Two Feet Off The Ground Read online

  The girl came to my side and cradled the icepack to my leg. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you a friend?”

  “I’m just one of the parents,” I said.

  I looked down at her finger and saw a diamond ring as flawless as Paula herself. Its brilliance poked me in the eye like a lance. Pretty, nice, and possibly marrying the last perfect lesbian on earth. I hated her.

  The brunette over at the grill called out to both of them. The flame-headed girl stood up. “We’ll be right back,” she said, grabbing hold of Paula and yanking her away from me.

  Before I had a chance to readjust the icepack, Paula’s brother had dashed up from behind. He slid onto the edge of my lounge chair and lifted the icepack. The blood had seeped through the bandage already. “That’s going to leave a nasty bruise.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s doesn’t hurt that badly.” I smiled and straightened up in the chair.

  “At least you’re not wimpy like my little sis over there.” He nodded to Paula and her perky fiancé at the grill. His smile accentuated his chiseled face. “She took a bad fall on a bike ride down Mount Washington last summer and nearly passed out when she saw the blood flowing down her leg.”

  I needed to hear more. “I’d never guess that about her.”

  He stood up and his quads instantly flexed. “Don’t let her fool you. She acts all tough in front of the kids, but she’s really a softy inside.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing because she was pretty mad at you for putting the fire pit where you did.”

  “Did she blame that on me?” He narrowed his eyes.

  “She was ready to give you hell.”

  “She’s the one who put that thing smack in the center of the patio.” He scoffed. “Look at her over there playing miss little innocent to all the pretty girls.”

  I rolled my eyes over to Paula and her sexy little girlfriend and scoffed along with him. “Who’s that girl with her? Is that her fiancé?”

  “Her fiancé?”

  “Yeah, the pretty redhead next to her,” I said.

  He turned back to me and opened his eyes wide like something really important just dawned on him. “You have a thing for my sister, don’t you?”

  He wasn’t shy.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I felt like a dorky teenager.

  He stared at me for a moment before breaking into a cocky grin. “Then, why did your face just turn five different shades of red?”

  I decided to ignore his question and readjust the icepack. His swaggering grin circled around me like an annoying gnat. “Would you mind getting me another beer?” I asked him.

  He walked over to the cooler, plucked out a beer and handed it to me. “Just in case you really want to know, the fox next to her happens to be my fiancé.” He then turned and walked towards the grill.

  My heart twirled in the wake of his words.

  Chapter Three

  By the time I arrived at work on Tuesday morning, I was still in such a good mood that I actually thought I could rub some of it onto Angie, the shampoo girl. As we stood side-by-side at the shampoo bowls, I asked her, “Did you have a nice weekend?”

  She just nodded and continued to scrub the client’s head. She wouldn’t be winning any service awards with her frosty personality, but she sure could put the tingle down your spine with her rigorous massage.

  Angie was by far the most serious apprentice I’d ever met. If she wasn’t shampooing someone, she was folding towels or sweeping dust bunnies. She’d foil a head without gloves on if she thought it would impress Aziza. Little did she realize, Aziza didn’t give a damn what she was doing. In fact, Aziza begged me at least once a week to fire her because of her disastrously dull sense of style. Angie wore her mousy brown hair tapered into a bob and this bugged Aziza.

  Angie didn’t realize it, but I was her only ally. Her work ethic impressed me. In fact, if I owned the place, I’d hire twenty of her type just to have an army of clean freaks on hand so I’d never have to break another nail digging down the drains or scrubbing color stains off the floor. I couldn’t stand some of the early airheads Aziza had hired. They tramped around Bella in their tight jeans and three inch heels, talking nonsense about reality television and what club they’d be hitting that night.

