Neighborhood Watch: Full Price

Nora has become impossible to book, which is an unfortunate way to reward the people who knew her before the podcast.

I’m pleased she’s doing well. I would simply like some of that doing well to happen to my hair.

Through the window, I can see her sweeping. No client in the chair. Excellent.

I put my sunglasses in my purse before opening the door. My daughters aren’t with me. This conversation will go better without one of them announcing that she’s bored.

Nora looks up sharply. Her hand tightens around the broom, then loosens when she recognizes me.

I pause beside the door. She’s clearly had a long day. I’ve had one too, but I can be gracious about who gets to mention it first.

“I can come back,” I say. “If you’re done for the day. It’s just I can never get in anymore. You’re booked out like three months in advance…which is great…but that’s not really why I came.”

She seems to think it is.

I smile and admit the haircut is part of it. There’s no point pretending my ends have brought me here against my will.

“But also I never really got the chance to apologize…”

An opening. A perfectly decent one. She could meet me halfway.

“I can spare a few minutes.”

I take the chair.

“Just a trim,” I say. “I figured if anyone knows how to clean things up, it’s you.”

I mean that. Nora is very good at her job. Even when everything was happening, she never let it affect my color.

There aren’t many people you can say that about.

* * *

She fastens the cape around my neck. I free a little hair caught beneath it and study myself in the mirror.

The ends are worse under these lights.

I hope she remembers what I mean by a trim. Some stylists hear that word and immediately begin making decisions about your cheekbones.

Nora lifts a section between her fingers.

I watch how much she intends to cut.

I’ve been a good client. Regular appointments. Referrals. I came in when other people were canceling because they thought danger might be contagious. Yes, I had a family event and needed my roots done. Two things can be true.

And the girls weren’t toddlers. They had phones. It wasn’t as though I’d left Nora with diapers and a feeding schedule.

I don’t bring that up. She hasn’t mentioned them.

There are several things we could revisit, if she wants to make an evening of it. The group chat, for one. People wrote awful things. Some of them under her name, which hardly made it simple for the rest of us.

I know now that she didn’t write them.

I also know an apology gets considerably less pleasant when everyone starts quoting.

She turns my head a little. I follow the pressure of her fingers and keep an eye on the scissors.

* * *

The letter was right there at her station.

She’d left it while she dealt with someone at the front. I didn’t open a drawer. I didn’t unfold anything. If you put words in front of a seated woman, she’s going to read them. We spend half our lives in waiting rooms. It’s a reflex.

Then I realized who it was from.

That horrible girl.

Still writing. Still expecting Nora to stand there and take it. As if everything that had happened wasn’t enough.

I remember looking toward the front desk. Nora was helping a client. The usual questions, the usual little nods. Someone was taking far too long to finish a conversation.

When Nora came back, she picked up the dryer and carried on.

I watched her face in the mirror.

She didn’t mention the letter. I didn’t either. For the rest of the blow-dry, I kept thinking about that girl having the nerve to send it.

People had already been hurt. A man was dead. Elle was locked up. And Amber was apparently sitting somewhere finding ways to make herself interesting.

I told Tom.

He can be difficult to talk to. You have to get to the point before he finds one he prefers.

In this case, the point was a woman sending letters to someone who had suffered quite enough on her account.

I thought he ought to know.

I thought he might take an interest, too. Otherwise I could have told Karen and spent the afternoon receiving prayer hands.

Nora shifts the chair. A few pieces of hair slide down the cape.

I look up at her reflection. Still working. Still giving me the same attention she gives everyone.

That’s very nice of her.

It’s also why a person occasionally needs someone else to get involved.

* * *

When she finishes, I check both sides. Lovely. She really is worth the trouble of getting in here.

“Thank you,” I say. “And, really, I wanted to apologize for…well, for everything.”

Everything is a generous amount to offer. I leave it there for her to appreciate.

I am sorry. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. I can say that without agreeing I should have solved it sooner. I was getting my hair done, not conducting an investigation.

She takes off the cape.

At the counter, I pay full price. Which, for a trim that took a few minutes, is something she might also want to appreciate.

Then I add a tip.

A proper one. Enough that there won’t be any question about whether I meant to.

Nora doesn’t make a production of it. Fine. I’m not looking for applause at the register.

I get halfway to the door.

“If you ever need anything…”

“Tom mentioned you spoke to him about the letters. I have to say—at first, I was surprised. But then again, I know how this neighborhood gossips.”

She hands me my receipt.

“Still—he was kind to me. And that was surprising.”

Tom. Wonderful. He gets to be kind. I get to be the neighborhood.

I smile at her. She looks better than she did the day I saw that letter. I’m glad of that. I’m also glad she knows I had something to do with it.

“Well,” I say, “it seemed like a problem. And as I’m always saying, it takes a village.”

I put the receipt in my purse.

No need to explain who found the right villager.

I check my hair in the window on the way out. Much better.

Next time, I’ll call her directly. She can find me a spot.