tank.
“Okay, sit there for a minute while I pay for the gas.”
He went into the station with the inevitable sandwich shop attached, paid for the fuel, and picked up two club sandwiches for lunch. He asked the two sandwich assemblers, teen-aged girls, if the town had a beauty shop. They rolled their eyes. Their moms went to Miss Franny’s Hair Affair next to the local insurance agency office. Clearly, they wouldn’t be caught dead there even on the day of the prom. Sounded good to Clint.
He got the number and called ahead while the giggling sandwich specialists finished his order. Slinging the sack of subs over his arm, Clint picked up his cold drinks, an unsweetened iced tea for Renee and a full octane Coke for himself, and went out to deliver the goods news.
Renee had moved her spreading behind to a picnic table stationed under some dusty shade trees. Sullen for the first time in weeks, she picked through her sandwich, determined to find fault with it. The trouble was they had been together so long now he had gotten her order one-hundred percent right. No mustard, mayonnaise, onions, or jalapenos, but all the rest of the veggies dressed with oil and vinegar. If she had been the one ordering, she knew he’d want the works plus extra jalapenos. They were becoming like some old married couple. Renee shoved her bag of chips, the only thing she could find to gripe about, at Clint when he finished his corn chips.
“I can’t afford the calories. I’m too fat.”
Clint sidestepped that one. “Hey, Tiger, we are in luck. There’s a beauty shop right down the street, and I am going to treat you to an afternoon at Miss Franny’s Hair Affair. How about that?”
Renee’s mouth dropped open. She clamped her lips shut again and mumbled, “I can wait until we get to Cheyenne.”
“Nope, I can tell you are unhappy. I want to fix that right now. Finish up. Miss Franny is waiting for you. I called ahead. It’s so close we can walk off those chips.”
With the tar bubbles in the deserted road bursting beneath their feet, Clint marched her down the main street until they came to a sign with an eighteenth century lady, hair piled high in silhouette and the words in lurid pink, The Hair Affair.
Full of dread, Renee entered the small shop. The place had only two dryers, two chairs, and one wash bowl. Miss Franny, her hair up in rollers, her chosen tint an I Love Lucy shade of red, greeted her warmly.
“It’s been slow today, so I worked on myself. We can go under the dryers together,” the hairdresser said, friendly as could be. She wore a smock covered with printed pups and kitties over her dumpy body and rocked back and forth on her white SAS shoes as she sized Renee up. “Need a change, do you?”
“No, just a touch up, maybe a small trim, only the ends, and a blow dry. Clint, I really could wait.”
“I heard there’s a truck stop at the next exit where I can use a computer. Be back in a couple of hours. That about right, Miss Franny?”
The hairdresser nodded. “You bet. I know what to do.”
The man had done more than call ahead. He’d left instructions and promised double the usual fee if she did as he asked. Wasn’t like this redheaded woman was one of her regular clients. After today, the two drifters would be gone, and business had been real slow lately what with people cutting back on luxuries like a good cut and curl.
Clint patted Renee’s hand as Miss Franny covered her with a pink plastic cape and lowered her head into the washbowl. Then, he ran.
“Let’s see.” Miss Franny consulted a chart with little tufts of colored hair sticking to it.
“That one.” Renee stabbed a finger at a bright red strand on one end of the chart. “I don’t suppose this place does a bikini wax?”
“You couldn’t pay me enough to fool with a woman’s privates. That’s why all those kind of salons hire foreigners. It ain’t American to mess with yourself down there.”
Having firmly stated her
“Okay, sit there for a minute while I pay for the gas.”
He went into the station with the inevitable sandwich shop attached, paid for the fuel, and picked up two club sandwiches for lunch. He asked the two sandwich assemblers, teen-aged girls, if the town had a beauty shop. They rolled their eyes. Their moms went to Miss Franny’s Hair Affair next to the local insurance agency office. Clearly, they wouldn’t be caught dead there even on the day of the prom. Sounded good to Clint.
He got the number and called ahead while the giggling sandwich specialists finished his order. Slinging the sack of subs over his arm, Clint picked up his cold drinks, an unsweetened iced tea for Renee and a full octane Coke for himself, and went out to deliver the goods news.
Renee had moved her spreading behind to a picnic table stationed under some dusty shade trees. Sullen for the first time in weeks, she picked through her sandwich, determined to find fault with it. The trouble was they had been together so long now he had gotten her order one-hundred percent right. No mustard, mayonnaise, onions, or jalapenos, but all the rest of the veggies dressed with oil and vinegar. If she had been the one ordering, she knew he’d want the works plus extra jalapenos. They were becoming like some old married couple. Renee shoved her bag of chips, the only thing she could find to gripe about, at Clint when he finished his corn chips.
“I can’t afford the calories. I’m too fat.”
Clint sidestepped that one. “Hey, Tiger, we are in luck. There’s a beauty shop right down the street, and I am going to treat you to an afternoon at Miss Franny’s Hair Affair. How about that?”
Renee’s mouth dropped open. She clamped her lips shut again and mumbled, “I can wait until we get to Cheyenne.”
“Nope, I can tell you are unhappy. I want to fix that right now. Finish up. Miss Franny is waiting for you. I called ahead. It’s so close we can walk off those chips.”
With the tar bubbles in the deserted road bursting beneath their feet, Clint marched her down the main street until they came to a sign with an eighteenth century lady, hair piled high in silhouette and the words in lurid pink, The Hair Affair.
Full of dread, Renee entered the small shop. The place had only two dryers, two chairs, and one wash bowl. Miss Franny, her hair up in rollers, her chosen tint an I Love Lucy shade of red, greeted her warmly.
“It’s been slow today, so I worked on myself. We can go under the dryers together,” the hairdresser said, friendly as could be. She wore a smock covered with printed pups and kitties over her dumpy body and rocked back and forth on her white SAS shoes as she sized Renee up. “Need a change, do you?”
“No, just a touch up, maybe a small trim, only the ends, and a blow dry. Clint, I really could wait.”
“I heard there’s a truck stop at the next exit where I can use a computer. Be back in a couple of hours. That about right, Miss Franny?”
The hairdresser nodded. “You bet. I know what to do.”
The man had done more than call ahead. He’d left instructions and promised double the usual fee if she did as he asked. Wasn’t like this redheaded woman was one of her regular clients. After today, the two drifters would be gone, and business had been real slow lately what with people cutting back on luxuries like a good cut and curl.
Clint patted Renee’s hand as Miss Franny covered her with a pink plastic cape and lowered her head into the washbowl. Then, he ran.
“Let’s see.” Miss Franny consulted a chart with little tufts of colored hair sticking to it.
“That one.” Renee stabbed a finger at a bright red strand on one end of the chart. “I don’t suppose this place does a bikini wax?”
“You couldn’t pay me enough to fool with a woman’s privates. That’s why all those kind of salons hire foreigners. It ain’t American to mess with yourself down there.”
Having firmly stated her
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