Blind Delusion (7 page)

“Jerk.” She muttered when she finally slammed the dead phone down. “Okay. I’m going to force myself to act calm and sweet, even if I have to turn schizophrenic to do it,” she said to herself. She was determined to not let anything spoil her 45
th
birthday, not even Bill. Renee grabbed her jacket and purse and headed towards her first stop at Kim’s, her manicurist. On the way to Kim’s she made a quick detour to the Post Office to mail the letter containing her silk underwear to Bill. If that didn’t get his attention nothing would. Kim was fast, as usual, and in less than an hour, Renee was out of the nail salon. Next, she maneuvered through congested streets in stop and go traffic to get to her two o’clock with Cha-Cha, her long-time hair stylist. Good Looks Beauty Shop was located in the multi-ethnic part of Adams Morgan. Renee had been going to Good Looks ever since her office assistant had recommended Cha-Cha over a year ago. The two young ladies had known each other since high school. Remarkably, Renee found a parking space close by the shop. The door chimed as Renee entered the salon.

Poster size headshots of models with complexions ranging from ivory to deep mahogany, and wearing a variety of hairstyles dyed in vibrant colors, lined the beauty shop walls. Renee wrote her name on the client sign-in sheet, put Cha-Cha’s name down as her stylist and marked her arrival time as 2:05
PM
. She sat down to wait and silently fumed. Typical Cha-Cha behavior, she thought, always late. Renee didn’t know why she had risked getting into an accident to get there on time. Obviously Renee needed her stylist more than Cha-Cha needed the money. As much as she wanted to get up and leave, Renee couldn’t get another appointment with someone else this late. Besides, whom else but to Cha-Cha could she trust her hair? Bill was taking her someplace special tonight for her birthday. She needed a fresh application of Egyptian sable rinse to conceal the few sprouting gray roots, a touch-up to lay down the new growth, and a fancy ‘up-do’ for the evening. After leaving there, she’d stop by Saks for some Bobby Brown lipstick and matching eye shadow and buy that ‘Flatter Me’ bra for her Dolce & Gabbana gown she planned to wear tonight. If Cha-Cha didn’t show up soon, she might not have time to run all her errands. Cha-Cha’s tip was dwindling with each passing minute.

Renee was well aware that for years Cha-Cha had paid her station fees to a string of shop owners in order to serve her loyal clients as Cha-Cha claimed. Just recently, Cha-Cha had bought out Good Looks Beauty Salon’s previous owner, and now ran her own establishment. But to Renee it seemed that becoming a new owner hadn’t changed Cha-Cha’s old habits. Her stylist had still not arrived on time. While she waited, Renee observed the activity around her. On this Friday afternoon, the art deco adorned salon was packed. Clients sat reading under dryers, leaning back into wash bowls, or sitting in styling chairs, getting their hair creamed, coifed, or cut by one of the other three stylists. Laughter and idle chatter mingled with a concert of popular tunes coming from the too loud CD player. Every five minutes the telephone rang and the teenager at the desk answered it, repeating variations of the same message, “Sorry, Ma’am. Cha-Cha’s not in yet. Her appointment book is full all day today and tomorrow. Try calling back to see if she can fit you in.”

You would have thought Cha-Cha was the personal stylist for a string of Hollywood celebrities as much as she was in demand. Renee scanned the customers still waiting and hoped none were there for Cha-Cha. A forty-something brownskin woman wearing a black leather jacket and clutching a Louis Vitton handbag sat on one of the cushioned chairs opposite Renee and rested a tired head in the palm of her hand. Next to her sat a plump woman in a Washington Redskins jacket who hid all her hair under a maroon knit cap.

The door chime rang and a middle-aged, stout, liverish-colored man of average height lumbered through the door and immediately made his presence known. “Did anybody request a handsome Black man?” he grinned, with outstretched arms. “Here I am, Ladies.” He then greeted everyone in the shop with a loud, “How y’all doin’?” Renee had seen him at the shop many times before. Today he sported some mustard-yellow gabardine slacks and a matching yellow, silky shirt from his ‘seventies era’ Cavalier wardrobe. Always the flamboyant dresser, Renee had never once seen him wearing jeans or looking scruffy. He stroked his clean-shaven chin, looked around and finally sat down in the only empty chair left. Whittni, his stylist, told him she’d be ready to cut his hair in a few more minutes.

“Okay, baby. Take your time, Sugah,” he said, and smoothed his gray-tinged mustache before settling down for some social and relaxation time.

