taken a pledge toremain celibate. So far, as a strategy, it wasn’t much fun but it was a whole lot less drama.
“Babe, relax,” he said as he kissed my throat. “This isn’t work. Or school. There isn’t going to be a grade or a quiz. This is just for you, sweetheart. Just for you. A reward you’ve earned by being luscious. Let a master lead the way.”
Boy. He played me like a fiddle. That man’s fingers were magic, and his voice had a low rumble that called to a portion deep inside me, a place I never knew existed. I mean, Hank and I’d been pretty hot and heavy before we married, but my husband had been a selfish lover, a man who concentrated on himself and his needs only.
Wynn took pleasure in seeing me melt. And I craved reassurance that a man found me desirable. While I’d never admit it out loud, I wondered if I wasn’t woman enough to keep a man’s interest, and if somehow Hank’s cheating had really been my fault. I felt like a phony—working all day to make other women more attractive, but feeling that I couldn’t do the same for myself.
Even though it had been a while, I felt warm and gushy all over when I thought back on our brief liaison. During the workday, Wynn and I were great together, considering a client’s needs, discussing styles and products, reveling over the outcome of our joint efforts. At night and in stolen moments, we were passionate lovers.
His betrayal totally blindsided me. It had been a sunny, beautiful June day. I walked into the salon for the start of my shift, and immediately, I knew something was up. Usually in that half hour before opening, the shop hummed with activity, a happy buzz that said everything was going right. On this day, the place seemed unnaturally silent. No one looked up as I walked past. No one called out happy greetings.
My station was tucked in the back. To get there, youtook a twisting, turning path between other stations. Every stylist added touches to make the four-foot square space his or her own. Because we spent so much time there, the stations began to feel like “home.”
Today, as I approached my station, everyone went silent. I could tell something was amiss, and I spotted the reason right away. A small stack of magazine pages rested on the seat of my styling chair. A sticky note bore a scrawled message in ink: FYI .
The slick pages had been stapled together, starting with the cover sheet: “Hair TODAY.” Flipping the stack open, I saw a four-page color article featuring picture after picture of my best, most creative work. Accompanying the photos were accolades like “innovative, flattering, and sophisticated.” I grinned from ear to ear as I gazed on my work with wonder and joy. Wow! Wouldn’t Mom be thrilled? I couldn’t wait to share it with her. Excited by the attention, I scanned the copy for my name.
I looked at page one, page two, page three…and on to the end. That’s when reality set in. Nowhere, not anywhere, in that long article was I mentioned by name. Nowhere. The piece was about Wynn Goodman, the hot young talent in the hair industry. The positioning of the photos, the cutlines underneath, all touted the images as Wynn’s work.
But it had to be a mistake!
I read every word, every line once, twice more.
My first impulse was to call my mother. But I quickly got over that.
No way could I call her!
She had learned her craft the hard way, being totally self-taught. She cobbled together an education, struggling to open her own shop after my dad died and left her with two young daughters. Attending a beauty school in Atlanta would have been a dream come true to her. Working atSassoon was a situation beyond her wildest fantasies. Every week she called and asked how things were going—and she was pleased as punch when I told her how much I was enjoying myself.
If I told her about this disappointment, it would burst her bubble. Mom wanted to believe that everyone in the beauty industry was as gorgeous on the inside
“Babe, relax,” he said as he kissed my throat. “This isn’t work. Or school. There isn’t going to be a grade or a quiz. This is just for you, sweetheart. Just for you. A reward you’ve earned by being luscious. Let a master lead the way.”
Boy. He played me like a fiddle. That man’s fingers were magic, and his voice had a low rumble that called to a portion deep inside me, a place I never knew existed. I mean, Hank and I’d been pretty hot and heavy before we married, but my husband had been a selfish lover, a man who concentrated on himself and his needs only.
Wynn took pleasure in seeing me melt. And I craved reassurance that a man found me desirable. While I’d never admit it out loud, I wondered if I wasn’t woman enough to keep a man’s interest, and if somehow Hank’s cheating had really been my fault. I felt like a phony—working all day to make other women more attractive, but feeling that I couldn’t do the same for myself.
Even though it had been a while, I felt warm and gushy all over when I thought back on our brief liaison. During the workday, Wynn and I were great together, considering a client’s needs, discussing styles and products, reveling over the outcome of our joint efforts. At night and in stolen moments, we were passionate lovers.
His betrayal totally blindsided me. It had been a sunny, beautiful June day. I walked into the salon for the start of my shift, and immediately, I knew something was up. Usually in that half hour before opening, the shop hummed with activity, a happy buzz that said everything was going right. On this day, the place seemed unnaturally silent. No one looked up as I walked past. No one called out happy greetings.
My station was tucked in the back. To get there, youtook a twisting, turning path between other stations. Every stylist added touches to make the four-foot square space his or her own. Because we spent so much time there, the stations began to feel like “home.”
Today, as I approached my station, everyone went silent. I could tell something was amiss, and I spotted the reason right away. A small stack of magazine pages rested on the seat of my styling chair. A sticky note bore a scrawled message in ink: FYI .
The slick pages had been stapled together, starting with the cover sheet: “Hair TODAY.” Flipping the stack open, I saw a four-page color article featuring picture after picture of my best, most creative work. Accompanying the photos were accolades like “innovative, flattering, and sophisticated.” I grinned from ear to ear as I gazed on my work with wonder and joy. Wow! Wouldn’t Mom be thrilled? I couldn’t wait to share it with her. Excited by the attention, I scanned the copy for my name.
I looked at page one, page two, page three…and on to the end. That’s when reality set in. Nowhere, not anywhere, in that long article was I mentioned by name. Nowhere. The piece was about Wynn Goodman, the hot young talent in the hair industry. The positioning of the photos, the cutlines underneath, all touted the images as Wynn’s work.
But it had to be a mistake!
I read every word, every line once, twice more.
My first impulse was to call my mother. But I quickly got over that.
No way could I call her!
She had learned her craft the hard way, being totally self-taught. She cobbled together an education, struggling to open her own shop after my dad died and left her with two young daughters. Attending a beauty school in Atlanta would have been a dream come true to her. Working atSassoon was a situation beyond her wildest fantasies. Every week she called and asked how things were going—and she was pleased as punch when I told her how much I was enjoying myself.
If I told her about this disappointment, it would burst her bubble. Mom wanted to believe that everyone in the beauty industry was as gorgeous on the inside
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