In other words, if big hair made you closer to God, Daisy’s hair was touching the Pearly Gates.
And that was the only way Daisy knew how to do hair. So if you weren’t up for the Southern Woman Style, you were screwed. And let’s just say that the vast majority of women in Denver fit in two groups. Those who mountain biked (and not with big hair). And those who drank cosmos (and they might have big hair, but not Daisy big).
Thus no one championed her salon idea.
“And sugar, I need to find a way to spend my days,” she kept going. “The Rock Chicks are petering out. There’s no hands to hold and no need for me to turn my home into a safe house. The other day I noticed my stun gun had a cobweb on it. After I had a word with my cleaning lady, it made me think. And what I think is, I can send an email and an invoice. So we’re teamin’ up.”
“Daisy, honestly, this isn’t a bad idea,” I told her, and her blue eyes lit up. “But I don’t have any clients yet.”
She waved her hand in front of her face, dropped it and leaned in.
“To get clients, you gotta have infrastructure,” she stated authoritatively. “So, that’s why I got Roxie on designin’ your website. And Ava’s mockin’ up a couple ideas for a logo for you. She’s gonna do our business cards and letterhead.”
Our?
“And I’m lookin’ for some office space. Marcus knows some people and I told him to put us in touch with the people he knows. In no time,” she snapped her long-nailed fingers, “we’ll get you set up.”
I decided to focus on the Rock Chicks finding ways to be involved and provide support that would not lead to their Hot Bunch boys losing their minds, and not scary words like “our,” and I smiled at Daisy.
“It’s cool the way you guys are all kicking in, chickie. But I have to have your solemn Rock Chick Vow that, if we do this, you answer phones and send invoices. You don’t get involved and you also help me make certain the other Rock Chicks don’t horn in in a way that’ll make things difficult for me.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Girl, do you honestly think Marcus is gonna let me get myself into a situation where my fat could be in the fryer?” she asked but didn’t let me answer. “No way. One thing, the RC’s findin’ trouble through no fault of their own. Another, lookin’ for it.”
That was a relief.
She moved into me and hooked her arm through mine, starting to guide me out of the W-X-Y-Z’s, stating, “I’m gonna be the best PI receptionist ever. I’m gonna have you so organized, shit’ll get done before you even know it’s happening. I’m gonna kick receptionist ass so good that Lee’s gonna wanna recruit me, because I even file and Shirleen don’t do that shit.”
Something tentatively good just got better. I’d chipped in to help file at Lee’s office once. It wasn’t a fun activity.
We made it to the center aisle when I heard Tex boom, “Ally!”
This was not his usual, “Ally, quit f**king around and help with coffee” Ally.
This was an Ally that made the skin at the back of my neck prickle.
I looked down at Daisy, she looked up at me and we hustled out of the books.
I had no idea what I would find, but someone standing there wearing a bomb vest was a possibility.
But it was Annette, Roxie’s best friend; a Rock Chick by association (thus not getting laid by a Hot Bunch guy; she was getting laid by a guy name Jason who was a vegetarian). She was also the owner of the head shop across the street. And last, she was standing amongst the tables and chairs at the front with five women who were gazing around, faces filled with wonder, lips parted.
As the nuts the Rock Chicks collected go, Annette occupied the upper echelon. Then again, she had a lot of company.
“Get her and those women outta here!” Tex boomed, and I looked in confusion at him then I looked back at Annette and saw that the women with her now had cameras to their faces and they were taking pictures of Tex.
What the f**k?
I moved toward Annette as she called encouragingly to Tex, “Sock it to us, big man! Give them the Rock Chick Experience!”
Again.
What the f**k?
I approached her from the back. “Annette?”
She turned to me, took in both Daisy and me, and cried, “Fuckin’ phat!” She motioned to us and looked at the women with her. “Sistahs, this is Ally Nightingale and Daisy Sloan.”
“Ally,” one of them breathed.