RILEY'S HAIR & BEAUTY SALON

BY O.C. CAVANAUGH JR.

Jenna pressed the end button on her cell phone and threw it to the floor of her car’s passenger seat. It was the second time in a month that her beauty consultant couldn’t fit her in, and there was the Christmas party coming up in three days.

The hype was the beauty show—a contest of looks held for fun. The annual engagement offered the winner a two-thousand-dollar purse as well as bragging rights. But Jenna could care less about the money (she made six-figures respectively.) It was the chance to finally beat Ashley Bromham, who’d won three years in a row.

Jenna could almost taste a victory, could practically see Ashley’s twenty-something face with a dropped jaw and running mascara (included) as Jenna bowed her head to receive the coveted tiara with its garish jewels that announced, winner.

Now, her chances of sporting the crown were slipping away because Megan Chin—beauty consultant extraordinaire, had no openings.

This is bullshit, Jenna thought while stopped at a light in evening rush hour traffic. God and his unnecessary humor. After all, she’d done everything right. She’d fixed her eating, living on a Keto diet, (and Keto was worse than Nutrisystem). She’d hired a personal trainer, working out six days a week, even surpassed her daily ten-thousand step quota by two-thousand steps. And gave up drinking (a bottle of merlot every evening). And for what? To watch that skinny, young bitch with the perfect teeth and shiny, flaxen hair parade that bony little butt down the catwalk, once again? Fuck that.

Honk! A driver behind her laid on the horn, snapping her from devious daydreaming.

“Go to hell,” Jenna yelled to a closed window. There’s no way little miss is winning this year.

The holiday lights that always lined the streets gave Jenna a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. One that matched the already sickening feeling she encountered every holiday season since. Since. Old Town Alexandria was as beautiful as it gets—a district of cobblestone streets and federal rowhouses that looked as if George Washington, himself, would exit a tavern at any moment if it wasn’t for the gas-powered lanterns. Still, it was her town and one that she drove daily for work. The work—the lifestyle desperately portrayed—the modern woman who had it all. Except, she didn’t have it all. She did once.

It was a beautiful life. That’s what she told everyone—how she had it all.

Stephen—her then, husband worked for the federal government and headed some office of administration (she never knew which office, really.) He made a sizeable income that matched perfectly, the income she received from being one of Virginia’s top real estate agent.

Oh, the houses she’d seen—sold. The beautiful life of being the upper-middle class with the perks of driving a Jeep Wagoneer for vacations in Hyannis port, no, Nantucket or better yet, Martha’s Vineyard. “The Obama’s bought a house there,” she’d say. Status was important; her appearance was even more critical. Living well. She dreamt of it every day.

But the bastard, Stephen, couldn’t keep it in his pants. He had to find some trailer trash that was even younger than Ashley, only with Auburn hair that resembled a wet dog coming in from the rain. Not to mention two kids by two different fathers. The perfect guest for The Jerry Springer Show if Jenna had ever heard of one.

Ha-ha. It was enough to cause her to break out in laughter. That was until she parked her car in the alley behind Patrick’s—her favorite pub. Jenna sold Philomena, the owner, a house five years prior, and it was an excellent place to get free drinks during happy hour. Jenna sat for a moment in the alley with motion-detecting lights illuminating oversized dumpsters, rodents, and God knows what.

She might have seen a rat dart out from the darkness, might have regurgitated what was left undigested from lunch, but her mind was on finding a salon that could work magic. First, a quick drink. Something trendy, chic. A libation that was both feminine and fun: a margarita. Not just any margarita. One that cost enough. What would the Obama’s drink? A margarita made with Rey Sol Anejo, Tequila. And at four-hundred dollars a bottle, there was no doubt that she was a woman used to the more beautiful things in life.

Rapidly, she exited the car, lest she runs into a rat on its way to dinner. Scurrying in high-priced pumps, she negotiated the long passageway that led from the alley to the bar front, nearly colliding with a couple just about to enter through its thick wood and glass doors.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” she yelled, bumping them to enter first. “I’m meeting someone here.”

Of course, it was a lie, but they were young—probably on winter break was her thinking. They were at least a decade—or two, from being—accomplishing what she had in her life.

On this evening, the bar was uncharacteristically scarce. It was the holiday season, and Jenna could count the patrons on two hands—nine, including her.

Walking through, Jenna rolled her eyes at the sound of holiday music playing at a tasteful level. A Chieftain’s Christmas album, no doubt, she thought as she found her way to her favorite table that was only inches away from the actual bar of stools.

It was perfect: no yelling above an annoying soundtrack of Paul McCartney’s, Having a Wonderful Christmas Time or Mariah Carrey’s All I Want for Christmas, no elbowing patrons possessing glassy eyes and alcohol breath.

Jenna was now free to get her drink and talk to Philomena, whom she thought beautiful.

