Eden Hill by Bill Higgs Page A

woman under the dryer in the hallway. Gladys would only say they were happier apart than they were together. That fact never quite showed in her face, but then again, few things did behind two coats of foundation.
    Actually, Gladys always said that George had been the reason she was a beauty operator in the first place. And she told the story often. His job at the power plant had him away for long hours and left her looking for something to do. She’d taken a job in Quincy for a few weeks, but the long drive and the work at the five-and-dime didn’t suit her. She’d found a sixteen-week correspondence course from Mr. Timothy’s School of Hair Styling in Hollywood and signed up. Soon thereafter, she’d ordered the advanced course, which taught her how to do coloring and permanents, and came with tinfoil, rollers, and, when she graduated, an elegant embossed diploma.
    Gladys opened the Glamour Nook, and most of the women of Eden Hill had become her customers. She was open on Fridays, and sold Avon and Tupperware the rest ofthe week, but on slow days she would look over her latest lessons. Mr. Timothy had just opened a school of cosmetology, she’d said, and as a preferred customer , Gladys was eligible for his introductory offer. Soon she would offer manicures and pedicures along with the usual gossip. Mavine couldn’t wait   —her nails were a wreck.
    Not surprisingly, Eden Hill’s newest residents were the topic of conversation.
    “I hear she’s in the . . . family way, and due real soon,” Gladys was saying to Lula Mae while unbraiding Darlene’s pigtails. “Anna Belle, you and Grover might want to stock up on diapers and pins.”
    “It’s no surprise at all.” Lula Mae hovered over the beauty chair, approving the beautician’s handiwork. “You know how the kids are these days, listening to Elvis and all that electric guitar music. Reverend Caudill says it makes you lose all your virtues. I won’t let Frank listen to the radio anymore.”
    Gladys fumbled and nearly dropped the scissors onto the floor. “My husband, Tom, says her husband, Cornelius   —I think that’s his name   —seems like a decent fellow. Met him at the courthouse when he came by to fill out his tax registration. Supposed to start building soon, he says.” She removed the smock from Darlene and brushed the clippings from the girl’s neck.
    “Well, I suppose the deputy sheriff ought to know. Thanks for fitting us in, Gladys. I never could cut her pigtails straight. Afternoon, Mavine. You too, Alma.” Lula Mae handed Gladys a couple of bills from her purse, then pulled her coat over her shoulders. “See you all next time!”
    Gladys brushed off the chair by the shampoo bowl, readying the space for two of her most loyal customers.
    Before long, both women were styled and curled. Mavine was still sitting under the dryer, and Gladys had teased her friend’s silver hair into a flattering style. Mavine had picked up the latest Pageant and was reading it when the dryer shut off.
    “Mavine, let’s get you brushed out and ready to go.” Gladys helped her climb into the chair. “Doesn’t Alma look beautiful?”
    Mavine returned Alma’s smile. “Indeed, she does.” Soon Mavine was finished, and smiling into the mirror herself. “You’ve done a wonderful job on both of us.”
    “Thank you. I’ll see you both in two weeks. Mavine, you can take the new Pageant with you if you’d like.”
    “No, thank you,” said Alma, taking the magazine from Mavine’s hands, tossing it onto the table, and ushering the younger woman to the door.
    “Mavine, you certainly don’t need another of those magazines.” Alma fitted her scarf carefully around her fresh hairdo. “I suppose I’ll walk on home from here. Thank you for the lunch invitation.”
    Mavine demurred. “It was your pot roast, Alma. I should be thanking you.”
    “Oh, it’s my pleasure. And just send the dish home with Welby anytime next week.”
    “I’ll do that.