A quick sketch story by Julie Prescesky

Clearly Hannah had not read the package properly. Surely she could not have been going for Ronald McDonald red. Poor thing. Look at her trying to smooth that mop down. She probably used a henna. Another victim.

Henna was gaining steam in our beautiful sloping valley town of Highburn. It was showing up in prominent places on pharmacy store shelves. Somebody should put a big sign disclaimer with this stuff. Will make you look like a clown. Not for DIY. But, I guess that wouldn’t help sales much, so fat chance of that happening. I guess it’s my job to educate the masses. Danna Rosanna Fishborn, hair rehabilitator. So what? I’m twelve. I’ve got this. I’ve been fixin’ hair since about as long as I can remember. Mamma owns a salon, and that’s pretty much where I grew up. Mamma’s pretty much steered clear of henna applications at the salon. She says you can’t trust that natural stuff, especially if you’ve gone chemical before. And by all accounts, seeing what I see day in and day out on the streets of Highburn, I don’t disagree with her.

Hannah seems not to be doing much except fighting with her bicycle, though I seriously feel with that hair color she could get by with a unicycle. Or stilts.

“Hannah!” Would that girl just look at me. “Hannah-girl, over here!”

Finally her head pops up, orange-red locks whipping around like somebody is squirting a bottle of ketchup. She sees me and flushes. I motion for her to come over, and I meet her half way.

“Hey Danna! Wha’dya think of my new hair? Freaky cool, right?”

Well, sure, I can’t lie outrightly to my best friend. I nod enthusiastically instead. Close up, her hair looks so dry and dull conjuring up images of my old Raggedy Ann doll.

“Hey, I have an idea and I need you to help me sell it to my mamma.”

Hannah looks cautiously at me and pulls at a lock of her hair. “Really?”

“Yeah, will you come?” I tug on her hand and pull her along with me. “It won’t take long, I‘m sure.”

“I guess.” She shrugs and falls in step beside me. “She’s gonna make me change it, isn’t she?”

“Nah.” I say, knowing full well my mother is going to have to bite her tongue so hard she’ll need to bandage it.

Hannah and I have known each other most of our lives. Since we were four, anyway. We were at a park and mamma told me to share my Cheeto’s with her, so I threw them at her and ran away. She brought them back to me and we’ve been friends ever since. She laughs at me now when I try and tell her I was just too shy to be polite back then, because now, that is so not a problem for me. If anything, I need to reel it in a little, or so mamma says.

“Mamma.” I call out as we walk in through the shop doors. She tips her head up from concentrating on a wet head in the sink and smiles at me. Her eyes widen dramatically when she sees Hannah.

“The henna found you?” she says.

Hannah and I nod in unison. Hannah, looking apprehensive.

Mamma wraps a towel around Mrs. Winter’s head and comes to inspect Hannah’s red mop. “You happy with the color, dear?”

Hannah looks at me like her coach in the ring. “I think so.” She says.

“Okay, super. We’ll just help shine it up a bit. How ‘bout it?” Mamma is always so generous. She looks at me sideways like she knows she is rescuing this girl from her own ignorance and gently guides Hannah to a chair. “Shirley, can you start prepping for Mrs. Winter’s highlights? I’ll be right there in a minute.” Shirley nods and places the broom against the wall and helps Mrs. Winter to her salon chair.

“We are gonna give you a hot oil treatment. Any product in your hair now?”

Hannah shakes her head. “Just as God intended, ma’am.” And then she flushes. “Plus the henna.”

Mamma expertly partitions off Hanna’s hair and starts applying oil with a flat brush to small sections beginning at the bottom and working her way up. Once every section is lathered in oil she puts a plastic cap over Hannah’s head and sends her to sit under one of the dryers.

I sit next to her with a stack of hair magazines. The gentle hum of the dryer chairs happens to be one of the absolute best sounds in the world. Combined with the warmth coming from the hoods, it makes me feel like I’m incubating under the wing of bird in springtime sunshine.