To Jenna, Philomena embodied the gorgeous, Irish lass. Her pale skin was a background for a lace of tiny freckles that painted themselves on her face and cascaded down her neck and shoulders. And her hair, always kept in a soft bun, was thick, lustrous, and nearly as dark as a raven’s wing. A gift from being Black Irish, Jenna joked.

Inevitably, someone as beautiful as Philomena had to know someone who could fix her up on such short notice.

“Hey, beautiful,” Jenna said, her eyes lit up when Philomena caught sight of her.

“Well, hello stranger,” Philomena smiled, showing a mouth full of perfect teeth. In her hands, a bar tray, which she held firmly against her bosom.

“Long time seeing you.”

Jenna loved hearing Philomena speak. Her Irish accent fused with her formative years in Wales was endearing, exotic, and aided her already beautiful persona.

“I know,” Jenna agreed.

Philomena lowered the tray. “What can I get far ya? The usual?” She said with the accent that gave Jenna goosebumps.

Jen side-eyed the bar’s early-bird patrons and spoke just above the sound of the music. “Yes! A margarita! Only this time, I’d like it with Rey Sol Anejo.”

The crooked smile the bar owner gave spoke volumes. “I’ll see if we have any in stock,” she said.

Jenna watched the proprietor’s gait as she walked away and sneered at the woman’s sexiness.

Philomena was forty-two, but her vibe was as youthful and feminine as the few young women scattered around the bar. She could even give old Ashley a run for her money. Then, Jenna dropped her head.

The thought of Stephen and his young lover, her loneliness, and the Christmas season began to take its toll.

She bet as she waited for her margarita (out loud to no one) that the sonofabitch took the poor, little bitch to the Hamptons for the holidays.

He and Jenna went there every Christmas to a rented estate belonging to one of Stephen’s friends from college—a so-called distant cousin of the Astors, (one she often bragged was a stone’s throw from the Grey Gardens mansion).

Oh, how beautiful it was—how Jenna would’ve loved to have sold that one. A half-million dollars’ commission. An instant booster if she ever heard of one. If her looks were failing, the growth of her bank account would’ve voided that.

Suddenly, she could feel the dryness of her mouth and tongue that felt like a swollen pin cushion. I need that goddamn drink.

Soon enough, Philomena returned, tray in hand, cradling Jenna’s overpriced drink and a shot glass of some liquid as dark as squid ink.

“Here we are,” Philomena said before placing the drinks down. “I thought that tequila was a wee-bit pricey, but Ralphie swore the bar should have it. With your taste, I’m glad we stock it now.

Jenna cocked her head back with pride. “Please join me, won’t you?”

“I shouldn’t,” Philomena said. She kept the shot glass of liquid in her hand, which she held close to her side. “Only brought this (she raised the glass) so that your first sip wouldn’t be taken alone.”

“But I could really use your help.”

Philomena’s eyes widened with intrigue.

“that so, dearie?” She said before pulling a chair out to seat herself.

They were not old acquaintances. Jenna was simply an eager agent who’d finagled the perfect domicile for her and Ralphie—a row house that was within walking distance of the bar. In truth, her feelings on Jenna was pure ambivalence. The way Jenna sauntered through the place, flashing her expensive clothes and Jewelry, explaining to whoever would listen, the importance of acquiring the fine things in life—all the things Philomena knew nothing.

She’d come from humble beginnings—a farm girl from County Cork.

What help could she offer?

Jenna pushed the margarita glass aside without taking a sip. “Do you remember the holiday party I mentioned to you?” She leaned forward. A devilish grin aimed itself at Philomena.

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Of course you do. I told everyone about it a month ago.”

Philomena mumbled under her breath, “Everyone but me.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m sure you did. But with work and all, it must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Ah.” The devilish grin grew wider. “Yes. I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

Philomena continued to stare with intent. “How can I help, dearie?”

“Well,” Jenna paused with bashfulness as if realizing the silliness of a grown woman’s obsession. “I sort of agreed to take part in a beauty pageant at my office’s holiday party.”

Philomena listened without uttering a word.

“I don’t know why it even matters…” Jenna said, shrugging her shoulders. And for a few seconds, appeared to be at a loss for words. “…except, there’s this girl, Ashley, who always walks away, the winner. No one likes her, but she’s young and pretty. I suppose everyone believes I’m the only one who could take her down.”

“Are you serious?” Philomena finally spoke.

“Very much so.”

The bar owner sighed loud enough for her patron to hear, but Jenna pretended not to notice, just as she also pretended not to see Philomena’s eyes roll in disbelief.

“You know how it is,” Jenna added. “These millennials and their youth. Everything revolves around them and their looks. Whatever happened to—”

Philomena crossed her arms. “What is it that you want from me? She asked.

“Your skin,” Jenna uttered. “It’s flawless.”

Philomena’s face turned red as she touched the skin of her neck and décolletage with one hand. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Who helps you keep your skin so radiant?”

“No one.”

“Oh, come on.”