Renee knew all the girls at the shop who worked with Cha-Cha—Whittni, Takara, and Nadine. She had also become familiar with some of the regular customers, including this gentleman. Whittni called him Mr. Woods but he said his name was Alonzo Woods or Al to all his friends. He always got Whittni to shampoo and cut his hair and would wait however long it took for her to get to him. Renee suspected he preferred the beauty parlor to the barbershop down the street because he wanted to be in the company of the ladies. On a number of occasions Renee heard him brag that he drove an 18-wheel tractor-trailer as a top feeder driver for United Delivery Service (UDS). She found him overly friendly to the point of being sickening. He made her uncomfortable with his flirtations and sexual overtones. Renee was glad that Whittni chatted with him as she worked on her other customer’s hair. His heavy-lidded eyes closed at times as he spoke. Alonzo Woods always looked like he needed a nap.

Whittni had a pleasant face and usually wore long braids. Today’s style was a handful of braids pulled at the crown in a ponytail while the bottom half of her braids touched her shoulder blades. She rarely made her customers wait more than ten minutes, so Renee figured she wouldn’t have to put up with Mr. Woods’ endless prattle for much longer.

“Lawd, there must be some ugly women out there ‘cause God gave you all they looks, Sistuh,” he grinned at Renee, revealing brownish yellow stains on his teeth, no doubt from years of heavy smoking in his younger days.

Renee tried to conceal her dislike for him and politely said thank you and picked up a magazine to skim through. Mr. Woods turned his attention to the plump woman wearing the Redskins jacket and struck up a conversation with her. Not having anything else to do but wait for Cha-Cha, Renee eavesdropped on their conversation while pretending to read the magazine. She rarely participated in conversations going on at the beauty shop. She preferred to sit quietly and remain as invisible as possible. You could learn a lot about people just by listening to them talk.

“I see you still a fan,” Mr. Woods said, pointing to the woman’s Redskins jacket.

“Yeah, we Redskins fans don’t give up. It’s not over for ‘em yet. We’re only a month into the season.”

Nadine led her customer over to a hair dryer next to the waiting area and set the timer for thirty minutes. Nadine had a pleasant face, tinted the flavor of rich cocoa and got along with everybody. She asked the Redskins’ fan to go sit in her chair while she made a quick telephone call. As soon as the Redskins’ fan left, Mr. Woods made his move on the lady in black leather.

“Who you waitin’ for, Sistuh?” he asked her and licked his dry, chapped lips.

“Takara. Looks like she’s finishing up her customer. Shouldn’t be much longer, thank God! I am beat. Worked the nightshift last night. I thought about sleeping in but I had to get my hair done.”

Both Takara and Whittni summoned their clients. The woman wearing the leather jacket jumped up when Takara called her.

“Mr. Woods, I’m ready for you,” said Whittni.

“Mr. Woods? Who the hell’s that?” He snarled at the formal name, “Baby, how many times I got to tell you to call me Al.”

He smiled at Whittni and bounced towards her chair in what he probably considered a cool, hip-hop strut. “I ain’t that old, girl. I could show you a thing or two,” he winked then squeezed himself into her chair.

Renee then sat alone. She checked the clock again. Twenty-five minutes had passed but it seemed like she had been waiting forever. At 2:30, Cha-Cha strutted through the door, head held high, and lips rigid with attitude. Only 5’4” in bare feet, the platform boots lifted her to a statuesque 5’7.” Renee was too angry to say anything to her and pretended to be absorbed in the magazine. Cha-Cha walked in like Queen Sheba, hips curvy in a pair of butt-hugging FrankieB Jeans. A leopard print nylon top peeked through her leather jacket to reveal other God-given assets. Cha-Cha sported a short, tapered Halle Berry cut that showed off high cheekbones on a golden tan complexion, arched eyebrows, dark eyes, and perfectly formed lips painted glossy berry by MAC™. She nodded a greeting at Renee but did not apologize or explain why she was so late.

“Hey girl,” she greeted the teenager at the desk in a sultry, drawling voice, “Any calls?”

“Just the usual. Mrs. Gordan wants a touch-up, color, and trim. Janice got her hair wet and needs another press-n-curl. And your cousin, Tamika wants you to squeeze her in tomorrow before 5. She said to tell you she finally got a date.”

Cha-Cha rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. “That girl’s always trying to get her hair done for free. Like I don’t have bills to pay,” she said, pointing to herself as she held a defiant stance.

