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She points to the mesh in back. “How does that part look?”

It could be worse; she could be wearing a bikini. “I think Monique is right. It’s on trend and you look fabulous. Très bien.”

“Good. I could use a swimsuit.”

I want to ask why, but I don’t. At least it’ll match her cheetah shower cap.

“You’re not goin’a believe dis.” Monique shoves a stack of shorts through the curtain. “I just got dese in.”

She’s right. I don’t believe it.

“God provides.”

I seriously doubt God’s in on Monique’s hustle. The only difference between the shorts I’m wearing and the three pairs she’s handed me is that each is a darker shade of denim.

The last things Monique shoves our way are T-shirts with a dancing crawfish and the words “I’m Cray Cray” on the front. I take one look at Mom and she at me in our matching shirts and we crack up. I laugh at her and she laughs at me, and we manage to get dressed without losing it only by not looking at each other.

Monique waits for us at the register, two stacks of clothes beside her. The size of the stacks reminds me that, while I like to support small-business owners,

I’m clearly being hustled.

“This has been so much fun.” Mom adds the crawfish shirts to the pile. “I love everything you recommended for me.”

“Merci bien.” I hand over my Visa before Monique can think to shove a preserved alligator head at Mom.

“Goodness gracious! I thought you looked familiar.” Monique looks up from my business credit card. “My sister read your book and got herself a man. Of course, he wasn’t wort’ a darn.”

“That happens.”

“My daughter is Lulu the Love Guru, and she’s a big deal,” Mom says, as if she just remembers my life beyond the confines of her world. She lifts her chin with pride and adds, “She’s very smart. You better believe that.”

“Ahh, thanks, Mom.” The backs of my eyes pinch and I blink back tears. Bragging is Mom’s way of letting me know she’s proud of me. I don’t need her to say the exact words.

“She makes lots and lots of money and got the plumbing fixed so I can have my bathroom back.”

“I never had anybody famous in here before. Well, except for if you count da wife of a Jerry Lee Lewis impersonator.”

Mom gasps and clutches at her heart. “Breathless,” she whispers. “I loved Jerry Lee in the worst way.”

Monique hands me back my card. “Nancy’s havin’ a big shoe sale at da Boots ’N’ Roots next door. You don’ wanna miss dat.”

Noooo, my mind screams.

“Okay,” Mom says, and a half hour later, we are the proud owners of Saints cowboy boots. Mom’s are red and mine are turquoise. I don’t know if either of us will have occasion to wear “Who Dat” boots, but it could be worse. Mom could have thrown a fit over a pair of acrylic slides she’d been eyeing.

The checkout counter is near the back of the store, which is an odd place to put it until you notice the empty salon chair sitting next to a woman getting her feet sanded at a pedicure station. Thus, Boots ’N’ Roots. Two seemingly incongruous businesses in one building. Like a grocer selling ponies, but I have to give Nancy credit for her entrepreneurial drive. “You cut hair, too?”

“We’re a full-service salon,” she says, and I hand her a personal credit card this time. “You needin’ a shampoo and set?”

If Nancy’s hair is any indication, she’s a shampoo-and-set master craftswoman for the seventy-and-older crowd. Mom will never sit still long enough for what Nancy might have in mind.

“Cut ’n’ color?”

Nice try.

“Do you have one of those hair books with pictures?”

Shocked, I look at Mom standing next to me. “You want your hair cut?”


Tags: Rachel Gibson Fiction