Philomena shrugged her shoulders once again as if to say, (I don’t know what to tell you.) Then, she lied. “You’re beautiful. I was just telling Ralphie that the other day. How strikingly beautiful you are.”

She told her husband nothing of the sort. The fact was, the minute Jenna left the premises, the two of them smirked and laughed. (Long live the queen,) they’d laugh.

“That’s sweet of you to say. But you must tell me, who does your make up?” Jenna pressed with the excitement of a child.

“Me, dearie. Let’s say, I have a love affair with moisturizers, and as far as makeup, grocery store mascara is as good as the expensive stuff. At least in my eyes.”

Jenna’s face broke out in perplexity as if the bar owner were explaining The Theory of Relativity.

“No, there must be more to it. You’re keeping a secret,” she said.

“Sorry,” Philomena said as she jumped to her feet. “It looks like I can’t help you.” And for the third time, she shrugged her shoulders. “I’d better get back to work.” Then, she turned and began walking away, leaving Jenna dumbfounded.

But after taking a few steps, she stopped, as if an imaginary wall was preventing her from advancing. “Your looks mean a lot to you, don’t they?” she said. Her head dropped, followed by an exhalation. Slowly, she turned around; her head maintained its position. “There is a place I know, but they’re exclusive.”

“Are you kidding—”

“They may not be up to your standards.”

“I’m willing to go anywhere. Are they any good?”

“Well, I’ve used them once.”

“And you look amazing. Do you think they’ll be able to fit me in?”

Philomena paused for a moment and looked up into the corner of the room as if waiting for a confirmation to speak. Then she returned to her chair and sat down. “I owe them a favor,” she said before reaching for the shot glass that had remained on the table untouched. “I’m sure they would love to have you as a client.”

“Oh, my God. That would be great,” Jenna said. Then, she too reached for her drink. “Perhaps, you could give them a call for me. I would pay anything if they could pencil me in this evening.”

“No!” Philomena nearly yelled her answer. She bit her bottom lip and looked past Jenna’s face to the space behind her. Jenna’s face grimaced as she turned her head to see nothing. “It’s just that…I don’t deal with them anymore…fought with the owner.”

Jenna placed both elbows on the table and again leaned forward. “They did something to fuck up your hair.”

“No.”

“Your makeup?”

“No. It was nothing like that. Look, if you’re truly interested, I can fetch their information for you.”

Jenna paused for a second. “Yeah, that would be great,” she said.

From the moment she’d agreed, Philomena had already disappeared into the kitchen.

The conversation went eerie; Jenna had to admit it. But the thought of Ashley strutting the runway, winning once again, made her heartbeat with anxiety. All she needed was to be beautiful—to feel beautiful, and she was sure to be the one walking away as the victor. Lead me in the right direction, she thought. That direction came when Philomena returned.

“Here we are,” Philomena said, sitting down and pushing a piece of paper across the table.

Jenna picked up the paper—a six-by-four sheet ripped from a planner. The bars logo—a four-leaf clover in a raised design that felt nice on the fingers, set in a crest, beamed beautifully at her. And it was beautiful. As beautiful as the person who placed it on the table.

“Slainte,” Philomena said, raising the shot glass to her lips. Then she gulped it down faster than Jenna could raise her glass. “They will capture your beauty, dearie. You can be sure of that.” She said it as if certain of nothing else.

“You think so? Hah.” Jenna relished the thought.

By the time she was behind the wheel, her mind was racing as fast as her car through the main street of Alexandria. Occasionally, she would glance at the young college students mill about, as they began their night of binge drinking.

Stupid, pretty, dewy, young things with not a wrinkle in sight. Those thoughts were paramount in her mind each time she saw one of them tripping over their four-inch stilettos. So, you think you’re in love? College love. Well, get ready, babes. Once he’s gotten his rocks off, he’ll drop you for the freshman, even a high school tart, more stupid than you. And to the men, fuck you. I hope IT falls off. That would teach you until death do us part, and to respect your mate. Your wife.

She laughed out loud, her head buzzing from two margaritas that had stealthily taken over her body. Oh, the job the tequila was doing.

Giddy and heavy-footed, she pressed her now bare foot down on the accelerator as she glanced at the map route staring back at her from the GPS.

The address was in some part of Virginia unfamiliar to her, supposedly not far—twenty minutes away with light traffic. Yet, she was apprehensive about going.

It was the conversation she had when calling from the bar’s parking lot.

A young woman, Lilly, Lil, Lee, or something like that, spoke from the other line. Jenna couldn’t tell because of her accent—Slavic or Russian. But the conversation was marked by awkward pauses and strange nuances that raised an eyebrow or two.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Jenna said as three girls exited the alley, each one pulling down hems from stretchy mini-dresses that were impossibly short.

“Of course, I’m here,” the voice spoke on the other end.

