Page 55 of About Last Christmas
“I have a Christmas party tonight and thought it’d be nice to get my hair done.” I sit in the red chair and fight the urge to squirm. I can’t blame the plush cushion. No, I’m not comfortable in my own skin. I hyped myself up on the way by imagining this task as undercover work, channeling my inner spy. Problem is, I don’t have an inner spy. I’m a horrible liar and an even worse actress. My debut as the Star of Bethlehem in second grade didn’t prepare me for casual espionage in the name of Christmas.
Brandy talks to my reflection in the oversized mirror. “Is this a formal event?”
“No, much more relaxed.”
Her head tilts. “Ooh, something fun.”
About as fun as menstrual cramps, but I nod anyway.
She bites her lip and stares at my hair as if envisioning her future work. “We can definitely do fun.”
I give an enthusiastic thumbs up like I’m five. Apparently, I don’t need much of a strategy because for the next twenty minutes, Brandy is braiding, curling, and pinning my hair while divulging her life story. How she considered a career on Broadway. How she lived in Las Vegas before ending up in Silver Creek. How she’s raising a young daughter as a single mom. I keep encouraging her with well-placed questions. “And you say your daughter’s two?”
“Yeah, a total terror. But a lovable one, ya know?” She turns my chair away from the mirror. “What do you think we spruce this up a little? I have the cutest Christmas accessories.”
I shrug. “Do what you think’s best.” At this point, I don’t care if my hair looks as if I’m going to junior high homecoming or a Comic-Con. I’m this close to getting the information I need. “It sounds like she’s at a fun age.”
Brandy pulls a small basket from a nearby closet. “Oh, I can’t complain. I don’t have half the problems I had a few weeks ago. My luck has turned.”
“Brandy.” A new, yet vaguely familiar, feminine voice enters our conversation, but my chair’s turned so that I can’t catch sight of anyone. “You shouldn’t speak like that.”
Brandy laughs and steps in front of me to slide a pin in my hair. “Well, my luckdidturn. I got a house that’s fully paid off.” She busts into a dance move that makes me think she made the right choice in not pursuing Broadway.
“Yeah.” The mystery voice continues, “But your uncle had to die for you to get it.”
I suck in a quick breath, and my lungs protest with a coughing fit.
Unfazed, Brandy smacks my back. “Eh, he was old.”
Her blasé outlook on her uncle’s demise doesn’t exactly give the “peace on Earth, goodwill toward men” vibe, but at least I got my answer. Brandy doesn’t need help with her rent because she inherited a house, and I’m back to the proverbial drawing board. As I’m trying to consider my next move as the World’s Worst Secret Santa, Brandy continues to work on my hair, piling it atop my head and dipping her hand into the basket of Christmasy hair stuff.
“I’m going to raise your chair and turn it the other way.” She pumps the pedal beneath my seat. “I don’t want you to see your hair until thefinal reveal.” The sing-song emphasis on her final two words is somewhat frightening. She angles my chair to the left, and I finally glimpse the mystery voice.
It’s Josie Dubois. My former nemesis.
She’s getting her hair trimmed at the station beside mine.
No wonder I recognized her voice. Josie’s chair’s facing forward, meaning she’s had a full view of the mirror, including my profile’s reflection. So yeah, my presence isn’t a surpriseto her. However, currently, Brandy stands between me and the mirror, keeping me from sneaking a peek.
“Hello, Josie.” I break the weird silence between us. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
She averts her gaze and studies the floor. “Been a busy year.” At first glance, I notice her skin tone is … normal. She doesn’t look like a human Cheeto.
Her hairdresser grabs the thinning shears and addresses Josie. “Next time, you need to let me color your hair. Bring out those warm tones.”
“I think I’ll keep it like this for a while,” Josie says in a soft voice. Her natural complexion isn’t the only thing that’s changed. Yeah, it’s the same Josie, but with a different font—one that’s far less flashy and softer around the edges. Sometime between last December and this one, the haughty glint in her amber eyes has dulled.
“Pssh. Your roots are an abomination. I can give you the glow-up you deserve. I’ve got an opening right before New Year’s. Let me pencil you in.” She reaches for her phone.
Josie sits straighter in her seat. “I can’t right now.”
Brandy scoffs. “A little splurge isn’t going to make a difference.” She looks at me. “Josie wants to get a service dog for her youngest brother. The sweet boy’s on the autism spectrum,” she says by way of explanation.
The pinch in Josie’s brows tells me she’s not thrilled with Brandy broadcasting her personal life, but the dejection lowering her gaze has me doing the unthinkable, offering my high school rival comfort. “I’ve heard service dogs are amazing companions for those on the spectrum.”
Instead of stiffening up like a toy soldier at my words, Josie smiles sadly. “We’re on a waiting list, but even if we’re next, I can’t afford it. Noah could really use one.”
I’ve never seen Josie this … human. She’s always worn the mean girl mask, carefully hiding the person beneath. This makes me wonder how often I tuck the truest version of myself behind a carefully curated front. Wait, wait, wait. Did she say Noah? Something feathers my mind.
