On Tuesday morning, as he worked on a new legal agreement between Troy Crawford and Angelo Ramirez to lease part of the Rocking C, James heard a commotion in the reception area. “It’s that new girl at Clarissa’s,” one of the women said in a whining, shaky tone.
“We didn’t tell her to fix our hair this way,” another woman said.
James dropped his head in his hands for just a second, then heard his mother reply, “I’m sure James can help you.”
“No, I can’t,” he whispered, but that didn’t do any good. He pushed away from his desk and prepared to face the newest hair crisis in Brody’s Crossing.
“Oh, James, Maribelle and Ellen want to talk to you,” his mother said as he walked up to her desk.
“About their hair,” he finished.
The women were obviously sisters. Maybe twins, although he couldn’t remember them from growing up here.
“We’ve worn our hair the same way for…well, for a long time,” one of the ladies said. “Here.” She thrust forward a photo he recognized as the church directory photographer’s work.
“I see,” he said. The picture showed a woman frozen in time, with an extremely traditional, tightly curled hairstyle and oversize beige, plastic-framed glasses. It could have been taken last year or thirty years ago.
“That girl said she’d like to try something flattering, and well, since she’s from Atlanta on her way to California to work at a fancy salon, we said okay,” the other woman said.
“We didn’t expect her to do anything really different,” the first woman whined.
He looked at their softer waves, the pale blond replacing the slightly blue color in the photo, and the ends kind of feathering along their necklines. He thought they looked pretty good. “Yes, the style is different, but both of you ladies look very nice.”
“Why, thank you, young man,” the second woman said.
“But we liked our hair. We felt comfortable with it. We’re not even sure how to fix it now. And what are we going to do with all our temporary rinses that we’d stocked up on when the drugstore in Olney went out of business? We must have two years worth of Fanciful!”
James didn’t know rinse from wash, and wasn’t about to ask. He took a deep breath before telling them they should talk to Clarissa.
Before he could speak, the whiney one added, “We talked to Mrs. Desmond and she said we should talk to you. If we could get enough people, we could file a class action lawsuit and get a lot of money.”
James shook his head. “Ladies, there is no basis for a class action lawsuit, where you would need to have suffered actual losses from a defective product or fraudulent contract or claim. You can’t sue a hairdresser because you don’t like your hairstyle. If you were unhappy, you should have refused to pay for the service.”
“That just seems so rude, don’t you think, Ellen?”
“Yes. We didn’t want to be rude, even though she is awfully different, with that red hair and those wild clothes.” The one who must be Maribelle leaned close to his mother and added, “She has one of those pierced belly buttons. That would be so painful! And can you imagine how many times it would get snagged on your clothes?”
James closed his eyes at the image of Scarlett’s belly button ring getting snagged on his clothes. On his zipper…He did not need this complication. “Please, go talk to Clarissa. I’m sure she can straighten this out.”
“Oh, we can’t talk to Clarissa. She lives here.”
He felt as if his head were about to explode. “I’ve already talked to Scarlett, and she’s leaving as soon as her car is repaired. That could be any day.”
“But what about the lawsuit?”
“There is no lawsuit!”
“James, really, you don’t need to yell,” his mother reminded him. “It’s not professional.”
“I’m sorry, but this controversy over the new stylist has gotten out of hand.” Not that he would mind getting his hands on Scarlett, just to shake her up, of course. Not for any other reason.
“I think you should talk to her again,” his mother said, before he could tell her not to get involved.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“But you’re so good at working out these problems.”
“We want you to see if there are other people who want to get in on this class action thing.”
“There is no class action lawsuit!”
“James, you’re yelling again.”
He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. If I promise to speak to Scarlett and Clarissa, will you promise me that you’ll wait to do anything? No talking to anyone else, and Mrs. Desmond especially?”
“Oh, all right. We always did like Clarissa,” Ellen said, her tone one of resignation.
“But we aren’t so sure about our hair,” Maribelle added in her whiney voice.
“I’ll go see them today. Just—” He held up his hand in what was probably a futile gesture to keep them silent. “Just don’t talk to anyone about your hair unless they compliment you, and then you can say, ‘Thank you.’”
As soon as the ladies left and he admonished his mother one more time not to encourage potential clients who wanted to sue businesses in or around Brody’s Crossing, he called Clarissa Bryant. A few minutes later, he told his mother he was going out for a while.
With heavy steps and a sense of foreboding, he walked the block or so to his hair appointment with Scarlett, recently of Atlanta, on her way to California, who really didn’t like him all that much. He was beginning to feel a little bit sorry for the temporary, temperamental stylist. And for himself, for being in the middle of a hair crisis.
“YOU’RE MY ELEVEN O’CLOCK?” Scarlett asked as she stared, openmouthed, at James Brody. He slipped out of his jacket and hung it on the rack.
“I am,” he said, easing into her chair. “I thought I’d see what look you might choose for me, given you have such strong opinions about the right style for everyone else.” He crossed his hands over his flat stomach and gave her a smarmy lawyer smile. “You are capable of cutting men’s hair, aren’t you?”
“Perfectly capable,” she replied, snapping open a black cape while she gritted her teeth. So now he was tempting her to run her fingers through his thick, dark brown hair? Fine. She was a professional.
“Telling you this probably isn’t a good idea,” he said as she picked up a razor, “but I had two more visitors to my office.”
She tested the sharpness of the blade with her finger, then looked at him through her lashes. “Really? More irate mothers with poor taste in hair and clothes?”
He shifted in the chair as he watched her handle the implement. “No. Irate grandmothers.”
“Who?” she asked, putting the razor down and picking up a spray bottle. She misted his hair with water.
“Maribelle and Ellen. Twins or close to it. Formerly with steel-blue curls.”
“Ah yes, I remember them well.” She bit the bullet and sank her fingers into his hair, all the way to the scalp. He was warm and he smelled really