“Okay, great. Like I said before. Is it possible to see me…” (she glanced at the clock that blinked seven-twenty-two.) Ooh, lucky numbers, she thought. “…I realize it’s late, but I would tip you like no one’s business. How does two-hundred sound?” There was no sound from the other end. The line was open. Jenna knew it because she could hear the young woman breathing. “Okay, three-hundred,” she offered.

Nothing.

After a few seconds, Jenna broke the silence. “Um, hello! Are you still there?”

The sound of a big inhale filled the Bluetooth speakers of Jenna’s car.

“Yes,” the accented voice also filled the speakers. “How do you come to this number?” She continued.

“A client of yours, a Philomena McFadden.”

The young voice on the other end declined to respond, but Jenna could hear the turning of pages.

“Hah!” the voice yelled with excitement. “I see her name, yes.”

“So, do you think I could stop by?”

“This Philomena. She give you this number, yes?”

“I’ve already told you that,” Jenna’s voice rose. “Look! I have an event in two days. Can you work me in or not?”

Again, Jenna met an open line. Then, she heard the woman sigh. “I will have to check,” she said.

“Thank you.”

The next moment, Jenna heard a click, immediately followed by the worst elevator music rendition she’d ever heard, People Make the World Go ’Round by the Stylistics.

A minute passed, then another, and another after that, until, “Hello,” the woman returned. “Good news. “Is fine for you to come, my boss tell me.”

“That’s great. I have your address in my GPS. I should arrive by—”

“Yes,” the woman snapped before the line went dead.

Are you fucking kidding me? Did this bitch just hang up on me?

A mental note was recorded. A gratuity? That was out of the question now. And if it weren’t for this damn Christmas Pageant, I would be home in a warm bath, candles lit and a burgundy, nope, a merlot at my lips. I damn sure wouldn’t be en route to an unknown location that Google maps are having trouble finding.

And this location was questionable. A blip at the end of a labyrinth of construction points that was yet to be added to the map software. Bends, dog-legs, forks-in-the-road, and blinding construction lights, mingling with orange cones and concrete dividers in abandoned worksites. But this was Virginia, and Jenna was used to construction happening all year long. Yet, the area was strange, almost foreboding. It had all the elements that screamed (find an exit, girl, and go home.) But she couldn’t—wouldn’t turn back.

As hard as it was to admit, her looks—her age meant everything. And as her foot pressed the gas pedal, all the things wrong with her life swelled in her mind. Why couldn’t Stephen stay? That thought haunted her whenever she viewed her aging image. Tonight, it was the rear-view mirror that reminded her. Our plight as women. Our looks that fade. Time and an inconsiderate society that was the cause. (Forget her nagging. Forget her frigidity in bed. Forget that they were incompatible.) Doomed are those with well-placed crows-feet and digits on a birthday that continued to climb. Doomed are—.

“Shit, I almost missed that exit.”

Her car peeled wheel, nearly on two tires as she traversed the outer lane. She maneuvered the car just in time, stopping at the first light she met. To the left, she turned her head, instinctively. Like an oasis, there was a strip mall in the middle of nowhere, camouflaged by tall pines and cookie-cutter ground cover.

Slowly, she drove into one of its entrances.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, only another, stupid strip mall. A nail shop, an automotive store, an obscure pizzeria, claiming to offer the best pizza outside of Italy, an Asian establishment with the name, Far East. (she rolled her eyes,) a store with everything under a dollar, all illuminated under dark skies and poor architecture design. And then, there was Riley’s Hair and Beauty.

Jenna double-checked the piece of paper; Philomena had given her. Yep, that’s the name. Driving past, eyes squinted as if on a stake-out, Jenna stopped directly in front to get a better look.

The first thought that struck her was how quiet it was. The second, a row of what looked like a heads lined-up in the storefronts window.

Philomena. Is this where you go? She chuckled, thinking that. The business was nothing expected, an eyesore in the middle of nowhere. Everything inside her said to hit the gas and call it a day. If only it weren’t so far. If only she knew of another place.

For ten minutes, Jenna sat with the car running, watching the neon sign that blazed, OPEN in bright orange. The inside seemed vacant from what she could see, but it was late, and they were doing her a favor at such notice.

Fuck-it. She backed into a space. There were four open spaces, but she took two by lining the car diagonally. Who cares; it’s late. Then she sat a little longer, already ten-minutes past the appointment time.

Do I really want this—to go in there?

Her nemesis, Ashley’s face, popped into her mind’s eye. Those big, blue eyes, strutting her bony, little ass for everyone to see.

Click. Jenna unlocked the doors and stepped out.

“Game on bitches,” she said in the emptiness of the parking lot, declaring it to not only Ashley but Stephen’s new girl as well.

While walking, Jenna’s eyes trained every store in the tiny mall. All the business’ lacked patrons—even the dollar store, and That shit is always packed, she thought. Her body trembled with nervousness. Still, she prodded, rubbing her cell phone with a thumb until planting her Jimmy Choo on the curb at the storefront. Carrie Bradshaw, what would you do in a situation like this?

