“Either way, she can go a day without you blowing out her hair. Maggie never catered to these blue hairs.”
“Because Maggie was one of them. I’m still earning their respect.”
“You have their respect. Maggie wouldn’t have sold you this shop unless she believed in you. So they have to believe in you.”
The wind rattled the window and skirted tiny snowflakes across the threshold. “Brrr, it’s cold, Rubes. Shut the door.” Ginger crossed the salon. “I think today . . .” She pointed at the walls. “We paint.”
“Paint?” Ruby-Jane walked the appointment book back to the reservation desk. “How about this? We lock up, go home, sit in front of the TV, and mourn the fact that All My Children is off the air.”
“Or, how about we paint?” Ginger motioned to the back room and shoved up her sleeves, a rare move, but since the doors were shut, the shop was closed, and snow was falling, she didn’t mind exposing her puckered, relief-map skin. “We can use the old smocks to cover our clothes.”
Ruby-Jane had been the first person outside of Mama and Grandpa to ever see the hideous wounds left on her body after the trailer fire.
At the age of twelve, everything changed for Ginger Winters. But out of the pain, one good thing emerged: her superpower to see and display the beauty in her friends. Despite her own ugly marring, she was the go-to girl in high school for hair and makeup.
It was how she survived. How she found purpose. Her ability took her to amazing places. But now she was back in Rosebud after twelve years, starting a new season with her own shop.
She’d left home to become a known stylist, fleeing her “burn victim” image.
And she’d succeeded, or so she thought, landing top salon jobs in New York, Atlanta, and finally Nashville, traveling the world as personal stylist to country music sensation Tracie Blue.
But the truth remained, even among her success. Ginger was that girl, ugly and scarred, forever on the outside looking in.
Face it, some things would never change. If she hoped different, all she had to do was look at her role in her old “friend’s” wedding. The hired help.
Ginger tugged the paint cans from the storage closet. Six months ago, when she returned to Rosebud and signed the papers for the shop, she ran out to Lowe’s and purchased a pinkish-beige paint to roll on the walls, giving the old shop a fresh look and a new smell, adding her touch to the historic downtown storefront.
But Maggie kept a full appointment book and Ginger hit the ground running, with only enough time to paint and decorate her above-shop apartment.
Then the two long-time stylists who had worked for Maggie retired. And ten-hour days turned to fifteen until Ginger hired Michele and Casey, part-time stylists and full-time moms.
Painting had to wait.
“Can we at least order lunch?” Ruby-Jane tugged open the doors of the supply closet, the long-handle roller brushes toppling down on her. With a sigh, she collected them, settling them against the wall.
“Yes, pizza. On me.”
“Ah, I love you, Ginger Winters. You’re speaking my language.”
Kneeling beside the paint can, Ginger pried off the lid and filled the paint trays, then moved to the shop and dragged the styling stations toward the center, covering the old hardwood floor around the perimeter with paper and visqueen.
“Have to admit, I love this old shop,” RJ said, pausing between the shop and the back room.
“Me too.” Ginger raised her gaze, glancing about the timeworn, much-loved room. “Don’t you wish these walls could talk?”
Ruby-Jane laughed. “Yes, because I’d like to hear some of the old stories. No, because talking walls would really freak me out.” She eyed Ginger, pointing. “But one day these walls will tell our stories.”
“Can we go back to talking walls freaking you out?” Ginger laughed with a huff as she pulled the last station away from the wall. “I don’t want any stories going around about me.”
She’d heard them already. Freak. Ugly. She gives me the creeps.
“I think the walls will tell lovely stories: Ginger Winters made women feel good about themselves.”
She smiled at Ruby-Jane, the eternal optimist. “Okay, then I can go with the talking walls. Okay . . . painting. Shoo wee, this is a big wall. Let’s do the right side first. Then, as time allows, we’ll finish the rest. With the right side done, we’ll be more motivated to get the rest done.”
“You’re the boss.”
Adjusting the scarf around her neck, Ginger smoothed her hair over her right shoulder, further covering herself. While she had the courage to shove up her sleeve and expose her scarred arm, she wasn’t brazen enough to expose her neck and the horrible skin graft debacle.
Two infections and three surgeries later, Mama had given up on doctors and decided to “leave well enough alone.”
Ginger had cried herself to sleep at night, her hand pressed over the most hideous wrinkled, puckered skin patch at the base of her neck.