Page 145 of IRL: In Real Life
That made me smile when I didn’t mean to.
She caught it instantly.
“See?” she said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Happy mouth. Mad eyes.”
That shut me up.
Because yes.
That was pretty much the shape of it.
Mena ran her fingers once more over my crown, then untied the cape from my neck. “It ain’t bad, but I’m not sending you back out with this half-surrender happening at the roots. We’re going to shampoo, put some moisture back in it, mold you down, sit you under the dryer, and then I’ll clean up the shape.”
I sighed.
She grinned at me in the mirror. “Don’t sigh now. You the one letting that man put his hands in my work.”
The shop made another sound, and I got up before they could gather more momentum. Mena led me to the shampoo bowl with her hand light on my shoulder, still laughing under her breath.
I settled back, the cool curve of the bowl catching my neck while she adjusted the towel beneath me.
“What happened?” she asked, turning on the water and testing it against the inside of her wrist.
I looked up at the ceiling for a second.
Then at the women around me. Rochelle under the dryer with one hand resting dramatically on the arm of the chair like she had been waiting for testimony. Crystal at the next station, braiding and pretending she was not fully invested. Ms. Mary under the other dryer with her reading glasses low on her nose while her rinse processed. All of them halfway in their own business and fully ready for mine.
Usually that would’ve made me protective.
Today it made me honest.
“Tuesday started with some bullshit,” I said.
Mena’s brows lifted as warm water moved over my hair. “Okay.”
“One of the women Micah used to talk to posted some raggedy little status about banker men moving dirty and fucking bitches in private.”
The whole shop made a sound.
Not loud.
Just knowing.
“Who?” Rochelle called.
“Candace.”
That got a little pause out of Mena. “The Candace that came to that gallery thing last spring?”
“Yes.”
“Who the hell is she?” Rochelle asked.
I sighed. “Exactly. Nobody really. Kendra caught the BS before I did. I asked Micah about it. He answered. He came over later, made me tea, brought me a heating pad because my cramps were trying to kill me, held me on my couch, and promised there was nobody else.”
Mena nodded once and worked shampoo into my hair, her fingertips gentle but thorough.
“Okay,” she said. “So he handled that part.”
