“Her hair stylist?—”
“Okay. I see where this is going,” I interrupted her with a grin.
“Yeah, I knew you would. Her hair stylist is stuck in Southern Florida. Apparently there’s a tropical storm warning there, torrential rain fall, and an all-out emergency that has planes grounded for who knows how long. According to our social media manager, being able to come through for this young lady could be huge for the resort.”
“Okay.” I nodded my head. “But is the salon ready to accommodate a client? I mean, when is the last time you bought products? Shampoo? Conditioner? Girl, I don’t have my Marcel iron with me.”
We both chuckled.
“Do you have time to go through the salon with me? We could make a list, and I could have one of the staff members drive over to Portland to get whatever we need. It’s the nearest big city that would possibly have Black hair care products.”
“Do you thinkSTG Homesteadwould let me make a to-go food order? I’m starving, and I really want to eat breakfast.”
“The staff atSTG Homesteadwill do whatever Mrs. Strong asks them to do. Let’s get you some breakfast, baby.” She let her gaze land on me. “Does this mean you’ll help me out?”
Khylie Faye surprised me by stepping into the salon alone.
“Hello. I’m Khylie Faye. I’m supposed to have a hair appointment right now.”
She was about five feet tall with hickory-brown skin, an athletic build, and thick, shoulder-length tresses. She was gorgeous, and she radiated positivity and light. I could see why she was popular on social media.
“Hey. I’m Collins. Let me tell you a little about myself. I’m originally from Chicago. I started doing hair about sixteen years ago. I’ve done every job there is in a hair salon, including owning one. I specialized in natural hair.” I took a breath. “As a Black woman, I know how personal and how important our hair is to us. I know it can’t be easy turning yourself over to a stranger on your wedding day. I want you to know that I have been in contact with Celia, and?—”
“You have?” Her eyes bucked at the knowledge that I had spoken to her hair stylist.
“Yes. You provided Mrs. Strong with her contact information. I wanted to touch base with her, find out what products and techniques she uses on your hair, and get her expertise. I certainly don’t want to shock your system. I want you to look back on this day with good memories. I don’t want this experience to be a trigger or a trauma for you.”
She cracked a grin. “Well, I’m impressed with you already, Collins. So, Celia probably already told you that she supplies me with the products she uses, so I have them.”
“Thank God. Because Jackson Falls is country, baby. There was no way we were getting the necessary products from anywhere local… particularly on a Sunday.”
She laughed.
“Celia also sent me some pictures. She told me that you guys have done a few dry runs. I feel confident that I can recreate your vision today.”
“I hope so.”
“Come over and have a seat.” I beckoned her to the styling chair I’d selected to use.
“I have a confession,” she said as I wrapped the smock around her neck. “Nolan and I actually got married in a private ceremony about three weeks ago. This wedding is for my viewers.” She took a deep breath. “I include them in so much ofmy life. I’m like an open book on my socials. I just wanted to have something for myself… for Nolan and me.”
I ran my fingers through her hair. “So, your hair is clean?”
“Yep. Clean with no product. That’s usually how I show up for Celia. Transparency moment—I was tender-headed as a kid. My mother is heavy-handed, so I always hated getting my hair combed. But I really hated getting my hair washed. The way my mother would be turning my poor head every which way but loose. Nah. I vowed that once I was grown enough to pay for my own hair, nobody would ever get to rip out my tangles. So, I wash and detangle my own hair, and Celia handles the rest.”
“Got you. So, do your subscribers know that this wedding is just for them?”
“They know this is the wedding for our friends and family. The private one was just for us, our parents, and our siblings. This isn’t the real one, but it’s the big one. It’s still important.”
While she was speaking, another young lady entered the salon.
“Collins,” Khylie Faye said. “This is my camera woman, Demi. She’ll capture all of the moments. Demi, this is Collins. She’s the new Celia.”
My Monday morningwas surprisingly free of tours. Since it was a rare day of well-above average temperatures, I decided to take Collins to see the waterfall that the town was named after, Jackson Falls. I held her hand as we trekked through the forest preserve that housed the waterfall and creek it fed into.
“I’m getting eaten up by mosquitoes, Beck. Whatever it is you’re trying to show me better be worth it,” she complained, slapping her arm in emphasis.
“We’re almost there,” I assured her.