  Aziza had no clue how to run a successful business. It was only successful because I cranked the wheel behind the scenes. And, the only reason I bothered to help out was because I didn’t want to work alongside stylists who believed smoking cigarettes while working on a client was cool or that it was okay to wash out a dirty plate in the same sink where I washed my clients’ hair. And, most importantly, I certainly didn’t want to be associated with those old-fashioned stylists who still thought it was hip and trendy to perm the living shit out of someone’s hair and call it a style.

  My future was in Aziza’s hands; she didn’t have a clue what to do with it. If it wasn’t for me creating strategic plans in the backroom, Bella never would’ve drawn in the million dollar revenues it did every year. I was the one who attended the management workshops put on by our suppliers. I was the one who read every marketing book on the shelves of the bookstore around the corner. I was the one who came up with the whole employee development plan. I was the one who pushed the stylists’ skills to star-quality levels. And, I was also the one earning eighty-five percent of every penny that my chair brought into that salon.

  The money went a long way with me.

  Every beauty school graduate wanted to work for Bella because of what they thought Aziza could do for them. If left up to her, she’d still be hiring a bunch of hot girls and letting them paint their nails and snap bubble gum at the front desk. Basically, she’d let them do whatever they wanted.

  I was the one who made sure each apprentice started out with the same rules in hand and methodically followed order. She’d start out as shampoo girl, where she’d sweep floors, shampoo clients, and fold towels. Then, when I thought she was ready, I’d graduate her to blow-out level where she’d get her chance to show off her stuff. This whole process took about two years. By then, if I felt she was Bella material, I’d give her a haircutting test. If she passed, I promoted her to junior stylist. From there, her fate depended on how well she could build up her chair. The more she profited, the faster she’d move up to the coveted reign of senior stylist. At that point, she could charge outrageous prices and profit from some of the highest commissions around.

  Bella offered the best of everything to a budding stylist. Great pay, benefits—which were unheard of in a private hair salon—education, sliding scale commissions, and a herd of clients trampling through the door on any given day to pamper themselves silly.

  We had our clients trained. They learned early on that if they wanted to be clients, they had to be patient to get an appointment, especially with a senior stylist like myself. My clients had to plan their haircuts like they were scheduling a wedding. This was no walk-in-clinic that accepted emergencies. My book filled up six months in advance. The only one that came close to that was Aziza, who still trailed behind me by about two months.

  Angie wanted to succeed. I was almost ready to let her start blow-drying my clients. She certainly had the shampooing down. I watched her as she stood beside her client scrubbing her head like she was doting on the Queen of England, even though she was only an orthodontist from down the street.

  I just loved her ambition.

  I circled around back of her to grab a towel for my combs and accidentally bumped my bandaged leg against hers. I winced and she freaked, dropping the hose from her hand and letting it squirt all over the client. She wrestled the hose like it was a cobra, and the client ran around in circles desperately trying to escape the geyser raining down on her. Both were screaming, and I couldn’t help cracking up. Poor Angie would be mopping up that floor all afternoon making sure every nook and cranny was bone dry. She was as red as the fresh blood soaking through my bandage again.

  Aziza came running up to me all
breathless, completely ignoring the drenched duo standing beside me. "You have a walk-in."

  “Since when do I do walk-ins?” I asked.

  She shrugged and smiled at me in a sneaky sort of way.

  “I can’t do it.” I looked down at my watch. "I have a foil in 15 minutes and I’m booked solid for the rest of the day. Give her to Terry.”

  “She asked for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  She curled her finger up and motioned for me to follow her. I bounced my heels in sync with hers as we made our way past the pedicure loungers and through the maze of stations on route to the front desk. When I entered the reception area and saw the back of Paula’s head, I skidded to a halt, leaving a scuff mark the size of a small airport runway on the hardwood floor. I would’ve recognized the back of that head anywhere.

  “Paula?”

  She stood up and twisted her body around to see me. “Hey you.”

  “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. What brings you by?”

  “I mentioned to the team I needed a haircut and Owen told me you cut hair. So, here I am.”

