Page 165 of Severed Heart

* * *

A loud bell jingles as I walk through the door and freeze, all eyes drifting from the women in the shop, who begin scanning me curiously.

What was I thinking?

The need to flee takes over as I hesitate at the door.

“Delphine!” Layla exclaims, poking her head through a doorway in the back of the shop.

Merde.

Even as I entertain leaving, Layla takes long strides toward me—such a beautiful girl. Tall and tan from the summer sun, she’s wearing a halter dress that hugs her curves, accentuated by the sash fastened around herBeauty Marksmock. Her long, light blonde hair cascading in beautiful waves down her shoulders. I take all of this in as she approaches.

“Ignore them,” she whispers, gently taking my elbow to usher me toward her station. “I have to admit,” she says, snapping out a plastic cape before fastening it around my neck, “I was surprised when I saw your name in the appointment calendar but in agoodway.”

Her eyes command mine in the mirror as I speak, trying to fight my anxiety. “I was told this is your second shop. You must be very proud.”

“Hell yeah, I am. We opened this Main Street location a few weeks ago, and as you can see, business is booming.” I glance through the streetside glass at the foot traffic on Main Street because of the Apple Festival happening just outside of it as she speaks up. “Don’t let the traffic out there or in here scare you—or their bug eyes,” she lifts her voice to the women surrounding us. “They’ll be clucking like hens about some bullshit in no time.”

Nodding, I dart my eyes to my reflection. Noting the gray hairs as well as my complexion as Layla perches in front of the small counter at her station and crosses her arms.

“So, what are we doing today?”

“Everything,” I relay as she quirks a brow. “I want to get the gray out.”

“Okay, so definitely a color. How about a cut to make it a little healthier.”

I mull over my request as humiliation threatens. “Fuck it,” I finally spout with a shrug. “Can you help my face to not lookso old?”

“Not a mincer of words. I love it,” she laughs before leaning in. “Honey, I’ve got a girl on speed dial with tiny magic needles full of youth that can not only get the wrinkles out but plump your face up a bit to take years away, and it’s practicallypainless.”

“Good.” I nod. “I want everything we can do but ... still look likeme.”

“I’ve got you.” She winks as she starts to stroke my hair. “No duck lips.”

“Non.” I shake my head adamantly. “Non. No lips like a duck.”

“You know, I do it.” She points to her face as I scrutinize her. “I keep it natural.”

“Oh, then, oui.” I nod enthusiastically. “Like you do. Please.”

“I’ll call her right now. She’s only a few doors down. I’m just going to run to the back and whip us up some color.”

I grip her arm lightly as she starts to walk away, and she glances down at me in concern as the words die on my tongue. She seems to sense them, her expression softening. “You want to feel and look beautiful, right? Well, look around,” she urges, and I do, very briefly. “Every woman in this salon wants the very same thing, I promise you. This is what I do, andI’m living for this with you, so will you try your best to trust me?”

I blow out a breath as the stupid fucking tears threaten, and I nod. “Oui. Yes. Please, anything you can do to help.”

“Oh, honey. This salon is full service, so I can do a lot.” She gives me an assuring wink. “I’ll be right back.”

A few hours later, I’ve been moisturized, scrubbed, and then moisturized again with a steamer to my face that looked like a vacuum. After I was waxed—around my lip and chin, brows, and what Layla called my ‘lady bits,’ I was poked several times with the magic needles. Needles that were not exactly painless but far less painful than the devil wax. A wax job that Layla swore to me could guide in a seven-forty-seven plane. We both laughed like hyenas in the back room of the salon as she explained the metaphor about my new landing strip. Though I feel like I’ve been through several battles, Layla’s gentle massage of my scalp and second moisture gloss treatment is the best consolation I could hope for.

“I know you’re a private woman, Delphine,” she whispers, as the woman in surrounding chairsdocluck very much like hens around us. “But can I ask what made you come in today?”

I mull over the reasons and give her part of the truth. “A few reasons. The first is I have not taken care of myself in averylong time,” I tell her. “I—” I falter in my delivery, and her whispers soothe me.

“A man in your past did you dirty?” she asks.

“Oui. My ex-husband, Alain. He was a very manipulative, abusivenarcissist.” I use Regina’s words. “He almost killed me.”