Page 16 of Iron Heart

Savannah worries about my dud of a heart almost more than I do. If I had to guess, I’d say she doesn’t want to move out because she doesn’t like the idea of me living alone, in case something bad happens. Even on the nights she stays at Jeremy’s, she texts me right before bed and then first thing in the morning. She pretends she’s not checking up on me by sending some dumb joke or funny meme instead of asking what she really means:Are you still alive?

A few minutes later, I pull up in front of Curl Up and Dye. I check in with the receptionist, who brings me a fancy water infused with cucumber. Just as I’m sitting down to wait, my stylist Cyndi comes sauntering out.

“Hey, girl! Come on back!” she cries, giving me a grin.

Cyndi looks sort of like a young Julia Roberts inPretty Woman— if Julia Roberts was a dyed platinum blonde. She’s got the same wide, toothy smile, high cheekbones, and thick arched brows. I’ve never seen her dressed in anything but clothes she could wear on a night out on the town.

As I get settled into the chair, Cyndi takes out a dark smock and fastens it around my neck. “What are we doing with you today?”

“Just the usual,” I say, knowing she’ll be disappointed. “Take maybe two inches off the ends. It’s been a while since my last trim.”

Cyndi nods. “Four months. You’re looking a little wild. I’ll shape you up.” She peers at me. “You sure you don’t want me to do that ombré I was talking about last time?” she offers, sounding hopeful. “I had a last-minute cancellation after you, so I can work it in.”

I shake my head. “No thanks. Maybe next time.” Though I know I’ll say no next time, too.

Cyndi doesn’t know about my heart condition. I don’t tell anyone unless I absolutely have to. Which means she also doesn’t know why I’m reluctant to do anything to my hair other than get it cut from time to time.

The fact is, my hair is one of my best features, and I’m not only vain about it, but also a little phobic about doing anything that might damage it. The drug I take for my condition is a beta blocker, and one of its possible side effects is hair loss. I’ve never had a problem with that so far. But I’ve had nightmares about waking up one morning with a giant bald patch on the back of my head. It’s terrifying. I know it’s probably ridiculous, but I can’t help it.

So even though I know that rationally, dyeing my hair or doing anything involving chemicals is not going make me lose my hair, it still freaks me out enough that I can’t bear to do it.

Cyndi sighs dramatically and gives me a little pout in the mirror. “You’re no fun. You know I have fantasies about all the stuff I could do to your hair.”

“Sorry,” I laugh.

“No, you’re not,” she mumbles, but winks at my reflection to show me there are no hard feelings. I laugh again, relieved that she’s letting it go so easily.

Cyndi takes me back to get my hair washed, and I sink into the luxurious ritual of being pampered by a professional.I love this,I think woozily as she massages my scalp.Why don’t I get my hair cut more often?

“So, how are things?” she asks me when we’re back in the chair.

“Not too bad.” I entertain her by telling her about some of the more ridiculous stories I’ve covered for thePost-Gazetterecently, including Mildred and Eddie. Cyndi’s a great listener, as all good stylists should be, and I find myself relaxing even more.

“I swear,” she snorts, pausing between snips, “you have the most entertaining life!”

It’s funny to realize she thinks so. “I suppose I do, in a way,” I admit reluctantly. “Though it’s not all fun and games. Aunt Jeanne’s house is giving me fits, as usual. I think the electrical wiring in my kitchen is screwed.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks. “That’s rough. What’s going on?”

I recount my toaster mishap a few days ago, and Savannah’s call about the refrigerator this morning.

“Huh, that’s not good,” she frowns. “Sounds dangerous.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I admit. “I know nothing about this stuff, but I’m afraid the house is gonna catch fire and burn down if I don’t get this taken care of.”

“I know a guy, actually,” Cyndi muses. “An electrician. If you need one.”

“I totally do!” I jump on her words. “I have no idea where to even start looking. I’ve been putting it off, but this refrigerator thing makes me realize I can’t do that any longer. Who’s your guy?”

“Well, I haven’t used him myself,” she explains. “I live in an apartment. But you know that biker guy I’ve been seeing? Mal?”

“Yeah…” I frown. “He’s an electrician?”

“Not him. This other guy in Mal’s club. He does electrical work part-time. From what I hear, he’s really good. I can get hold of Mal and see if Dante is free to come over and take a look.”

I pause a second before answering. I’ve never met Cyndi’s on-again, off-again biker, Mal. I know they’re not serious at all — she has said more than once that they’re just having fun, and that he is, in her words,a spectacular lay. I’m sure he’s a nice enough guy, but I wonder how well Cyndi actually knows this electrician friend of his. It occurs to me that maybe I should think twice about letting a strange man in my house, just on the endorsement that he knows the man my hairdresser is sleeping with.

Then again, any recommendation I would get from word of mouth would just be one person’s endorsement I’d be relying on, right? And frankly, I could end up doing a lot worse by just blindly choosing someone from an internet search.

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