A Dyeing Shame--Myrtle Clover #3

Chapter Two

Myrtle was ready especially early for her hair appointment the next morning. Lured by the prospect of juicy gossip or, God-willing, a scene, Myrtle set aside her bowl of Grape Nuts, haphazardly applied lipstick while pulling on a pastel pantsuit, and grabbed her cane.

Before heading in the direction of the Beauty Box, she walked a couple of doors down to Miles' house. She placed Elaine's painting in a bag on Miles' porch with a sticky note that said Thinking of You. Myrtle hurried off without knocking on his door.

She smiled with satisfaction as she approached the salon, always relieved that Tammy hadn't yielded to hyperactive punning when naming the shop. The town already had a barber shop called Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow and a beauty parlor called Hair-raisers. Puns made Myrtle queasy.

The inside of the shop was just as satisfactory as the outside. The ancient window unit spat out ice-cold air with a determined drone, and the domed hairdryers noisily competed with it. Ladies hollered over the ruckus, and it required skill and concentration to selectively eavesdrop.

The salon's décor was eclectic and, although Tammy had decorated it in her pre-drinking days, that fact wasn't evident. Bulbous, multi-colored Christmas lights covered the walls year-round, and large posters prominently displayed unlikely-looking hair models. Red and yellow curtains clashed with avocado-colored vinyl drying chairs. Faux terra cotta walls completed the Spanish bordello look. The salon was designed as a duplex with the beauty parlor in one section and Tammy's living quarters in the other. The manicurist also lived in one of the bedrooms in the other side of the duplex.

Myrtle immediately saw that Tammy was in rare form. She was gesticulating wildly with a liquor bottle and laughing hoarsely at a joke no one else apparently found funny. Instead of tranquil ladies settled in for their weekly soul baring and beautification, the shop was full of pinched faces. Agnes Walker looked grim as she got a manicure. The most anxious of the faces belonged to the victim of the moment, Bootsie Davenport. She sat stiffly in the chair with a martyred expression on her face. Judge Beauregard Davenport's wife and local socialite, Bootsie had no desire to sacrifice her coif to Tammy's binge-drinking.

"If y'all would loosen up and have a little cocktail, we'd all have a lot more fun." Tammy knocked over a few bottles of hair product in accidental emphasis.

Making her grand entrance, Myrtle quoted dramatically, "I lived on rum, I tell you. It's been meat and drink, and man and wife, to me." Resurrecting these quotations from the depths of her memory was actually very validating. Red thought she needed to be shipped to a retirement home. Pooh!

Her arrival was greeted by an unusual sigh of relief at the distraction. "Myrtle!" said Agnes in a fond voice before guessing, "Kipling?"

"Stevenson," said Myrtle. "Treasure Island."

Agnes smiled. "I'm so glad you escaped being locked away at Greener Pastures Retirement Home, Myrtle. Whatever would we have done without you?"

"I won't be an inmate at their asylum," answered Myrtle dryly.

Bootsie said, "Asylum? Greener Pastures is a wonderful Home, Miss Myrtle. My own dear Mama is out there and is happy as a clam."

"I stand corrected." As soon as Bootsie was distracted by her ringing cell phone, Myrtle muttered to Agnes, "She's happy as a clam because she's half-baked. She entered the dining hall in nightie and robe and commenced a vigorous tooth-brushing when I visited Mirabelle the other night."

Prissy Daniels peered myopically into her tatty, cavernous handbag for her checkbook. Her just-styled hair looked pretty good, considering Tammy's present state. Pretty good for Prissy, anyway. Myrtle suspected that Prissy was the prototype for Old-Maid cards. She fit the part, right down to her knobby knees. Prissy patted her just-permed hair gingerly, made a vague goodbye and left the shop.