“Weren't you driving a Jeep last time I gave you a new tire?”
“The Jeep got stolen.”
“You ever think about using public transportation?”
“What happened to the screwdriver?”
“I put it in your trunk. Never know when you need a screwdriver.”
Clara's Beauty Parlor was three blocks down Hamilton, next to Buckets of Donuts. I found a parking space, gritted my teeth, held my breath, and backed the Buick in at warp speed. Better to get it over with. I knew I was close when I heard glass breaking.
I slunk out of the Buick and assessed the damage. None to the Buick. Broken headlight on the other guy's car. I left a note with insurance information and made for Clara's.
Bars, funeral homes, bakeries, and beauty parlors form the hub of the wheel that spins the burg. Beauty parlors are especially important because the burg is an equal-opportunity neighborhood caught in a 1950s time warp. The translation of this is that girls in the burg become obsessed with hair at a very early age. The hell with coed peewee football. If you're a little girl in the burg you spend your time combing out Barbie's hair. Barbie sets the standard. Big gunky black eyelashes, electric-blue eye shadow, pointy outthrust breasts, and a lot of platinum-blond phony-looking hair. This is what we all aspire to. Barbie even teaches us how to dress. Tight glittery dresses, skimpy shorts, an occasional feather boa, and, of course, spike heels with everything. Not that Barbie doesn't have more to offer, but little girls in the burg know better than to get sucked in by yuppie Barbie. They don't buy into any of that tasteful sportswear, professional business suit stuff. Little girls in the burg go for the glamour.
The way I see it is, we're so far behind we're actually ahead of the rest of the country. We never had to go through any of that messy readjustment with roles stuff. You are who you want to be in the burg. It's never been men against women. In the burg it's always been weak against strong.
When I was a little girl I got my bangs cut at Clara's. She set my hair for my first communion and for my high school graduation. Now I go to the mall to get my hair trimmed by Mr. Alexander, but I still go to Clara sometimes to get my nails done.
The beauty parlor is in a converted house that was gutted to form one large room with a bathroom at the rear. There are a few chrome-and-upholstered chairs in the front where you can wait your turn and read dog-eared magazines or flip through hairdressing books showing styles no one can duplicate. Beyond the waiting area the washing bowls face off with the comb-out chairs. Just in front of the bathroom is a small manicure station. Posters showing more exotic, unobtainable hairstyles line the walls and reflect in the bank of mirrors.
Heads swiveled under dryers when I walked in.
Under the third dryer from the rear was my archenemy, Joyce Barnhardt. When I was in the second grade Joyce Barnhardt spilled a paper cup filled with water onto the back of my chair and told everyone I'd wet my pants. Twenty years later I'd caught her flagrante delicto on my dining room table, riding my husband like he was Dickie the Wonder Horse.
“Hello, Joyce,” I said. “Long time no see.”
“Stephanie. How's it going?”
“Pretty good.”
“I understand you lost your job selling undies.”
“I didn't sell undies.” Bitch. “I was the lingerie buyer for E.E. Martin, and I lost my job when they consolidated with Baldicott.”
“You always did have a problem with undies. Remember when you wet your pants in the second grade?”
If I'd been wearing a blood pressure cuff it would have popped off my arm. I punched the hood back on the dryer and got so far in her face our noses were touching. “You know what I do for a living now, Joyce? I'm a bounty hunter, and I carry a gun, so don't piss me off.”
“Everybody in New Jersey carries a gun,” Joyce said. She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a 9-mm Beretta.
This was embarrassing because not only didn't I have my gun with me, but my gun was smaller.
Bertie Greenstein was under the dryer next to Joyce. “I like a forty-five,” Bertie Greenstein said, hauling a Colt government model out of her tote bag.
“Too much kick,” Betty Kuchta told Bertie from across the room. “And it takes up too much room in your pocketbook. You're better off with a thirty-eight. That's what I carry now. A thirty-eight.”
“I carry a thirty-eight,” Clara said. “I used to carry a forty-five but I got bursitis from the weight, so my doctor said to switch to a lighter gun. I carry pepper spray, too.”
Everyone but old Mrs. Rizzoli, who was getting a perm, had pepper spray.
Betty Kuchta waved a stun gun in the air. “I've got one of these, too.”
“Kiddie toy,” Joyce said, brandishing a taser.
Nobody could one-up the taser.
“So, what'll it be?” Clara asked me. “Manicure? I just got in some new polish. Luscious Mango.”