“I’m sure it’s trendy somewhere, très bien.” She drops her hands and tilts her head to one side. “I can recommend a good stylist.”
She’s also the woman who recommended the shoe sale at Boots ’N’ Roots. I thank her, but I’ll find my own. Someone who works in an actual salon. Someone who knows how to cut thick curly hair without butchering it. Someone who can get me in asap, but that’s the problem. Four-star salons are booked solid for months in advance, and I officially start to freak out. No one will book Lou Ann Hunter, but Lou Ann Hunter has an ace up her sleeve. I call my assistant in Seattle and have her book an appointment in New Orleans for Lulu the Love Guru and special guest Lindsey Benedict. Lindsey has to drive to make sure I don’t get lost, and she’s the only person I know who needs her hair cut more than I do.
I don’t like to use Lulu to get special treatment, but this is an emergency, and the owner of Shear Masters in the New Orleans Warehouse District gets us in after the salon has closed for the night. His name is Fabian LaFleur and he is a shears master. He corrects the length and thins the volume until soft messy curls fall to my jawline. It’s a nice change and I like it a lot—but there’s a reason I always wore it long and braided.
“When did your hair get so curly like that?” Mom calls out, her voice vibrating and arms jiggling from the plush massage chair where she sits attempting to drink tea.
“For as long as I can remember.” I glance up into the mirror. “Sorry,” I say, and Fabian continues to tell me how to keep my hair from looking like I stuck my finger in a light socket. By the time the three of us head home, my hair looks fabulous. Lindsey’s hair is short and sassy, and she can’t quit touching it or looking at herself in the rearview mirror. Even Mom got into the act and let Fabian trim several inches from her hair.
We’re exhausted, especially Mom, and I don’t think she snores all night. If she does, it doesn’t matter, because I don’t crack my eyes open until ten the next morning.
I can’t believe I slept so late and jump into the pink tub for a quick bath. The water remains hot and rust-free, and it cost me only eleven grand. I was told I’m lucky because it could have been a lot worse. If the pipes throughout the house had needed to be replaced, I would’ve had to add an extra zero to the final invoice. Which reminds me, the electrician’s bill came yesterday, but I’m afraid to open it.
From the top of the steps, I can hear Simon’s deep voice and deeper laughter. The last time I saw him, he told me to learn to zigzag and that instant grits aren’t grits. Which I still think is ridiculous, but my Alzheimer’s mom can tell the difference. It must be a Southern thing.
There’s a different energy with Simon here, and I can feel it as I walk downstairs. It’s more than just his being a man. I had electricians and plumbers all over the house for several weeks, but it never felt like we were being exposed to alarming levels of testosterone.
“How were your grits?” he asks Mom as I enter the room.
“Horrible. They were instant.” She pretends to spit before she adds, “I about choked to death on those lumps.”
“Simon’s come to take his bird back home,” Lindsey tells me.
“I never said that. I’m just…” Simon glances my way and stops in mid-sentence. Raphael is perched on his finger and the two stare at me without blinking.
They stand in front of the fireplace, Simon in a tight black T-shirt like he’s got something to prove, and the bird in a bright pink sweater like he got dressed in the dark. Raphael is the first to react and he bobs his head as if he approves of my hair and dark-red lips.
I walk across the room and take a closer look at the trendy bird. “Is Lindsey right? Are you here to take your bird home with you?”
“Mais no, tee Lou.” Simon’s gaze slides across my hair, stopping here and moving there. “I’m just here to give an estimate on the rail and