She shrugged and returned her eyes to her phone, scrolling through her highly edited Instagram photos. “If you say so.”
Although I loved where my business was at now, sometimes I thought it was easier in the old days. I never used to have to deal with high-maintenance clients. I opened Glow Beauty Bar five years ago. It had always been my dream to own a boutique full-service salon, but things weren’t as glamorous as I had hoped. I started off with peeling paint and a hodgepodge of used furniture and old salon equipment, and the client list consisted of errant old women that would wander in off the street. I continued to struggle until one day, about three years ago, Olivia came into my salon with a hair emergency. Apparently, her regular hairstylist had up and moved to New York City, so she tried out another salon that completely botched her dye job. I was her saving grace. She got word out to her elite friends about me, and my salon transformed from a barely-making-it-by cheap salon to a full-service beauty bar for the upper-class women of Buckhead. I added two tanning beds, a spray tan machine, a pedicure and manicure area, a waxing room, a makeup bar, a sitting area, and a wine and champagne bar. Basically, anything they wanted, I delivered. There’s a waiting list to even become a client here now, and I only accept twenty-five full-time clients. By full-time, I mean my clients agree to have a minimum of eight services a month. If they fail to do so, they’re terminated as a client, or at least relegated to the waiting list. It’s very exclusive and very expensive.
“Are you adding facials anytime soon?” Olivia pulled at her skin. It didn’t move. Her face never moved, thanks to her frequent Botox sessions.
“I hadn’t considered it,” I said.
“This is exactly why you need me. Someone to think about the bigger picture. You should hire an aesthetician. Some of your clients are going to be in serious need of antiaging treatments soon, like Shannon.” Olivia attempted to raise an eyebrow, but instead, her eyes half squinted.
I gave her a small smile and directed my focus back to her hair. Olivia thought she was the sole owner of Glow. Unfortunately, she was an angel investor, but I hoped that within three years I’d buy her share out. She was far too demanding. I was grateful she had saved the salon, but in a way, she had used it to propel her social status. This place had become my clients’ personal hangout, their home away from their mansions. Olivia and her friends treated it like their own living room, hosting book clubs, wine nights, hangouts for gossip, and committee meetings.
Her phone vibrated, and she picked it back up, typing vigorously. I read texts here and there as I began applying the dye to her roots. If my clients weren’t talking to me, they were making calls or texting. Always fearful of missing out on the next hot piece of gossip. It was hard not to pay attention, not to put things together, not to figure out what was happening among these women.
“So, where has Dean been?” I asked.
The second-best part of my job was chatting with my clients. They told me everything—sometimes not intentionally, but they did. Their hopes, dreams, failures, worries, problems, insecurities . . . everything. I really enjoyed getting to know them. I liked feeling like I was a part of their lives, even if I wasn’t. It made work feel less like work and more like I was just hanging out every day. I was good at asking questions, and I was great at listening. I hated any attention on me, so it was a good match, because my clients loved to talk, especially about themselves.
“Oh . . . ummm . . . actually, I’m not sure,” she said. “He’s like a stray dog sometimes. Can’t keep track of him,” she added with a laugh.
Olivia and Dean were two of the most influential and powerful people in Buckhead, so for them, it was all about keeping up appearances. Even though I had known her for three years, I didn’t have a clue what Dean did for a living, and I don’t think she did either. As long as she kept getting her allowance, I don’t think she cared. Rumor had it that he was into some sort of shady smuggling business, but if you asked him, he’d tell you it’s supply chain.
“Speaking of stray dogs, are there any in your life?” She smiled.
I continued to paint her roots with the rich dye, which smelled like ammonia. It wasn’t a smell most people liked, but I did. It was comforting.
“No, none for me. This salon is my life.” I glanced around, taking it all in.
Five years from its inception, Glow is now clean and modern with hardwood floors throughout, exceptional track lighting, and the newest and most expensive salon equipment. There are black velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains separating the reception area from the rest of the salon. No one gets past those curtains unless you’re a client or an employee. Nonclients speak of this place like it’s the throne room at Buckingham Palace.
“Oh, sweetie. You can’t make a building your whole life,” she said with a chuckle. “And that says a lot, coming from me. I’d sell my soul for a Crocodile Birkin. Oh, you probably don’t even know what that is, which is for the best. You have simpler things to focus on.”
Kinsult.
I gave a tight-lipped smile and began trimming her ends. She had just had a trim last week, so it was quite unnecessary, but she was the one with the Black AmEx. Her phone buzzed again, and I glanced down, seeing it was a text from someone named Bryce’s Midlife Crisis.
“Sorry, Jenny. I completely forgot I have to grab lunch with the ladies today. How long is this going to take?” She bounced her foot quickly.
“Thirty minutes for the hair, but waxing will take another thirty.”
“Well, we’ll have to skip the wax for now. Gotta make nice with the new wife.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm.
“New wife?”
“Crystal Madison, new wife of Bryce—and if you ask me, a major upgrade from Shannon.” She smirked.
“Yeah, I heard Bryce left Shannon for a younger woman. They just married, right?”
Bryce was a US congressman, and he served on a committee for trade. There were rumors swirling of infidelity two months before his reelection campaign ended. He barely got reelected. Right after he was voted back in, he left Shannon and married Crystal, spinning the whole thing with the press as though he was stuck in a loveless marriage and finally found true love. I assumed he planned it out nicely to give himself enough time to repair his image before the next election.
“Have you met Crystal yet?” She shot me a quick glance in the mirror.
“Nope, haven’t had the pleasure.” I shook my head.
“You probably won’t, she’s real country,” she said putting a little twang in it. Olivia always tried to hide the slow drawl of her thick Georgia accent under some odd combination veneer of Upper West Side Manhattan meets Midwestern news anchor, but once in a while her country would come out, to her great dismay.
“Not into the glitz and glam of Buckhead?” I brushed out the ends of Olivia’s hair and checked the time on the dye.
Buckhead is a wealthy uptown district of Atlanta. It doesn’t sound all that nice with a hard name like Buckhead, but to give you an idea, the average home costs well over $800,000. It’s known as “the Beverly Hills of the East.”
“Not at all. Don’t get me wrong. She’s beautiful, a real Jessica Simpson look-alike. But I don’t think she’ll be a regular of yours. Too all-natural and fresh-faced for my taste, and she’s young, like twenty-five.” Olivia rolled her eyes. Olivia didn’t like young, because she wasn’t anymore. She would never be one of those women that aged gracefully. She would fight it tooth and nail.
“Much younger than Bryce,” I noted.
“Oh, yes. Shannon was probably most mad about that. You know, her husband trading her in for a younger woman. But Bryce is all about trade,” Olivia said pointedly with a chuckle.
“I bet that hasn’t been easy for her. How’s she holding up?” I gestured Olivia to a sink. She sat down and leaned her head back as I gently rinsed out her hair.