Then she dug clean clothes from her bag and tugged on her spare boots, entering the atrium, her heels resounding on the tile.
By three-thirty, she’d coiffed, twisted, teased, and sprayed the hair of three grandmothers, two mothers, one great-aunt, seven bridesmaids, and two flower girls.
All the while the music was blasting everything from Michael Bublé to Jesus Culture to Beyoncé’s “All the Single Ladies.”
Laughter tinged along with the music, becoming a part of the melody and percussion.
Right now the bridesmaids were circling Bridgett, turning up the music, belting out the lyrics with their heads back, arms wide. “You call me out beyond the shore into the waves . . . You make me brave . . .”
Ginger closed her eyes, leaning against the makeshift beauty station, breathing in the lyrics. If there was a God who cared, could He make her brave? She liked the idea of it all.
A blip of laughter from the older women chatting on the matching sofas caught her attention.
They reclined in their wedding attire, the glitter in their dresses snapping up the light draining through the high arching windows, and sipping a fruity Ginger Ale punch.
“I sure could have used a song like this on my wedding day.” One of the grandmas pointed to the singing circle. “I was so nervous I could barely stand let alone belt out a song with my bridesmaids. It took all of my gumption to make it down the aisle.”
“That’s nothing,” said the great-aunt. “At my wedding, Daddy turned to me just as the pianist started the bridal march and said, ‘Lovie, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want.’ Lord a-mercy, I liked to have crowned him right then and there.”
Ginger smiled and checked her watch, picking up her own punch glass. Three forty-five. An hour and forty-five minutes until the wedding. So as soon as Bridgett was done singing about bravery, Ginger would have her in the chair.
Hair and makeup was her world. Where she was in command, captain of her destiny. But out there, in the everyday world, she was the poor, pitied, scarred one. And now the daughter of the woman who took down a preacher.
Which was why she’d remain hidden in her shop behind long sleeves and peacock-colored scarves. And she’d glean a little of life from the women and men who entered her shop, sat in her chair, and told her their stories.
The song ended and the girls laughed and cheered, drawing Bridgett into a hug, forming a magical bloom of beauty.
Ginger would never fit in their garden. She’d be pruned for sure.
But in the field of helping others, ushering every woman, young and old, into a realm of beauty, she’d thrive.
“Oh, Ginger, look, my hair is coming undone.” Miranda broke from the circle with panic in her voice, making her way to Ginger. “Look.” She patted the loose weave Ginger had given her.
“Have a seat.” Ginger patted the chair, squinting at Miranda’s sandy-beach colored updo. It was perfect. And practically impossible to fall since she’d plastered it in place.
“How about some long strands . . . for curls?” Miranda said, trying to tug strands from the clips.
“Mandy, good grief, let Ginger do her job. She’s the best. Your hair is perfect.” Bridgett stood off to the right, beaming, wrapped in a white robe and drinking a sparkling water.
“I just like long curls over my shoulder.”
“Because you always wear long curls over your shoulder. Be brave, do something new.”
Ginger smiled at Miranda through the mirror. “Trust me, this twist works perfectly for your face. If you want curls, we’d have to start all over which means washing your hair.”
Miranda made a face. “Fine, but I still think some long curls around my neck would look good.” She pointed at Bridgett. “Wait until you’re in this chair. You’ll be bossing Ginger around all right.”
“Watch me. I’m going to face away from the mirror, that’s how much I trust her.”
“Then here you go.” Miranda stood, shaking the folds from her long gown. “Your turn to be brave.”
Without a word, Bridgett turned the chair away from the mirror and sat with a glare at her friend. “Ginger, do your thing.” She glanced up. “We go back a long way, don’t we?”
“We do.” In these moments, high school became a mythical, fun place with treasured memories, where, for a brief second in time, Ginger was a part of the sorority.
“Remember when you pulled my backside from the fire the night I tried to—” A deep red blushed Bridgett’s cheeks as she stumbled over her words. “I mean, the night I tried to . . .” She swallowed, “. . . color my hair, and . . . green. Everywhere . . . green.”
“It was a class A emergency.” Ginger let the reference to fire pass. When she commanded her space, not even her dark tragedy overshadowed her.
“It was my first date with Eric and my hair was all kinds of messed up. I ran, literally, to Ginger’s house, crying the whole way.”
“And look at you now,” Ginger said.
“Marrying”—Bridgett’s voice broke—“that same man.”