Renee suppressed the urge to say out loud;
You don’t act like you have bills to pay. You’re thirty minutes late for my appointment.
But her anger subsided since she knew Cha-Cha would transform her into a glamorous femme-fatale and Bill wouldn’t know what hit him tonight.

“Oh yeah and a Jillian Brock left a number for you to call her,” said the young assistant as she handed Cha-Cha a slip of paper, “This lady’s desperate. Says she hasn’t been to you in ten months because she could never get an appointment. She’s been going to somebody her girlfriend recommended and they messed her hair all up. She’ll pay anything and can come any time if you’ll fix the disaster this other hairdresser ‘inflicted on her head’. Her words exactly.”

“Oh, well,” said Cha-Cha in a nonchalant voice, “That’s what you get when you go to unprofessionals. Clients have to make a commitment and keep trying to get me. I don’t have time to call her right now. Thanks for taking the messages, Sherrelle.”

Cha-Cha appeared to be in no rush putting her things away. She sauntered over to the supply closet and retrieved her hair relaxing crème, colors, sprays, and setting lotions. She arranged the curling irons, pressing combs, and handheld dryer at her station. She yawned then continued chit-chatting with the young receptionist. “Sherrelle, tell your triflin’ mama she don’t have to call nobody,” said Cha-Cha with a sly smile.

The young girl with the bobbed hairdo, cropped just below her ears, spoke up to explain, “Mama’s been sort of busy lately. She just got a new job.” Sherrelle closed the appointment book then glanced up at the wall clock. “She should be here soon to pick me up. You said I could get off at 3 today, right Miss Cha-Cha? That’s what I told Mama.”

“Sure, baby. That’s fine. Just make sure you get all the towels out the dryer and folded and straighten up that back room before you leave,” said Cha-Cha. “Um hum, I can’t wait to hear what my girl Veda’s been up to these days.”

Suddenly, Renee realized that Sherrelle was Veda Simms’s fifteen-year-old daughter. Veda was a former patient that she had treated several months ago. Like Cha-Cha, Renee was also interested in finding out how her former patient was faring after a trying ordeal of getting caught embezzling funds from her old job to give her ex-boyfriend a loan and later being falsely arrested for murdering him. She had eventually been released when the police apprehended the real killer, but it had been an awful time for Veda. The only good that came out of it was Veda’s reconnection with her once estranged teenage daughter. Veda had first come into treatment six months ago as an outpatient referral from Washington Hospital Center’s psychiatric ward when she had swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills. After only a few sessions with her, Renee discovered that Veda’s tough exterior disguised an insecure, lonely woman on the inside. On the surface her problem appeared to be a five-year love obsession for a man who did not love her and never would. Like most patients, Veda came in with one problem but the bigger problem emerged as they peeled back the layers and worked through her issues. Veda’s biggest problem had been low self-esteem, which stemmed from a childhood marred by a distant relationship with her mother, and the sexual and emotional abuse at the hands of someone she had once trusted.

At that moment the door chime rang and Veda herself sailed through the door! Renee didn’t want to be recognized. She didn’t want to catch Veda off guard and possibly dredge up painful memories that were still too recent to have healed completely. She picked up a fashion magazine and hid behind its pages, pretending to read it. From this vantage point, Renee could still hear everything and catch glimpses of what was going on. It was obvious to Renee that Veda was wearing a wig because instead of her naturally-thick nut-brown hair that had only reached below her ears a few months ago, today Veda sported a jet black silky mane that reached the middle of her back, even when pulled up into a ponytail. Renee thought her sky-blue sweat suit complimented her cocoa-tinted skin tone. Renee was also relieved to see that the brief stint in jail had not altered Veda’s usual easygoing manner.

Veda’s narrow field of vision focused only on her daughter seated behind the reception desk. Veda smiled and glanced at her wrist watch, “’bout ready to go, Baby?”

Close to forty years old, Veda had no delusions about her waning youth, and unlike her girlfriend, Cha-Cha, she was past trying to look ‘cute.’ Veda was not the type of woman who spent much time on her hair, makeup, or her wardrobe. While Cha-Cha was one of her best friends, Veda couldn’t understand why people spent half their day in a beauty parlor—first, waiting for Cha-Cha to show up and then, waiting as Cha-Cha took her sweet time to do their hair. Manicure and pedicures were rare treats for her—not regular rituals, which is why her cuticle-chewed nails were often brittle and unpolished. But she didn’t care. Veda thought of herself as more the ‘wash and go’ type.