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Authors: Kelly McClymer

Tags: #family, #secret shopper, #maine mom, #mystery shopper mom

License to Shop (10 page)

BOOK: License to Shop
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I walked in to find four
women of various ages in the process of cutting hair for four
clients — two men, two women.

No one was sitting in the
flimsy plastic seats designed for those waiting for
appointments.

I waited at the check-in
desk patiently for the required five minutes. No one even bothered
to glance at me. I felt the urge to look down and make sure I
hadn’t become transparent since the last time I’d looked in a
mirror.

Five minutes is a long
time when no one even glances your way.

At last, I said, in as
loud a voice as I could manage politely, “Do you take
walk-ins?”

Before any of the stylists
looked at me, they glanced at each other. It seemed to be a battle
of gazes over which one would have to turn to look at me. The loser
was a short, stout woman with her gray hair pulled back in a tight
bun. She looked at me, and pasted on a fake smile. “I’ll be right
with you, hon. Just let me get this gentleman brushed
off.”

I nodded, and bent to my
phone as if reading a text. Instead, I was noting her greeting —
very far from the warm and friendly script she was supposed to use,
“Welcome to HairMasters, how can we make you beautiful today?” I
would have had trouble with that cheesy line, myself, but I didn’t
work for HairMasters.

I reset the stopwatch to
time how long it would take her to come up to the check-in desk to
handle my request for an appointment, and then actually did check
text messages — one from Seth with a picture of Jasmine curled up
under his desk; one from my mother with a list of foods I should
buy for her sensitive stomach.

She finished brushing the
back of her customer’s neck, used a mirror to show him the back of
his very shorn head, waited for him to make approving sounds, and
then escorted him to the check-in desk to process payment. All
without giving me even one glance.

Her customer did glance at
me, sheepishly, as he took out his wallet and paid for his
shearing.


Have a great day,” she
called out to him as he left. Then she turned to look at her three
fellow stylists. None of them met her eye, each busily focused on
the customer in her chair. Then, and only then, with an aggrieved
sigh, she turned to me. “What can I do you for, hon?”

I should have walked out,
shop or no. But I had promised Sue, and I was through the worst of
it— or so I thought. Let me just say: if your hairdresser is having
a bad day, tip her and reschedule your appointment. Your hair will
thank you.


I’d like your shampoo/cut
special, please,” I said, following my script. I pointed to the big
Daily Specials sign on the check-in desk.

She squinted at me.
“Color, too?” Per the script I had in my notes, she was supposed to
upsell with more finesse. Something along the lines of “Our Ash
Blonder color would really complement your skin tone. Would you
care to add a color today?”

I made a mental note of
what she had said, since I couldn’t enter it into my phone until
after the shop. I thought about recording our conversation, because
I wasn’t sure Sue would believe this woman’s complete lack of
professionalism. But my battery was low, and I didn’t want the
phone to die before I could plug it back into the car
charger.

Fortunately, the shop did
not require that I get a color. “No thank you.” I had never colored
my hair, even in the days when pink and blue and purple highlights
were the trend. I liked my hair simple and easy to deal with,
unlike the rest of my life.


Suit yourself,” she
said.

I followed her back to the
sink, really wishing my phone had enough battery for me to tape
her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

You Can Depend on PTA Moms

 

I thought about putting a hat on to hide my hair
disaster. It was bad enough that my fellow moms were about to see
the worn tracks in my carpet, the nicked paint on the walls, and
the rest of what passed for decor in my house. Adding in the hair
would probably tip things into “Poor Molly” gossip extravaganza.
But a hat didn’t go with my “good” sweats — after an overzealous
application of bleach once, I always clean in clothes I don’t mind
being stained or ruined by cleaning products.

Then I got a text from my
mother, reminding me, once again, of the time her plane was landing
and stopped worrying. It was worth being gossip fodder if I could
mitigate even half of the stream of constructive criticism that was
going to be my due for the next few days.

Deb was working, so I
didn’t expect her to come. She’d sent a supportive text this
morning, Glad you have some help…especially glad I have to
work.

Because my doorbell
doesn’t work half the time, and I often don’t hear anyone knock (a
boon when it comes to solicitors, politicians, and random
do-gooders), I kept walking out to the mud porch to check if anyone
had arrived early.

The mud porch had not been
part of the pre-cleaning-party-cleaning blitz. An oversight. In the
morning light, it was obvious it was a big oversight.

I dragged out the vacuum
and got up the worst of the dirt that the kids dragged in daily. I
put away the winter coats. I made a charity box for the coats,
jackets, and boots that Anna and Ryan had outgrown. I slid the
humane mousetrap behind the charity box. We lived in an old house
by a river. Getting rid of mice was an impossible task. No need to
advertise our rodent residents to the moms, though.

The first person to arrive
was a delivery guy. His truck said Simple Occasions and he, after a
quick double take of my hair, unloaded first a vase of gorgeous
flowers, and then a tray of pastries.


I didn’t order these,” I
said mournfully, wishing I had.

He checked his order
screen. “This is the correct address.”


Okay then.” I wondered if
Seth had sent flowers. It wouldn’t be like him. He picked up
supermarket flowers sometimes, but he’d never had anything
delivered to me from the florist.

Seeing my hesitation, the
delivery guy smiled and pointed to the flowers. “There’s a card. I
guess it isn’t your birthday, or you wouldn’t be so
surprised.”


No. Not my birthday.” I
agreed. I read the card. Clean and pretty, with something to eat.
Enjoy! Deb. I almost wanted to cry. And then I remembered I needed
to tip the guy.


