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1
“But it’s orange!”
“I saw.”
“I didn’t know hair could turn that color of orange.”
Erica Sawyer glanced from her laptop to her partially closed office door, her focus on monthly product sales overtaken by the conversation from the hallway. Two women spoke in hushed voices. The calmer of the two was Daryn, a level-six stylist at Twisted. Erica didn’t recognize the other voice.
“Did you ask the client if she’d been using box color at home?”
“I did! Twice!” Tears thickened the unknown woman’s voice. “She lied.”
“It happens.” Daryn sounded more resigned than surprised.
The conversation continued, but the stylists had moved out of earshot.
Erica looked back at the spreadsheet, telling herself Daryn was more than capable of handling whatever disaster had been brought down on them because a newbie had thought she was better than she was. Oh, and because a client had lied. If Daryn got into trouble, then she would go to her supervisor and if she couldn’t help, there was still the salon general manager. There were layers and layers between Erica and the hair drama du jour. Part of running a successful empire meant trusting her staff to take care of business. And that meant staying out of the day-to-day issues.
Three minutes later she swore under her breath as she walked out of her office, apparently unable to be the boss she should be and let it go.
“I’m not going to meddle,” she murmured to herself as she headed for the main salon. “I’m on a fact-finding mission.”
She spotted the client instantly. The bright orange shoulder-length hair was hard to miss, as were the tears. Everything about the body language warned Erica the day was going to take a turn for the complicated.
She continued to the back room, where stylists mixed color. Daryn was already doing a color test on a swatch of orange hair. Next to her was a petite blonde with a blotchy face and tear-filled eyes.
“How bad is it?” Erica asked as she entered.
Daryn shrugged. “Bad. She used box color regularly and lied about it. Plus I think she switched products. See how some of the strands are lighter than the others? She wanted to go blond. Not happening. We just have to get the color close to normal and hope her hair doesn’t turn to spaghetti.”
Erica glanced at the other stylist. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Erica Sawyer.”
The blonde—maybe twenty-five and shaking—swallowed before she spoke. “I’m Poppy. I know who you are.”
“That’s gratifying. What’s your level?”
Stylists were rated on a scale from one to six. Those fresh out of beauty school started as associates, aka assistants. They washed hair, held the foil, swept the floor. Every few days they were allowed to work on a client, supervised. If they were smart, they listened and learned. If they weren’t, they complained about the drudge work, then quit.
Depending on their enthusiasm and talent, they graduated to a level-one stylist in six to nine months and began developing their own client list. If they worked hard, followed the company rules and gave a damn about their career, they could quickly work their way up the food chain. Somewhere between levels two and three, stylists at Twisted were clearing a hundred thousand a year. Once a stylist hit level four, he or she was given an associate of their own.
“I’m a two,” Poppy said, staring at the floor.
“How many color correction classes have you attended?”
Poppy seemed to shrink a little. “I haven’t.” She raised her head and looked at Erica. “She swore she hadn’t colored her hair before.”
“Did it feel like virgin hair? Did you believe her?”
Poppy slumped. “No, so I asked again.”
“And she lied again.”
“I thought it would be okay.” Tears poured down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Sawyer. Please. I’m sorry. I love my job here. I messed up but I can make it right.”
“No, you can’t and that’s the problem.” Erica turned her attention to Daryn. “Can you fix this?”
Daryn grinned. “I’m offended you have to ask.” Her humor faded. “I’m booked all afternoon and this is going to take a while.”
