Mothered (6)
It was only mid-June, but she already questioned what she’d do when the weather wasn’t warm enough to eat outside. She couldn’t afford to keep getting takeout, and there wasn’t enough room to eat a packed lunch at the salon. Her new place of employment had only three salon chairs; there wasn’t even space for a reception desk, let alone room where staff could take a break. Clients who arrived early had to stand against the wall near the coatrack.
She missed Barbara’s, her old salon, with its fourteen stations and a bank of sinks on the main floor, and a fully finished lower floor with tanning beds, washer and dryer, a cozy employee lounge, and two small rooms where the Orthodox Jewish women—who wouldn’t show their hair in public—could have their hair done in private. Even more, she missed her motley crew of old coworkers. Some of them, like Grace, had worked at Barbara’s for their entire career. In many ways Barbara’s staff had been a dysfunctional family, comforting and vexing, sharing the ups and downs of their lives. Grace found herself missing even the Chief of Complaining and the Gossip Director more than she’d thought possible.
Oakland had its own vibe and South Craig Street had a lot of international culinary options, but as she forked her noodles, Grace knew she had to get back on the job hunt. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays weren’t going to cut it, and with the lower base price and diminished tips, this could only be a stopgap measure. The government was talking about additional unemployment compensation for those left jobless by the pandemic, but she didn’t know when that might start. And Grace preferred to work. Especially now that her mother was there, sitting at home all day, every day.
She mulled over what the commute would be like to Sewickley or Fox Chapel or Mount Lebanon, quick to picture the red brake lights of traffic. With the city’s narrow roads, bridges, tunnels, and constant construction, there was always a bottleneck somewhere. But if she wanted to make real money, she needed to work in a neighborhood where people had expendable income. Not that all her Squirrel Hill clients had tipped well, but most had. A few of her regulars had booked appointments with her at the Oakland salon, but Grace wasn’t sure if they’d keep coming back. The ambiance just wasn’t the same. No one to bring them a cup of coffee or water with lemon slices while they waited for their hair to change color.
Her noodles tangled in her gut at the prospect of more changes ahead. It wasn’t as drastic as what her mother had gone through, but the pandemic had created a sediment of stress that clung to everyone in different ways. “Back to normal” just wasn’t gonna happen. And now that she’d gotten used to wearing a mask, Grace expected to do so forever, at least in crowded places. There were advantages to not catching—or spreading—every bug and cold that wafted through the air. If only everyone had done it sooner.
Grace had hoped against hope that one of her more ambitious coworkers would buy the business from Barbara or that someone would continue using the space as a salon. But for now it was just another empty storefront on Murray Avenue. She couldn’t keep waiting for her old life to magically reappear, and though Jackie would be paying her share, that wasn’t a substitution for personal income.
Ugh. The last thing Grace wanted was to depend on her mother. Before departing for Florida, Jackie had financed Grace’s training—and it was much appreciated—but she had been paying all her own bills since she was eighteen. More work hours would mean not only less time together in the house but fewer opportunities to succumb to the temptation of checking on ShyShaina and the others. The homebody in Grace, who enjoyed her evenings lounging about in her own queendom, sighed at the reality of now having to share her domain. But she was, after all, a working-class queen.
After tucking her dangling mask around her other ear, Grace threw away her empty container and headed back up South Craig Street so she wouldn’t be late for her two o’clock client. In spite of her preference for living alone, she required people the way a drug addict needed a fix—but she liked her socializing to happen within controllable situations, with easy exit strategies. Her best friend, Miguel, was the only real exception. When she was online as an alter ego, she could click off at will. And at work, there was a ticking clock to every interaction. She enjoyed people, yes, but more so when they fulfilled her in some essential way.
Many of her happiest days had been at Barbara’s during a holiday or wedding rush, hour after hour, client after client. She loved being in demand, being needed. Women needed her to restore their beauty, their sense of self; people needed her as an audience, someone to talk to. It was a mutually satisfying arrangement, and her online relationships weren’t so different. Grace wondered for the first time if cutting back on her virtual life would make her feel lonely.
She smirked behind her mask, imagining what LuckyJamison would advise: It’s good to get out of your comfort zone—that’s how you find out who you really are.
5
“How was your day?” Grace closed the door and hung her keys on the little hook. A giant bottle of hand sanitizer now lived on the entry table and she pumped a few squirts, rubbing it into her hands with the zeal of someone trying to start a fire with two sticks.
“Uneventful,” Jackie replied, eyes on the TV.
Jackie had spent her first couple of days mostly resting in her room. Grace supposed it was a sign of improvement that she was downstairs. Though, as Grace took off her disposable mask, she noticed that the living room seemed different. At first she thought it was her mom’s presence, nestled on the couch, legs stretched out—exactly where Grace spent her evenings. Jackie had a bowl of popcorn on her lap and was watching a game show. It took everything Grace had not to lash out. Her mother wasn’t doing anything wrong; she was doing exactly what everyone did after a long day. Relaxing. Snacking. (Had Jackie had a long day?) But it was Grace’s living room, Grace’s popcorn, Grace’s favorite fuzzy cushion tucked in her mother’s armpit.