Wait here,” I said,
taking the tray of pastries from him. I dropped it on the kitchen
counter, fished two dollars…was two dollars enough?…didn’t matter,
all I had was two dollars…out of my pocketbook, and rushed back out
to exchange the two dollars for the flowers.


Thank you,” I called as
he headed back to his truck. “Have a great day.”


Happy unbirthday!” he
said cheerfully, which made me hope two dollars was just right for
a tip.

As he drove off, Nancy
drove in, with the three other moms in her car. My heart sank as I
remembered that one of them was my job rival. I wondered how her
second interview went. I was certain she’d gotten one.

And then I wondered…had
she already had her second interview? Or would she go this
afternoon, and discreetly let Henriette Stubbs know that “Poor
Molly” had needed help cleaning her house. And choosing a hair
stylist.


Come in! Come in!” I
sang, as if I were delighted to see them all and hadn’t a care in
the world about what they would think of my house. Or my
hair.

At least Deb had thought
about pastries. I hadn’t even made coffee or tea. Yet. I hurried in
ahead of them to put the kettle on the stove, and start
coffee.

 

After a politely brief dumbfounded stare at my
hair, Nancy said nothing about it.

Apparently, the others
took her lead, because they looked at my hair, looked at Nancy, and
then looked at the tray of goodies Deb had sent.


Yum! You know how to feed
a work crew,” Nancy marveled, as I unwrapped Deb’s platter of
pastries. There was fruit and yogurt for the non-carb moms,
too.


Deb sent it. She felt
guilty she couldn’t join us.” I knew better than to claim credit
for something I hadn’t done. Karma would no doubt slap me silly
later in the day if I tried it. I still wondered what horrible
thing I’d done to deserve this haircut.


Deb gets the
protect-and-serve dispensation,” Ellen said, taking a tiny cream
puff. “And the best cleaning party food award.”


I can see why you need
help,” Nancy said, looking around the kitchen with an
organizationally-adept assessment of the good china and crystal I’d
pulled out from the basement. I’d washed it, but it was stacked on
the counter. “You have lots of cabinets. Are they all
full?”

I nodded.


Of what?”


Junk?” I offered
helpfully.


Okay then, our first step
is to empty every single cabinet and drawer.”


All of them? We won’t
have room to move in here.”


True, we need a staging
area.” Nancy looked around at the available space, and said, “Here.
Let’s move the dining room table against the wall. We can stack the
things you’ll need for the party there. The rest can go on your
center island.”


It won’t all
fit.”

She smiled diabolically.
“It will after we fill the three magic boxes?”


Magic?”


Trash, Charity, and
Recycle.”

While Nancy went out to
retrieve her magic boxes, the rest of us began emptying the
cabinets, drinking coffee, and nibbling from Deb’s tray o’ goodies.
I had never known that cleaning could be so much fun.

We even got a little
mommy-gossip time in about Bianca and her run-in with a credit card
thief.

The new mom — Penny —said,
“That’s why I read my credit card bill over as soon as it comes in.
It takes forever to clean up your credit after something like
that.”


Unless your husband is
president of a bank,” Nancy said mildly.


I hope he can actually do
something about it. Most of the time the police and the bank just
tell you to change your passwords and be more careful.”


Bianca said that Deb just
had her fill out a report, and then gave her a list of people she’d
have to contact herself.”


Well, you know what she’s
having her husband’s poor assistant do today, then.”

We nodded in sympathy for
Sophie Tompkins, the bank’s administrative assistant, who was often
seen carrying Bianca’s dry cleaning and once — so it was rumored —
made cupcakes for a class party. I doubt it had been part of her
job description, but she hadn’t quit yet.

At the thought of the
cupcakes, I realized I was supposed to be bringing cupcakes to
Anna’s classroom tomorrow. Darn it.

Everyone made noises to
indicate this was an awful reality and it was time to change the
subject.

Penny asked me, “How did
your interview go?”


Great. Yours?”


Mine is this
afternoon.”


Oh, good luck with
it.”


Maybe they’ll have two
openings and we’ll both get hired,” she said brightly.


That would be fun,” I
lied. I didn’t think I’d like having to compare myself to her at
work every day, and then on the mom front on the weekends at soccer
matches and band recitals. She was just one of those effortlessly
competent people. Like my mother.

I stared at my kitchen,
which was looking very new and improved, thanks to the special
cleaning compound Nancy knew to clean off age-grimed wood cabinet
doors and knobs. And to the elbow grease we’d all expended in
emptying and scrubbing out the cabinets before putting things back
in a way that actually made sense.

For the first time in
years I had drinking glasses near the refrigerator, where they were
the most useful to grab and fill. And plates and coffee cups near
the dishwasher, so they could be unloaded with less foot traffic
across the kitchen.

Looking at it all, it
seemed obvious. But I knew better. Hadn’t I reorganized the kitchen
three times in the years we’d lived here. And it had never been
this optimized for actual use.


I can’t believe this is
my kitchen,” I admitted.

Nancy just grinned with
devilish glee and said, “Wait until we’ve finished with the living
room.”

 

True to her word, Nancy led us all in a
rejuvenation and furniture-reshuffle that was as magical as her
magic cartons.

At the end of the day, I
looked at the overflowing magic cartons. I grabbed a trash bag and
filled it with things from the trash box. I carried the bag out of
the house and deposited it in the trash can. I took a moment to bid
it farewell, very glad I’d never have to sort/store/look at any of
those things ever again.

The stuff from the recycle
box went into the garage for Seth to take with him to work
tomorrow. The university ran a recycling center, and he could drop
it all off there.

BOOK: License to Shop
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