Her eyes darted from the salon’s frosted glass etching of a Medusa-like profile of a woman, hair blowing in the wind, to the neon sign, and then to the row of mannequin heads that sat in a row like ducks in a carnival game. Wax, no doubt, but they sure looked perfect—looked real. You get what you pay for, I guess, she thought. Their quality proved the chicness of the salon. Not to mention the doorbell, the type found in exclusive boutiques—like the one she visited on a short trip with Stephen to Switzerland their first year of marriage.

Buzz! Buzz! She pressed the doorbell with a cell phone in hand.

Then, she waited.

Buzz!

The sting of wintry air stung her body when she noticed movement inside.

Finally.

A young woman unlatched the door and stood directly at the entrance.

Jenna stood shivering, her eyes wide with disbelief. Are you going to let me in or what?

The young woman smiled. “And you are?” She said as if expecting no one.

“Jenna. Jenna Lattimore. I just talked to you on the phone,” she said.

“Jenna. Jenna Lattimore,” the young woman repeated with the accent Jenna remembered from the phone conversation. “Ah, yes. And you are here for—”

A gust of wind had ridden up one too many times through Jenna’s overcoat, and she pushed her way past the young woman.

“I’m sorry,” Jenna said. “It’s cold as fuck out there. I’m here for hair and makeup.”

The young girl again smiled. It was the type of smile one give in casual conversation without any feeling. “Yes, it is cold. You are here for hair and makeup,” she repeated.

Jenna’s eyebrows furrowed. “Um, yes. I believe I talked to you on the phone.”

“Yes. I’m Lilith,” she said, smiling again. “Please wait here. I will—”

The moment those words left her lips, another woman entered from the back. She sauntered over a checkered floor, the colorful kaftan she wore flowed within an imaginary breeze with each step.

“Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” She said with theatrical confidence.

Jenna dropped the cell phone in the pocket of her coat as the woman floated over like a Hollywood legend.

Immediately, the woman threw out a hand toward Jenna’s face. “Your hair,” she said, feeling every strand.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” The young girl affirmed.

The older woman glanced at her helper with eyes like lasers. “You must excuse Lilith,” she said before snapping a finger. She talks when she should be learning.” Then, she returned to fondling each lock. “It’s so curly; it’s so alive.”

Jenna’s eyes flamed with irritation. That curly hair was the bane of her existence, ever since she was a little girl. (Kinky hair, go to hell, you have dirty underwear), the other kids would say.

She’d started early—in grade school—straightening her hair. But with her Sicilian roots, nothing took.

Lilith immediately resigned to the same door the older woman entered.

“I think she hung up on me when I made an appointment.,” Jenna said.

“Well,” the woman said, still caressing a patch of hair. “I will talk with her.” The accent was more robust than the young girl. “Now tell me how you did hear about my humble business.”

“Philomena McFadden. She’s a client of yours, right?”

The woman loosened her grip. “Ah, Phil-mena,” she said as she walked over to an empty chair and jumped upon it. “I know her. How she is? Good?” A concerned look was evident.

“She’s good. Beautiful as always. She is one of your clients, right?” Jenna felt compelled to ask the question.

The woman laughed—a slow, guttural tone that echoed throughout the empty salon.

“Some-sing like that,” she said as the young girl entered again, skipping over like an excited child. “Lilith, she continued, and the girl came over and bowed her head, humbly. “My niece. She is precious, yes?” She squeezed the brown bun on top of Lilith’s head. “She helps me. The poor thing. Her mother, my sister, was killed, thrown from a horse. Her father, how you say? Basteard, (Bastard. Jenna corrected her.) left to join a gypsy band—”

“You know,” a thought finally occurred to Jenna. “I never caught your name.”

The shop owner and her helper looked at each other before the older woman spoke. “You speak Romanian?” She asked.

“I only speak English,” Jenna said, her brows creased with confusion. “I’ve never had the pleasure of learning another language. Everyone speaks English, anyway, right?”

The woman smiled. It formed slowly on her face, like finally figuring out the punchline of a clever joke.

“You can call me Păstrător de Capete.”

“What a beautiful language,” Jenna said. “It almost sounds like Italian.”

Păstrător roared with laughter. “She thinks it sounds like Italian.”

“No, no. I only meant that it sounds so beautiful,” Jenna said, not to sound offensive. “What does it mean?”

Once again, the salon owner and her helper looked at each other. “Let’s say it is a reference to what I do now—the salon keeper. In my village, I am a Vrăjitoare.”

Jenna didn’t question. “And what village is that? If you don’t mind me asking. I mean, you sound like Bela Lugosi, and he was one of my favorite actors.”

Păstrător chuckled.

“He’s Hungarian. We are Romanian from a small village called Gărăm.”

Lilith giggled. The type of giggle found in people deemed mentally challenged. It was juvenile—socially awkward, and Păstrător rubbed the young woman’s head the way Americans pet their dogs.