  I loved my son so much. He’d be getting an extra half hour of computer time that night for his good deed. “Well, I’m sure I can squeeze you in. I’ve got a few minutes.” I said this as though all my appointments for the day magically erased themselves from my book.

  “Great.” She smiled and her whole face lit up like sunshine. “Chuck and I are flying out to Vegas tomorrow for a little getaway trip and I’m starting to look a little haggard.”

  She talked about flying so casually like she was taking a spin around the neighborhood on a scooter. “I don’t think you look haggard at all.”

  We stood face to face smiling at each other by the new hairspray stand me and Aziza put together the week before. “How’s your leg?” She eased her eyes down to my bare shin.

  “It’s still attached and working, so I guess that’s a good thing.” I shook it a little for effect.

  She leaned down and touched it. “You might want to get it checked out by a doctor. It shouldn’t be bleeding still. You might need it stitched.”

  Just then my scheduled foil, Meredith, sashayed through the front door with her Jackie O sunglasses and surgeon-enhanced cleavage. I wished I could’ve just brushed her away like a pile of dead ends, but, her daughter was getting married in two weeks and she had scheduled her foil a year ago. She hated to wait.

  I nodded at Meredith. “Hello.”

  “You’re not running late, are you?” She asked, breathless like she just ran the last one hundred yards of the Boston Marathon in her linen suit.

  I turned a weary eye towards Paula. “Sorry, it might actually be about an hour before I can cut your hair.” Actually more like two, with a high-maintenance bleach-head like Meredith, but I’d rush through it if I had to.

  Paula bowed backwards and waved for Meredith to walk on by her. “Go right ahead, ma’am.”

  The two of us stood like honor guards watching her royal highness pass between our bodies. Paula winked and I just about melted into a pile of mush right there on the floor.

  “I’ll just sit and watch,” she said.

  Watch she did. She watched while Meredith bitched about the cape being too tight around her neck, about the coffee being too strong, and about the hot water scalding her precious head.

  But, best of all, when I finally got to the cutting stage of the ordeal, I could feel her watching me like a cat would a mouse. I wouldn’t disappoint. I cut into Meredith’s hair the way Picasso would slide his brush along a canvas, deliberate and in complete control. I sculpted the hair with animated slices and flicks, and as Paula’s stare intensified, so did my artistic flair. I was totally in my element and showing her my best moves.

  By the time Meredith walked out the door, most everyone in the salon, aside from the few people with their backs to my station, gushed over my chic creation. When I finally walked over to Paula with twenty minutes to spare before my next appointment, my confidence was fully stoked.

  Her golden flecked eyes twinkled under the track lighting. “You’re fun to watch.”

  “Wait ’til I get started on yours.” I winked.

  “I’m ready if you are, babe,” she said.

  My face flushed, so I spun on my heel and waved for her to follow me to the shampoo area. Angie assumed her position at the side of the sink and readied a towel to wrap around Paula’s neck.

  I nudged her aside, suddenly annoyed with her employee-of-the-month behavior. “I’ve got this one.”

  Paula slid into the seat and I placed the towel around her neck. It had been quite a long time since I’d draped and shampooed a client, but I was quite sure, none had ever turned me into a puddle of warm syrup the way she did.

  I leaned her head back and soaked her hair down with warm water. Then, I poured a glob of our most expensive shampoo into my hands and lathered it into a ball of suds. I steadied myself, and then placed my fingers into her hair. A zap of energy shot from my fingers to my toes. Her eyes closed and she let out a slight moan. My heart began to race as I massaged her scalp. Knowing I was actually touching this woman—giving her pleasure—could’ve given me an orgasm right there in the middle of it all—alongside Angie folding a pile of towels, Terry refilling shampoo bottles, and someone getting her eyebrows waxed.

  I circled my fingertips round and round, all the while examining her striking features. Not a wrinkle on her clear face, high cheekbones, and a full set of moist pink lips. I snuck a peek down past her face and admired her toned shoulders and chest. I fixated on the rise and fall of her breasts, as her relaxed breathing deepened.

