Page 20 of Crushes to WHAT

I… stare at the shower.

I do not want to get in that shower.

“Don’t be a baby,” I tell myself. Unfortunately for myself, I kind of am a baby. Even with all of these enticing bits and bobs to make the experience as amazing as it could possibly be, I’ve been through this torture too often for my preparations to fool me into thinking this will be a good time. It’s hair day. Hair day is never a good time.

Hair day means that once I get into that beautiful, warm haven, I will then have to turn the water to its coldest setting and stand in it for the length of time it takes to double shampoo. Then, I’ll get a brief respite of heat while I let my conditioner sit. Then, I’ll re-popsicle myself to rinse the conditioner out—a lengthy process, because my hair is so long, and conditioner hates to part with the thirsty strands.

Only once I have all of the ooey gooey out of my hair will I be able to clip it up, cover it with a rubber ducky shower cap, and return the water to a blessed million degrees.

“I love my hair,” I mutter around the lemon drop. “It’s worth it to preserve the color.”

My feet stand solid.

“I can go to the diner and get a slice of lemon cake afterward. I can get a whole lemon cake, maybe, if they have one. Then Emerson can have some tonight, too, and while he eats it, he’ll say, ‘Wow, baby, your hair sure does look shiny and soft and oh-so-pink. It brings out the blue in your eyes so wonderfully, and it really brightens your complexion. Whatever you’re doing to keep it looking so fresh and amazing, keep doing it. And, also, by the way, I am totally in love with you and want to get married and would you mind having a few of my twelve pound babies?’”

I roll my eyes, puff a wow-I’m-ridiculous laugh, and strip, climbing over the tub wall and closing the curtain behind me before I can change my mind. Once in, I praise myself for my bravery.

And I still have almost all of my lemon drop! Most hair days I shower candy-less, having depleted the sugar during the pep talk portion of the ritual, making an already jarring experience that much worse.

“Today is going to be a good day,” I mutter as I twist the knob to freezing. “The signs are all there,” I chitter when my head goes under the frigid spray. “A most… excellent… day.”

Chapter Ten

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Texting is hard.

Almond

“This is rather awful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Grant asks from my chair amidst plastic-tarp-covered construction debris. The elderly woman had to walk across plywood to get to the chair, a measure Emerson had taken after pulling up all of the tile. It’s not ideal, but it’s safer than walking on whatever mess is beneath it. Mrs. Grant isn’t much of an optimist, though.

“Things are usually messy before they get better,” I tell her as I fasten a black cape around her neck.

She harrumphs. “This isn’t going to mess up my hair, is it?”

“Of course not,” I assure her. “You’ll be shampooed and set as beautifully as you ever have been.”

She doesn’t believe me, but that’s okay. She’s not here to have pleasant conversation. She’s here to complain about her no-good grandson, the state of the world, and old man Rory, who everyone knows she has a crush on, whether she admits it or not.

“Well, get on with it then,” she grouses. “I don’t have all day.”

She does, actually, have all day. She hasn’t worked since the war—I’m not sure which—and currently spends her days alternating visiting local businesses to spend her late husband’s life insurance and sitting at home watching reruns of game shows from the early 2000s.

“And turn off this racket,” she orders.

“Yes, Mrs. Grant.” I smile, change my playlist to one I know she approves of, and get to work, nodding and humming as necessary when she launches into a long-winded story of her grandson’s utter uselessness.

While she rants, my mind wanders. It’s not hard to think of him when I walk on his work—when a plastic tarp crinkles against my elbow as I rummage for my extra-small curling iron in the basket beside the vanity. He’s not here, but he’s here, and that’s close enough for my body to warm, and want, and plead.

Emerson will be back tonight, and a sensation not dissimilar to the anticipation and dread I felt this morning before my shower takes hold. We have tonight, but we don’t have tomorrow, or the next day. Blessed heat, followed by a dreadful chill.

I frown. Maybe it’s the other way. A dreadful heat, followed by a blessed chill. I want him near just as much as I desperately cannot handle his proximity.

I ponder the situation all through shampooing Mrs. Grant, going back and forth, back and forth. It’s good he’ll be gone. It’s bad he’ll be gone. It’s good, and it’s bad, and it’s horrible, and it’s wonderful.

By the time I’m introducing tiny, sturdy curls to the older woman’s short hair, I have no convictions either way, and many convictions both ways, and my head hurts again. The clock tells me I can’t medicate for another hour.

I smile through the pain, accept Mrs. Grant’s tipless payment, and assure her that yes I have her down for the same time next week because that’s what a standing appointment means and it’s silly of her not to trust it when I’ve had her down for the same time every week since I started doing her hair ten years ago.