I can hear Mamma chatting with Mrs. Winter. She’s warning her on the dangers of henna. I turn to Hannah. “Hey, so this Henna thing is really picking up steam, isn’t it?

Hanna ducks out from under the dryer. “What’s that? This thing’s loud. I feel like I’m in a space ship.”

I smile, “You want to help me out with something?”

“Always,” She winks.

“Really? Great. I want to start a business,” I lean toward her. “Danna’s Hair.” I run my hand through the air like I’m reading a sign.

Hannah chuckled. “Well sure you do. What do you need my help with?”

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“I want to focus on Henna. How to do it and not regret it, I mean.” I look cautiously at her. “Like you!” I brighten and straighten my back enthusiastically.

“Like me?”

“Of course. I mean, it’s a bit bright for my liking, but I just know the color will deepen in a day or two. Plus, once Mamma’s done with you, you’ll look like a movie star.”

The look on her face moves from apprehensive to just plain sad. “You mean, you don’t like it now?”

“I never said that. I just mean that it wouldn’t suit me. But on you … just wait ‘til Mamma’s worked her magic. You’ll see.”

Hannah tucks her head back under the dryer and looks lost in thought. I sure hope I didn’t hurt her feelings. I pat her hand twice and stand up to approach Mamma.

She doesn’t like to be interrupted mid client, but since I had already done that once today, what the heck.

“So, Mamma, sorry to butt in here, but I wonder if I could talk to you about something.”

Mamma looks over her shoulder at Hannah. “Is there something wrong, honey?”

“No, actually, I have a business idea.”

“Really.” She smiles and returns back to painting foils into Mrs. White’s hair. “Go on. Tell me.”

“Okay, well, I’ve been noticing the henna epidemic. It’s everywhere. It’s infiltrating my school. I mean, poor Hannah.” I gesture toward her. “But you, a professional, know a thing or two about henna and how to handle it.”

Mamma, holding a section of Mrs. White’s hair between two fingers, stops mid foil and looks at me. “I am no henna professional, hun. It’s a whole other ballgame than what I’ve got going on here.”

“Maev Brillough, poor thing, actually had some of her hair melt. Something to do with a chemical reaction from her previous non-henna treatment.” Mrs. White chimed in.

“That’s right. Maev came to me just after and I had a doozy of a job to fix her up right.” Mamma paused in a moment of silence for Maev’s hair. “Henna is uncharted territory here, darlin’. Half this town has had chemical treatments and they just don’t yet understand the horror henna can rain on them.

The salon door swung open.

It was Rolland.

Mamma sighs emphatically every time she sees him coming. I’ve started sighing too.

“Hello Rolland.” Mamma didn’t even look up from the foils in her hand. “What do you want now?”

“Well, I’m just here to collect what’s mine, is all.”

“Oh, that’s rich, Rolland. Just what do you think is yours?

“Darlin’, let’s start with half of this salon.” He reaches into his back pocket, winks at me and hands my mom some papers.

She takes her gloves off and looks at the papers a long while before reaching out and taking them. “I threw you out.”

“Yeah, and now I want what’s legally mine.” His smile is like a slug curling slowly upward after it was sprinkled with salt. “Have a nice day, ladies.” He tips his hat to us and leaves.

“Mamma, what is it?”

Her face looks hot as she folds the papers up and rams them in her apron pocket, shakes her head as though to clear her mind and says, “Make nothing of it baby.” She reaches for some fresh gloves and pulls them over her hands. “Now, where were we …” She grabs a section of hair and paints the bleach over it, wraps it in foil and moves to the next section. Mrs. White’s lips are pressed so tightly shut I can just tell she is bursting to give her well-meaning advice. But Mamma makes eye contact with her through the mirror and somehow Mrs. White keeps her mouth shut.

I decide not to ask Mamma if she’s okay. I can tell she is not.

I wander over to Hannah and plunk down in the chair next to her. She looks at me and I shrug. I pull the dryer down over my head and turn the machine on low, just enough warmth and sound to drown out the sick feeling mounding in my stomach.