Page 28 of Love at Teamsgiving
If she doesn’t want to focus on her stuff, maybe she’ll take an interest in mine. “It’s going to take a bit of work to get the salon up and running. The building is derelict, but I made a deal with the owner to float the cost of repairs and remodeling if I could rent it out. I’m wondering if you’ll help me once we open.”
“I know how to hang wallpaper, sew, and carve, not cut hair.”
“You could be the receptionist.” Duties include greeting customers, answering the phone, scheduling appointments, and generally being friendly and cordial. Two words that are not synonymous with Guiliana Popovik.
“Will that be necessary?”
Case in point. The question threatens to cut into my optimism for my salon to be a success. In high school, I worked at Guys and Dolls, and because I was already eighteen during my senior year, I took night classes to be licensed. By the time I turned nineteen, I was ready to start working. I’m good at what I do and I hustle, earning a top chair in Kian’s salon and styling celebrities on the side. I’ve taken every continuing education class and workshop available. In six years, I’ve made a name for myself and was even awarded the number one spot for thirty stylists under thirty in the country.
So yeah, I think I can do this. But will the clientele in Cobbiton want caramel balayage and beach blonde dye jobs?
Getting out of the car, I grab some of our bags and head toward the two-bedroom, single-story house, hoping for the best. Mom came from Italy and made a new life. We’ve continued west and I send up a prayer that this works out.
I wave for my mother to join me. When the door sticks and I have to use my hip to get it open, I wish I’d asked the owner to make a few repairs. A faint musty odor wafts from inside and the slatted blinds on the door’s window unwind with a puff of dust.
Mama sniffs.
“It’s a beautiful early fall day. I’ll have this place aired out in no time.”
Thankfully, there aren’t any leaks when it rains at night. I don’t hear any rodents in the walls like I did when I was a kid before Papa insisted our building’s super, Mr. Rickles, dosomething about it, and when I wake up the next morning, the birds are chirping.
My mother doesn’t come out of her room.
I leave her a note, telling her I’m heading to the salon on 4thStreet, where there is a great café that serves cappuccino. I don’t know this for sure, but they have lattes, so it’s safe to make this assumption. Whether Mama will approve of their version of the classic Italian beverage is another story. But it’s within walking distance and since she doesn’t drive, maybe getting her blood pumping will help—she’d mostly stopped leaving our apartment except for essentials and canasta.
When I arrive at the site for the salon, my shoulders instantly drop. When Margo scoped out this place in the single-story stone building for me, we video-chatted, but my connection was spotty. I caught glimpses of the big windows with plenty of natural light—essential for hair stylists. I was also between appointments, scrambling to scarf down lunch and clean up my station. Margo said it had potential. I eat potential for breakfast. But the reality is that this is a disaster.
The foam drop ceiling between the roof and a crawlspace looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen. There isn’t a skylight, but is that daylight I see?
Papers, leaves, and a bunch of junk litter the peeling floor tiles. Instead of a bull charging into a china shop, it’s like a herd of buffalo took the building’s vacancy as an invitation to spend a few days.
Having paid some attention to my father when he came home from work, I’m certain no amount of paint is going to cover the stains on the drywall. It’s like someone repeatedly splashed pots of coffee against it.
As I pass a door labeledBathroom, I smell something rancid. Sniffing the air, I decide I’ll go in there when I have a mask and rubber gloves on hand.
Then there’s the broken display case filled with Nebraska Knights memorabilia. Either someone thought it was valuable and tried to rob the joint before realizing it’s just a worthless keepsake collection or they have a vendetta against the team.
“What did I get myself into?” I mutter.
The task ahead seems insurmountable. How am I going to manage to get my business up and running and get Mama out of her funk while avoiding Miguel?
My phone beeps with a text. It’s Erica asking how I’m settling in.
Oh, and there’s the little matter of planning her wedding. If the ceiling caved in right now, I’d probably feel no different. I type out a reply.
Me: Status pending.
I send a photo of my surroundings.
Erica: Sending backup.
My phone beeps a minute later, but it’s from our group chat.
Margo: I hear you require assistance. I’ll rally the troops. Expect them at eleven hundred hours.
Before I can ask what she means, someone knocks on the door. The woman behind the dirty glass has a perm and wears the kind of expression that tells me she’s not the type to bring a tray of brownies to welcome me to town.
In my business, it pays to get a quick read on people. Much like the “Male Scale,” there’s the “Client Quatro.” This list consists of four types of women who regularly patronize a beauty salon.
