clientele.
The first thing I noticed after making my way inside was the absence of hair salon stench. Most of the hair places I frequent have a nose burning perm odor that hangs in the air like smoke in a bar; that is, when smoking was allowed in bars. I was actually disappointed that there wasn’t some sort of odor to cover up the wet dog odor of my mother’s wool suit. I had got drenched walking from the car to the door.
I had only been standing in the entryway for two seconds before I was greeted by a real-life version of a Barbie doll. She approached me with a pen and clipboard in hand.
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” she asked.
I almost said no, but then deciding to seize the opportunity, I simply shrugged.
“You’re fifteen minutes late, but Reggie says he can still take you.” She appeared more than a little flustered as she frantically crossed my name, oops, I mean Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s name off her list.
As I followed Barbie down the hall, I gazed enviously at her long legs, tiny waist, ample bust line and flawless skin. I resisted the temptation to reach out and see if she was real flesh and bones or made out of plastic. Perhaps someone had finally invented a life-size doll that could move and talk. I wondered if her knees popped when she bent them to sit down.
Barbie parked me inside room number four and left quickly. I glanced around. It was definitely more posh than the place in the mall where I get my hair cut, but then again, I never spend more than fifteen bucks on my hair-do.
This room was equipped with the usual chair and sink, stack of white towels, a tray of combs and scissors, blow dryers, and curling irons. There was also a small flat panel TV, several fresh floral bouquets, and a table set up with refreshments, which I helped myself to.
I had just start ed nibbling on my second fruit kabob when the door flew open and a tiny, black robed man scurried into the room. “Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” he said in a slightly overdone French accent. Then he stopped short upon seeing me, “You’re not Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
My identity didn’t seem to bother him.
“Your hair,” he said, squinting at my head.
I patted my up-do. “Like it? I did it myself. It took quite a bit of work, but …”
“Ah, yes.” He reached out to touch my hair. I ducked. He said, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It looks like a beehive on fire.” His eyes widened in awe. I could tell he was impressed with my capabilities.
“Well. The color is straight from God, himself. No bottle involved here,” I bragged.
We stood in silence for a second, while he continued to study my tresses and I waited for another compliment. When none came, I decided to get on with business. Besides, who knew how long it would be before the real Mrs. Fitzpatrick showed up? “Let me introduce myself. My name is Patricia Owens, private investigator.” I really needed to brainstorm some new aliases. “I’ve been hired to look into the murder of one of your clients, Amanda Schmidt. Do you have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions?”
“Questions? What type of questions?” he asked, still fingering my hair.
I brushed his hand aside. “I need to know some things about her personal life.”
“I have a strict policy not to discuss my client’s personal matters. You should know that everything that goes into my ears is privileged.” He was still gazing at my hair.
“Yes, I understand exactly what you’re saying. It’s just that, well … Amanda didn’t deserve what happened to her. You did hear how she was killed, didn’t you?” I inched backwards, trying to remain out of his reach.
“Yes, awful,” he answered absently as all his focus was honed in on my beehive.
“It’s such a shame. She was so beautiful. To think that someone bludgeoned her to death. I hear the crime scene was a mess,” I said abruptly, hoping to bring his attention away from my hair and back to the
The first thing I noticed after making my way inside was the absence of hair salon stench. Most of the hair places I frequent have a nose burning perm odor that hangs in the air like smoke in a bar; that is, when smoking was allowed in bars. I was actually disappointed that there wasn’t some sort of odor to cover up the wet dog odor of my mother’s wool suit. I had got drenched walking from the car to the door.
I had only been standing in the entryway for two seconds before I was greeted by a real-life version of a Barbie doll. She approached me with a pen and clipboard in hand.
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” she asked.
I almost said no, but then deciding to seize the opportunity, I simply shrugged.
“You’re fifteen minutes late, but Reggie says he can still take you.” She appeared more than a little flustered as she frantically crossed my name, oops, I mean Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s name off her list.
As I followed Barbie down the hall, I gazed enviously at her long legs, tiny waist, ample bust line and flawless skin. I resisted the temptation to reach out and see if she was real flesh and bones or made out of plastic. Perhaps someone had finally invented a life-size doll that could move and talk. I wondered if her knees popped when she bent them to sit down.
Barbie parked me inside room number four and left quickly. I glanced around. It was definitely more posh than the place in the mall where I get my hair cut, but then again, I never spend more than fifteen bucks on my hair-do.
This room was equipped with the usual chair and sink, stack of white towels, a tray of combs and scissors, blow dryers, and curling irons. There was also a small flat panel TV, several fresh floral bouquets, and a table set up with refreshments, which I helped myself to.
I had just start ed nibbling on my second fruit kabob when the door flew open and a tiny, black robed man scurried into the room. “Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” he said in a slightly overdone French accent. Then he stopped short upon seeing me, “You’re not Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
My identity didn’t seem to bother him.
“Your hair,” he said, squinting at my head.
I patted my up-do. “Like it? I did it myself. It took quite a bit of work, but …”
“Ah, yes.” He reached out to touch my hair. I ducked. He said, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It looks like a beehive on fire.” His eyes widened in awe. I could tell he was impressed with my capabilities.
“Well. The color is straight from God, himself. No bottle involved here,” I bragged.
We stood in silence for a second, while he continued to study my tresses and I waited for another compliment. When none came, I decided to get on with business. Besides, who knew how long it would be before the real Mrs. Fitzpatrick showed up? “Let me introduce myself. My name is Patricia Owens, private investigator.” I really needed to brainstorm some new aliases. “I’ve been hired to look into the murder of one of your clients, Amanda Schmidt. Do you have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions?”
“Questions? What type of questions?” he asked, still fingering my hair.
I brushed his hand aside. “I need to know some things about her personal life.”
“I have a strict policy not to discuss my client’s personal matters. You should know that everything that goes into my ears is privileged.” He was still gazing at my hair.
“Yes, I understand exactly what you’re saying. It’s just that, well … Amanda didn’t deserve what happened to her. You did hear how she was killed, didn’t you?” I inched backwards, trying to remain out of his reach.
“Yes, awful,” he answered absently as all his focus was honed in on my beehive.
“It’s such a shame. She was so beautiful. To think that someone bludgeoned her to death. I hear the crime scene was a mess,” I said abruptly, hoping to bring his attention away from my hair and back to the
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