“Blessed little one, she is, (Păstrător pointed to her own head, indicating her niece’s state of mind.) How do you say? Slow-witted?”

“Oh, I see,” Jenna dropped her mouth and tilted her head back with understanding.

“But she is talented. More talented than any of my students.”

“Students? You’re a teacher?”

Păstrător belted out another laugh. One that lasted much too long and trailed off at its finish. “Not any teacher.” Her eyes grew wide. “A master teacher of beauty.” Slowly, she spoke her next words. “I. Capture. Beauty.”

Jenna was mesmerized. “You will make me beautiful?” She said.

“You are beautiful, already, my dear. I will make you spectacular.”

Jenna’s attention hung on her every word. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” And the three women laughed.

“Forgive me,” Păstrător said after the laughter died. “Please come and sit here.” Jenna was ushered to a salon chair in a far corner near the back of the shop. “You need something,” she said once Jenna was seated.

Jenna watched the woman as she and her young apprentice disappeared into their back room. She sure is striking, Jenna thought. A smile broke out.

The salon owner was strikingly handsome, like a ballet mistress. The grey hair she wore proudly in a bun added to her charm. And that accent—like Bela Lugosi, sent shivers down Jenna’s spine.

This was a woman who knew her craft—a European master stylist. Sure, she didn’t study in Paris. Wait, did she say she studied in Paris? No, she didn’t say. It doesn’t matter. That woman with such poise, such confident, such joie de vivre—Ashley didn’t stand a chance.

Jenna smiled, poked her chest out, and nodded as if she was privy to some guarded knowledge. Then, she nestled her butt deeply into the salon chair.

Shortly after, the young helper entered with a tray; three copper-colored goblets sat upon it. One with encrusted, shiny jewels around its rim, was placed at Jenna’s face.

The helper smiled and nodded her head once, indicating that Jenna takes it, which she did.

“Ah,” the salon owner said as she sauntered over. “You will enjoy this drink,” she ordered.

Jenna looked at the goblet only inches from her face. “I don’t know; I’ve had a couple of cocktails already. I mean, is this alcohol?”

“Oh, not much,” Păstrător said. “It is mostly tea. It will help you relax.” Then she waved her hand like a magician. “While we make you beautiful beyond words.”

Jenna grabbed the goblet and downed the contents in one gulp. Păstrător and Lilith followed.

Then, the shop owner pulled a remote from the pocket of her shimmering, purple tunic and touched a button.

Click! Beneath the long mirror that ran the length of the wall, an automatic door slid open. Within it, a hearth of about five feet tall.

Păstrător clapped her hands twice, and Lilith sprang into action, lighting and kindling the pre-prepared logs until they roared, entirely.

Jenna watched in awe as the heat made its way out, engulfing her. It was so warm, so inviting, like the hot springs of Iceland that she’d sworn to visit someday. Her eyes closed on their own as she threw her head back on the neck pillow that cradled it just right.

“You are feeling relaxed, yes?” Păstrător stated with absolute certainty.

“Oh, my God. I’ve never felt so good,” Jenna said.

But, it was more than the warmth of the fire; it was a feeling inside her—an oozing feeling as if her blood was made of molasses as it found every cell. Her mind communed with it while she gazed carelessly at the salon owner’s image in the mirror as she prepared items on a small table behind her. All the accouterments of a salon experience: the shampoo (no need to ask what type), the conditioner, the relaxer, oils of every kind, lipsticks in rows, eyeshadow, eyelashes, and a few items that Jenna was positive only European stylists knew. She would be more beautiful than anyone at her office could imagine. If only Stephen could see what he was missing.

When everything was in place, Păstrător turned toward her client. (Jenna opened one eye to show that she hadn’t gone to sleep).

“How do you feel?” Păstrător asked.

“Like melting butter,” was Jenna’s reply.

“Good, good. You are ready.”

Marijuana. Yep, mixed with something else. That was the feeling she was experiencing. It was too relaxing—euphoric. The sensation was so pleasant that Jenna became paranoid. Fuck. Did I just cum? For fuck’s sake, I just came. I can feel them—my panties are wet.

“What was in that drink? Jenna asked after a series of uncontrollable sighs.

The salon owner winked an eye. “Yes. You are ready.” Then, she pumped a foot twice, and Jenna’s chair’s backrest flew backward. “Let’s get to that hair.”

Passion sprung from the owner’s hands the minute Jenna’s head touched the warm water. She pulled at each lock of hair, caressed, even stroked them, and with each movement, Jenna sunk deeper and deeper into a void of shameful bliss. It was embarrassing, at least to Jenna, because it was so pleasurable. She’d not known of such pleasure before. Waves and waves of orgasms struck her each time Păstrător lay hands on her damp head. Jenna was beyond moist, but any embarrassment she’d felt before vanished each time those hands pulled at her, releasing her soul.

