The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Beulah had chosen to practice the art of making women beautiful, in part because she herself had been gifted with physical beauty and wanted to share it. Her blond hair was loosely curled and artistically lightened and she had a glorious complexion and a generous mouth with dimples that deepened when she smiled. She also had an enviable figure. (That is, the Darling women envied her figure, while the Darling men envied her husband.)

And as an artist, Beulah was truly gifted, especially where hair was concerned. She kept informed about the latest hair styles by studying photographs of starlets in the Hollywood magazines. She worked astonishing miracles with the curling iron, even on the most uncooperative hair. And while coloring hair was considered daring, Beulah dared to do it, offering any shade that any client (she never called her customers “customers”) might desire, from the palest peroxide platinum of Jean Harlow to Myrna Loy’s gorgeous russet-red. These talents had earned her a special spot in the hearts of Darling ladies, and especially in the hearts of her sister Dahlias, who were as eager for beauty as anybody else.

Indeed, as Lizzy walked in just after noon that Wednesday for her regular appointment, she saw that two other Dahlias were there before her. Aunt Hetty Little was just leaving, her old black handbag over her arm, her snowy white hair faintly blued and beautifully waved. And Fannie Champaign had her head in the shampoo sink, where Bettina was giving her a vigorous shampoo and scalp massage.

“I’m glad I ran into you, Liz,” Aunt Hetty said. “I stopped over at the Dahlias’ vegetable garden this morning to see how it’s coming along. We’re going to have more snap beans and sweet corn than you can shake a stick at. Did you remember to ask Myra May to call the Dahlias and remind them about the pickin’ party on Friday afternoon?”

“I sure did,” Lizzy said, and added fervently, “I hope we’ll have plenty of help getting everything to our booth.” With all the other problems involved with the festival, she didn’t need another worry.

“We’ve got more watermelons than we banked on, too,” Aunt Hetty added. “Obadiah Carlson said he’s bringin’ a wagonload. Says he can’t sell ’em so he might as well give ’em away. And he might have more by Sat’iddy afternoon.”

“A wagonload!” Lizzy’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of watermelons, on top of what’s already promised.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Aunt Hetty paused, frowning. “It’s got me wonderin’ if there’s such a thing as too many watermelons.”

“Never!” Beulah declared, bustling into the beauty parlor from her kitchen with a fresh pitcher of lemonade. She liked her clients to think of coming to the Bower as though they were coming to a party (which most of them did), and always served cookies or cupcakes with drinks. “We can never have too many watermelons at the Watermelon Festival—and if we do, why, we’ll just give ’em to people to take home. Folks’ll love us for it.” She gave them a dazzling smile.

“Beulah, dear,” Aunt Hetty said, “you are always so danged cheerful. Makes my teeth hurt just to see you smile.” She glanced at Lizzy. “I dug up that Texas Star and put it into a pretty pot so you can give it to Miss Dare at the party Friday night.”

“Thanks for taking care of that,” Lizzy said gratefully. Aunt Hetty might be twice as old as the rest of them, but she could always be counted on to do what she promised. And she could outlast them all in the garden.

“I’ll be ready to shampoo you in a few minutes, Liz,” Beulah said, waving good-bye to Aunt Hetty. She put the lemonade on a small table, beside a plate of cookies. “You just take a seat while I go check on Spoonie.” Spoonie was Beulah’s little girl. “She’s out back playing with her chicken.”

Lizzy sat down in a chair beside the shampoo sinks, where Bettina was applying a conditioner to Fannie’s hair and scalp. Commercial hair conditioners had gotten so pricey, Beulah said, that she’d started mixing up her own, from eggs (produced by her backyard chickens), Johnson’s Baby Oil (lightly scented, just twelve cents a bottle at Lima’s Drugstore), and warm water. If you wanted this extra-special conditioning, Beulah added a nickel to the price of the shampoo.

Fannie was already wearing Beulah’s homemade facial mask, whipped up from grated cucumbers (peeled, of course), mixed with buttermilk and a spoonful of cream from the top of the milk bottle. It was only a nickel, too—and even better, Beulah’s clients said, than Frances Denney’s facial cream, which cost almost six dollars for a teensy tiny jar. Beulah herself said she was thinking of going into business with her own cosmetic line, which she could sell right there at the Beauty Bower.