  Then, she opened her eyes and chuckled. “I’m going to have to start charging you if you keep doing that.”

  The blood rushed up to my face in a flash. “What? I was just admiring your shirt.” And the perfect roundness of your boobs underneath it.

  “Yeah, just like I was admiring your shoes when you were cutting that lady’s hair.”

  My lower body flared. I laughed a little to disguise how turned on I was. I had floated up so high I could’ve cleaned the ceiling fans and replaced the burnt out light bulb while up there. I doused her head with water again and rinsed all the bubbles down the drain.

  By the time I got her to my station, my coloring returned to its usual pale ivory self. “So, Vegas, huh?” I asked her.

  “Yeah, I travel quite a bit, especially in the summer.”

  “That’s the biggest perk of being a teacher, right?”

  “It’d be hard to ever work a summer again,” she said.

  I drew a comb out of the Barbicide and wiped it down. I had no idea how I’d get through this haircut, I was trembling so badly. “I imagine it would be.”

  “I dabble in some personal training at a gym a few mornings a week, but I wouldn’t consider that work.”

  “Personal training, huh? Maybe I should stop in and get a few lessons from you. Maybe I’d be able to keep up with Owen, then.”

  “Yeah, he’s quite a ball of energy. He’s the best player I’ve got on my team. He’s got talent and he’s disciplined.”

  “Disciplined?” I asked. “I’m not sure how you get him to do things for you, but I’d like to know your trick.”

  “On the field he’s got it more together than most of the girls on my adult soccer team do. But, off the field, he’s just as forgetful as the next kid. I’m still waiting for him to return his release form for the D.C. trip coming up in a couple of weeks.”

  I combed through her tangled hair. “D.C. trip?”

  “He didn’t mention it?”

  “It’s not ringing a bell.”

  “We’re chartering a bus and heading down to see some of the museums,” she said. “He was supposed to ask you to chaperone. But, apparently, he never did.”

  “That’s my disciplined boy for you.” Forget the extra half hour of computer time.

  “We need one more chaperone. Are you interested?”


  Was Donald Trump not rich? Were there not twenty-four hours in a day? “I’ll take a look at my schedule and let you know.” I went through my “schedule”: Lifetime movies, grocery shopping, laundry…

  Aziza coughed from over at her station. She pretended to clean her countertop with a rag. When I looked at her, she smirked at me as if transported back to middle school again. She obviously approved.

  I spent the next twenty minutes whizzing my shears in and out of her hair, and praying it wouldn’t end. I cut her hair into chunky layers and when I was finished, she looked even more beautiful than I thought was even possible. I could’ve spent the rest of the afternoon running my fingers through her tousled new haircut, but, my next appointment was fidgeting by the front desk, putting her fingerprints all over the glass shelving. So, I brushed the little hairs off of her face with my soft feathery brush, and whisked her up front.

  “What do I owe you?” She reached into her Nine West pocketbook and pulled out a pink checkered wallet.

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What? Why not?” she asked.

  Suddenly I felt more foolish than if I’d just told her the going rate of fifty dollars. “Let’s just call it even this time around. You know, the barbeque and all.”

  She thumbed through her bills and pulled out a twenty, then dropped it on the counter. “At least accept a tip.”

  I reached out and took the twenty and flushed again. “You’re going to have to let me put some red lowlights in your hair sometime. Maybe we can swap training sessions for highlights.”

  “Whenever you’re free,” she said picking up a card and a pen from the holder on the desk. She jotted something down and handed it to me. “Don’t be a stranger.” Then she turned and waltzed out the door.

  I looked down at the card and beamed when I saw her e-mail address. E-mail was so much safer than a phone call.

  * *

  The reason I’d never settled down had little to do with my picky taste or ability to give love, but more to do with my knack for always dating people on the opposite end of my wavelength.