice the reproachful glances flashing her way. She seemed interested in nothing but cooling off. She looked like she'd already dozed off.

Mia rinsed out the pitcher and swapped out the glasses. It bothered her that the woman hadn't even asked if she could lounge around for an hour before her appointment. Soon enough, though, everyone sank back into their work, and the salon filled again with its usual soft hum of conversation. Mia relaxed too and got back to Nico's inventory list. The woman, meanwhile, really did seem to have drifted off.

When she finished the manicure, Lara walked her client to the counter. She waited while she paid, then said goodbye. She waved once more through the glass door, then turned back into the salon. She couldn't believe her eyes. The woman, who moments ago had been lying on the couch with her eyes shut, was now sitting at the manicure table. Sprawled across it, more like. Lara walked over. Next to the woman's hand sat a small stack of flyers. She picked up the top one.

"What's this?"

"Oh, those are for the girl. You can put them out on the counter," the woman said.

The colorful flyer was advertising a fire poi show.

"Is this you?"

The woman's face broke into a satisfied smile.

"Sure is. I clean up pretty well, don't I?" She laughed. "It's all in the makeup."

Lara nodded, impressed.

"Not bad at all. That must be quite the feat to pull off."

The woman shrugged.

"Every job looks hard to someone who's never tried it. Doing nails looks hard too, but it's just painting, isn't it? The client even picks the color for you — no thinking required." She laughed again.

Lara's expression darkened.

"Tell that to someone with shaky hands. You might change your mind."

"All right, all right, I was just teasing," the woman softened. "If it were that easy, I'd do it myself. I don't even own nail polish."

"So, fire poi," Lara steered the conversation back. "Do you perform a lot?"

"In summer they call me for house parties, family stuff, that kind of thing. I'm basically the clown at the birthday party. Except it takes real focus. If I dropped one and it flew into the crowd, there'd be screaming. Nobody laughs at the clown for that."

They were quiet for a moment.

"I'd love to see it sometime."

"If you don't feel like hiring me, I usually practice on the rooftop terrace late at night," she laughed, a little embarrassed.

"And what do the neighbors think? Do they love it? Do they all come out to watch?"

The woman clapped a hand to her forehead.

"Now you've hit the nail on the head! There's an old woman who lives in the building across the street. A little crazy." She tapped her temple meaningfully with one finger. "She's convinced I'm a witch," she said, and let out a loud snorting laugh.

The scissors clattered out of Nico's hand. Her client flinched.

"Sorry," she stammered.

He picked the scissors back up, set them aside to disinfect, and grabbed another pair. His hand was still shaking when he lifted it back to his client's hair. Mia, as if she'd suddenly remembered something urgent, hurried over to stand behind Lara, tape measure in hand, and pretended to be measuring something on the wall. They'd never have imagined that the witch their oldest client, Dolores, was always going on about actually existed — and that she got her nails done, of all things.

"Witch?" Lara asked, as if nothing had happened.

"I know, it's ridiculous. That's just Dolores for you."

"What if you invited her up to watch? That would probably put her mind at ease. She might even enjoy it."

The woman waved the idea away.

"Eh. I don't know. That woman gives me the creeps. I ran into her at the store the other day, and she was grinning like the cat that got the cream. Patted her bag and winked at me."

Nico's mouth twitched. He already had a good guess what was in that bag: Dolores's lavender cookies, supposedly powerful enough to render even a witch harmless, which the old woman had been bragging to him about not long ago. He faked a hard cough to cover his laughter.

"Anyone want a lavender cookie?" he asked loudly.

"Ugh," the woman snapped. "I hate lavender."

Lara gently rested her hand on the woman's wrist.

"Then you've got nothing to worry about. Go ahead and invite your neighbor up."