A Dreadful Meow-ment (MEOW FOR MURDER Book 2), стр. 33
Tilly grunts as we watch him make his way inside, “Do you think he’s going to get his nails done? Or maybe he’s going to surprise his girlfriend at work?”
“I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.”
We jump out of Wanda as if she was on fire and hit the entry of the salon at the very same time, inadvertently stagnating in the entry before sling-shotting into the room.
It’s crowded inside. Each nail booth is occupied with women busily chattering away while their nails are painted bright as candy. The strong scent of polish mingles with a vanilla-scented candle burning over the reception counter and the sound of soothing music, inspired by the Far East, filters smoothly from the speakers.
Tilly shoots me a look. “Next time I walk in first.”
“Why do you get to go first?”
“Because I’m the cute single one. You’re the cute taken one, and everyone knows once you’re taken, you might as well be dead.”
“I’m not taken as far as I know. And thank God I’m still on the right side of the soil.”
“Oh, you’re taken.” She gives a vigorous nod just as I spot James being led to a room in the back. “I’ve seen the way Shep looks at you when he thinks nobody is watching. Sexy Wexy is over the moon.”
“Shoot.” I make a face as the door closes behind my suspect. “Wait, does Shep really look at me that way?” I take a moment to soak in the thought, but am quickly interrupted when James ducks out of view. “Never mind Shep. It looks like James will be occupied for who knows how long.”
Tilly and I watch as the door to the back room closes with finality.
“Now what?” I ask as I take a quick look around. “They look pretty busy.”
“Watch and learn.” Tilly motions me to follow her as we come upon an older woman with dark hair cut into a blunt bob. “Two for acrylics, please.”
I shake my head at Tilly. “Acrylics tear up my nails.” I look to the receptionist. “How about a set of gel nails, please? Those seem to work better for me and they feel a bit more natural.”
The woman glances to the calendar in front of her. “No can do. Our nail appointments are booked straight through the day. Would you like to schedule for tomorrow?”
Tilly’s jaw drops as she points to a framed glossy picture of a woman whose eyelashes are standing straight up at attention.
“I want that,” she beams and I lean in to further inspect this eyelash sorcery.
“Eyelash perm?” I squint as I read the words over and over again in my head, because, honestly, that must be a typo.
“That’s right.” The receptionist stands to admire the model who is sporting the electrocuted lashes. “It’s relatively new to the salon, but we’re seeing great success with it.”
Before I can axe this cornea catastrophe in the making, Tilly lands her elbows on the reception counter as if she were doubling down.
“A friend of mine just went into a room in the back,” she whispers. “About how long do you think he’ll be?”
The receptionist glances that way. “The wax room? Typically about twenty minutes.”
Tilly leans in. “And how long does an eyelash perm take?”
The woman shrugs. “About the same.” She looks my way. “We can take you both right now if you like.”
Tilly shrugs my way, and I growl over at her.
“I don’t see a single thing that can go wrong with this.” And yet I’m certain they will.
Tilly and I are shuffled to the back and quickly smacked in the face with glue— silicon slivers that are adhered to our upper eyelids while a small army of women work furiously doing their best to curl our lashes into a chemical oblivion.
When I was a kid, my mother’s sisters used to come over and they’d have what they called a perm party. Each of them helped to land their hair in colorful curlers, and the entire house smelled like an ammonia plant just exploded in the bathroom. My father had a sudden urge to play poker with the boys on those nights, leaving my siblings and me and our poor innocent lungs to fend for ourselves.
However, the stench of the solution emanating from around my eyes doesn’t nearly offend me as much as the thought of permanent blindness does. This eyelash perm has me more than a little on edge.
My mother’s perm nights were pretty much a disaster from the moment they pulled the home boxed kits out of the bag. And it didn’t end until one of them screamed Quick! Yank the curlers before all my hair falls out!
“Tilly?” I hiss her name like a reprimand. “Remind me to veto your next six bright ideas.”
“Relax, Bowie,” she murmurs out of the side of her mouth like a seasoned ventriloquist. “Once you see how awesome your eyelashes are, you’ll be coming back with me month after month.”
“I’m not a convert just yet. But if my vision is still intact by the time we leave, I might consider it. Lord knows I’ve engaged in far more dangerous efforts.”
The women buzzing around like a hive instruct us to relax for twenty minutes while they take off to play eyelash roulette with some other person’s visual field.
I spin around and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and swallow down a scream.
“GAH!” I cry out as I lean in to inspect myself. “I look like a castoff from A Clockwork Orange.” My lashes have adhered to round peach-colored globs stuck to my upper eyelids, extending my eyes unnaturally and giving me that perpetual state of surprise look that no one is ever going for. Shockingly, though, I can still manage to blink.
The door to the back room opens, and James heads out. He takes a seat at one of the fancy massage chairs lining the back wall and swiftly takes off his shoes and socks, before sticking his feet into a bubbling bin of water