Eventually, Lilith came over, dropping to her knees when she reached Jenna’s chair. And when her aunt turned her back, she sprouted up like a jack-in-the-box and threw pink dust about Jenna’s face that shimmered and smelled of rose petals.

“What the hell?” Jenna barked, startling Păstrător, who turned around with fury.

“Not yet! She yelled as Lilith’s eyes widened. “You almost ruined every-sing. Go and do some-sing else.

Lilith ran to the back like a scorned child.

“I didn’t mean to get her in trouble. She startled me, that’s all,” Jenna said.

“No. She must learn.” Păstrător went on with organizing items on the table. “That was a special powder used only at the proper time. Timing is everything. You cannot bake a good cake without following ingredients. I have method to me. That is why I’m best at what I do.”

Jenna couldn’t argue with that, but it was eerie—what Lilith did, but the powder gave off such a sweet scent that made her feel like a Persian princess.

Her methods are unorthodox, Jenna thought, but she felt special, beautiful even. Păstrător had her shit down to a science. And, when the washing ended, there was no contraption to stick her head under for drying. The salon owner took her time, brushing and styling each strand of hair until each lock was neatly in place.

Jenna secretly praised Philomena for turning her on to such extravagance. Again, she thought, Ashley doesn’t stand a chance.

“Feel good?” Lilith said. Jenna hadn’t noticed when she’d returned.

There were no words to describe the feeling. Instead, Jenna focused on a tingly numbness that started at the soles of her feet, traveled up her legs, groin, midsection until it settled at the top of her head. Nirvana was the one thing that came to mind. She’d taken a few yoga classes, and they always talked of the crown chakra—Samadhi. This was as close to God that she was ever going to see.

In between euphoric moments, she watched the master stylist work magic on her hair. Taking it from curly to straight. And when Păstrător finger-combed each strand, Jenna could feel each finger glide effortlessly through as if she was born with glistening, straight hair.

“Look at your hair,” Păstrător said while pointing to the mirror in front of her client.

Jenna half-heartedly looked. The euphoric sensation and sleep-blurred eyes had suppressed her vocal cords. Whatever was in that drink has me fucked-up. That thought rolled around in her head for quite some time until Păstrător walked over to the touchscreen register near the back and struck three windchimes that sounded off in deep, eerie tones.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Păstrător looked over to Jenna and cracked a smile as weird as the chimes. Within seconds, Lilith returned once again with a tray. This time there were only two drinks on it—clear shot glasses. One containing a black liquid that resembled squid ink, Păstrător snatched from the tray. The other, a clear liquid like water. (Jenna hoped it was water.) Then Lilith brought it over to Jenna, Păstrător followed.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t,” Jenna said, holding her hand out in the universal gesture for Stop.

“You must,” Păstrător demanded. “This final drink is a toast to you.”

Jenna reluctantly grabbed it. Hints of licorice, roses, and something else medicinal, wafted through each nostril. “Ouzo?” She said. It reminded her of the aperitif that Stephen often ordered whenever they ate at a Greek restaurant.

“No.” The salon owner assured. “These are special herbs to commemorate your rebirth.” Then she raised the shot glass to her lips. “Noroc,” she said, indicating that Jenna was to raise her glass in a toast.

Jenna placed the glass to her lips as the warm liquid found its way down her esophagus, effortlessly. The minute it hit her stomach, a tingling sensation radiated throughout her whole body. “What was that black stuff?” She only asked to buy some time and gain composure.

“Simple herbs,” Păstrător said. We are tied to each other now. We are both responsible for your beauty.”

Jenna looked into the mirror at hair that she could never imagine having. She looked twenty years younger. “Work your magic,” she said

The salon owner’s eyes lit up like the neon sign in the window. “Are you sure?” She said. Jenna nodded, yes. “We should go on, then.”

Păstrător turned Jenna’s chair around and slid the tray of makeup to the side. “I will enhance your beauty,” she said.

Jenna leaned back, barely. She felt like Stephen Hawking. The last drink must’ve taken effect because her body slowly lost the ability to move. It jumped sporadically on its own as if hooked up to a defibrillator, and then it stopped. She felt her limbs go numb. Not so much numb, but she did not incline to move them. “What was that last drink?” She said, barely above a whisper.

“Shhh,” the salon owner gestured. “I’m working on foundation, now.”

“I don’t feel like myself,” Jenna said. The sound of her voice was diminishing by the second.

“Shh-shh-shh. Let go, beautiful one,” Păstrător said as she patted and wiped her clients face, blending until the canvas radiate like the sun. “Soon, it will be all over.”

Lilith, who was continually disappearing, returned with a large, straw basket. At the feet of her aunt, she looked at her work and waited patiently.

Suddenly, Jenna’s tongue appeared to double in size so much that her breathing became labored. “What did you do to me,” she thought, she said. Unmistakably, she heard her voice within her mind, but her ears revealed something else: a gurgling murmur from a mouth pasted shut.

