"I’ll call you soon."
"You better."
Boarding pass in hand, she takes a step away toward luggage check-in, toward something better than what she's left behind. I stand like a lost boy, an expectant fool, wanting to carve this moment into something permanent.
She gives one final glance back, a hint of a smile tracing her lips. Her eyes catch mine like a promise across the Universe, and then she's gone. Just like that. Gone.
19WENDY
"Nice saturation, Wendy,"my mentor, Renita, says. "Just don’t rush it." She’s hovering like a cat, but it’s a good kind of hovering. Her feedback has really helped me improve my technique a lot.
All around us, the salon buzzes like a high-voltage power line. Clippers drone, scissors whisper, customers buried in magazines peek out like deer from a thicket. Blonde today, pink tomorrow—hair's no less indecisive than hearts.
Outside, busy Melrose traffic blurs past the windows. It’s a nice place. Way better than the one I worked at earlier this year. But they weren’t willing to let me work on hair, even though I’d taken enough classes and had plenty of practice not to fuck up a simple cut.
Renita didn’t seem to mind that I had very little experience. She took a chance and here we are. I’m finally doing what I’ve always wanted.
I'm wrist-deep in peroxide, mid-transformation of a redhead into a blonde. I don’t mind my mentor floating by with an appraising nod or clipped praise, part approval and part instruction.
It's how I like it, busy and a little dangerous. Better than wondering which part of Sunset Boulevard Jett Vice is self-destructing on.
Renita’s eyes dart from me to the client’s head to the clock. Everything is timing here.
With confident hands, I work the bleach into long, wet strands, focus on the quality, focus on the immediate task.
My mentor waves a hand in front of my face, bringing me back. "Did you hear me? Don’t forget to set a timer."
"Sorry," I say. "My head’s not here. I’m trying to make sure this is perfect. And yes, of course."
"Oh, honey," the client croons. "You’re doing a great job. You have a very light hand."
"Thank you."
I finish up the bleaching process and tap the digital clock on my station to set an alarm for thirty minutes from now. "Sit tight," I tell the client and offer her a magazine before I begin resetting my station to prep for the color.
"How’s the new place?" one of the other girls working at the salon whom I made friends with asks as Renita and I move to the cabinet with pigments.
"Cheap enough that I can pay the rent if I keep doing ten-hour days."
"That's why you’re pulling double shifts?" Renita says, a little surprised. "Thought you and that drummer had a cushy setup. Weren’t you dating someone in Sonic Trash?"
It’s a small world, this scene. Apparently, Renita works with a lot of musicians, and she heard about me and Jett from one of the clients.
I smile at the curiosity that’s half hidden in her questions. "I’m paying my own way. We’re not together anymore."
"How come?"
"He’s an asshole," I reply. I don't need to keep Jett's shitty character a secret. I don't owe him anything. Besides, the world already knows he's crap. Sonic Trash was kicked off the rest of the tour with The Deviant.
"Aren’t they all?" another girl cutting her client’s hair says sarcastically.
"True, true," a third one chimes in.
"Well, not all," I counter. Cruz Velez immediately comes to mind. Yes, that Cruz. The one who called me like he promised a week after our weekend in Germany and then again two months later. He sounded tired both times we spoke, but the fact that he actually did what he promised he’d do still makes him a better man than Jett shitty Vice. Even if this goes nowhere.
"There are some good ones out there," Renita supplies as she fumbles with tubes of color, looking for the right shade. "You just gotta grab them while they’re available."
"I suppose so," I agree quietly.