“I told you,” the oldest of all three women spoke. “It will be over soon.” She motioned to her niece. “The basket,” she said.

Body frozen, Jenna watched as the shop owner raised the basket to her lap. Its lid, a blood-red; a velvet sheet was moved to one side by the older lady’s hand.

Jenna also watched the same hand remove a knife like a type created by James Black for Jim Bowie. And like its size, it had teeth, akin to a shark, running alongside the blade.

Păstrător held the mini sword up so that the light hit it just so. “I’m Vrăjitoare,” she said while turning a stone face toward Jenna. “What people call a witch.”

Jenna’s eyes widened, tears dropped from the urge to blink, but her body refused to conform. Then, she felt a pool of saliva lodge itself in the back of her throat and prayed to no avail that she could swallow.

That delighted the shop owner, and she flickered her tongue and tasted the live blade. “For a long time, I travel the world. Longer than your life…,” she chuckled. Then she pointed a finger to the storefront window, “…collecting heads.”

Jenna mustered the courage to dart her eyes in the direction of the salon’s heads. No, it’s not so, I must be in some weird dream—a nightmare. That’s why they look so real. Then she began to plead with her thoughts. This has to be a joke. I’m being Punked. There’s no way God would let this happen to me.

“The problems with being a woman,” Păstrător exclaimed as if speaking about her day at work. “The things we do to stay young.” And for a moment, she aimed the knife’s blade downward, spinning the tip on her lap like a dreidel before picking it up again and pointing toward the lined-up heads in the window. “Every one of them wanted what you—what all women want—to be forever fresh and beautiful.” She leaned back with eyes intent on the blade. “It’s only natural,” she continued, moving her body forward. “I too suffer from this affliction. For two hundred years, I’ve captured beauty—your beauty to help me remain as I am. My only regret is that I did not begin this process sooner when I was truly young and fresh. Oh! I was a beautiful girl,” she said like a grandmother to their grandchild. “Alas, it is my niece’s turn. She is just the right age and beautiful, too, don’t you think? And thanks to you, she will remain this way. We thank you.”

Jenna’s eyes darted over to the grinning mouth of Lilith, who proudly displayed a missing top left incisor.

Păstrător raised from her seat. “After all, we women should help each other, yes?”

Jenna swore the woman’s eyes went black, but that was the least of her worries. Now, the two women began moving toward her.

Panic gripped Jenna at the moment Păstrător gripped a handful of the woman’s hair and pulled her head back.

“Thank you for more time,” the witch said, looking down at Jenna like a hawk to its prey.

From a distance, laughter—a burst of sickening laughter and mantric chants echoed through the night’s air.

The next morning, Aida Eyasu perused the small strip mall just down the street from her townhouse. She’d promised herself to explore the new neighborhood ever since graduation from Virginia Tech some seven-months prior. The area bustled with holiday shoppers.

The first business caught her eye—an eatery called Addis-Addis, Ethiopian cuisine. How lucky she felt. Being a daughter of Ethiopian immigrant parents, she relished having authentic food nearby that she didn’t have to cook when the family came to visit (which was often). She went in and grabbed a menu, glancing at dishes her father and mother would love: Injera, Azifa, Beef Tibs, and Gomen before continuing the exploration.

Next, a UPS store. That was good to know. A few boutiques that demanded too much of her time, a Dollar Tree that was perfect whenever she craved a watered-down cleaning product, wrapping papers, or twenty-year-old chocolate bars with nuts (always with nuts). She practically flew past the Chinese take-out (an experience with food poisoning junior year jarred her memory). There were a few other places, but she felt the effects of the Venti Starbucks fill her bladder. I have to pee; she thought the minute the urge hit.

She was just about to head back when the last shop struck her; the mannequin heads that lined the window behind frosted glass made her do a double-take. Reluctantly, she eased toward it.

The mannequins were like nothing she’d seen before. All different races, capped with varying types of hair and colors, each one displayed the uniqueness of GOD’s creation. And, they were alive. More alive than any cosmetic dummy. It was as if each possessed a living, breathing soul.

Like a detective, her eyes landed on each one before moving to the next. “There,” she said out loud, only slightly embarrassed that a shopper overheard her excitement. That one looks like my hair, she thought. It had a fair and dewy face. Curly strands of thick hair drawn up into a beehive style more fitting to a beauty pageant than anything else. She looked into the blue eyes that appeared as if the dummy head had just awakened. The mole that sat on the left cheekbone even looked tangible.

Aida reached a hand into a bird’s nest of corkscrew hair and combed the kinks. It had been a long time since she had a makeover, and with the new townhouse, new lifestyle, it was time to show the world that she was on her way to the top.

What’s this place, again? She backed up to catch the name. Riley’s Hair and Beauty Salon. Hmm, I wonder if they’ll take me on short notice.

Her hand reached into the purse to make sure the debit card was there. It was. She walked to the door and rang the buzzer.