Zel was already behind, and today was the day she’d persuaded her mother to leave the Wishing Well Motel in the hands (or paws, actually) of one of the guests and come for a haircut. The extra appointment would make Zel even later.
Maybe she should take Gretel’s suggestion and ask Julie to help out after school.
At the thought of her daughter, Zel swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Her baby girl. Lately, it felt like shouting across the Grand Canyon to even try to talk to her. At least she had made her laugh this morning. That was rare these days.
Zel sighed. Sometimes she understood why her own adoptive mother had locked her in a tower. It was hard to watch the person she loved more than her own life grow distant. Each time her daughter rolled her eyes at her, Zel felt her heart twist. She didn’t want to wait nine or ten years for Julie to like her again.
The lamb baa-ed vigorously as Mary dragged it into the manicure room, and Zel winced. She really should insist Julie come work. She could use the help, plus it would mean extra mother-daughter time—and, Zel thought wryly, I won’t have to find a spare tower in the suburbs.
Closing the appointment book, Zel went to finish trimming Linda’s hair. “Did I hear a sheep out there?” Linda asked.
“Sick dog,” Zel said. “Now, bend your head down.” Linda obeyed and Zel ran her fingers through the back of her hair to check for evenness. All she needed to do was think of a way to make Julie come without Julie immediately assuming her mother was trying to ruin her life. Not an easy task. “You have any books on handling teenage daughters?” she asked lightly.
“Dozens,” Linda said. “Self-help books fly off the shelves these days, but that’s not what people need.” She waved her arm for emphasis, and Zel hopped out of the way. “What people really need are more good, old-fashioned stories. A dozen stories can teach people more about how to live their lives than a hundred Ph.D. studies.”
“Uh-huh,” Zel said. She knew stories—firsthand—and even though she could joke about it, a tower wasn’t going to help her with Julie any more than the perfect porridge was going to make Goldie like herself more.
“We’ve lost our roots, lost ourselves in fads,” Linda said. “I tell you, a fresh influx of stories could solve most of the world’s problems.”
The problem with being a hairdresser, Zel thought, was that you had to listen politely to everyone’s pet theories, right or wrong. She was tempted to tell her how Gretel had battled bulimia, how Snow White’s marriage had crumbled (her prince hadn’t wanted a wife with a personality), how Sleeping Beauty . . . No, stories hadn’t helped Zel’s friends, but Zel let Linda prattle on.
Moving to the waiting chairs, Goldie paraded her magazines in front of Mary. “What do you think of that one?” she said. “Or, ooh, how about this one?”
Mary’s own hair was dyed purple. “I like that one.”
“That’s a man.”
“Oops, my bad,” Mary said. Goldie grumbled to herself as Mary eyed her critically. “But seriously, Goldie, have you thought about trying bald?”
Goldie was still shrieking when Rapunzel’s adoptive mother, Dame Gothel Marchen, walked in. “Oh, my,” Gothel said mildly. “One of those days, is it?”
Goldie blanched, instantly silent, and Zel grinned. Her mom had that effect on people. In a purple sweat suit, Gothel looked like someone’s sweet grandma, fresh from the Northcourt Pool Shuffleboard League. She had a face as wrinkled as a walnut and hair as frizzed as a gone-to-seed dandelion. She looked like an innocent elderly lady—and, in point of fact, she hadn’t boiled a child in years. But when she smiled at Goldilocks and said, “Goldie, dear, you look lovely. Now, why don’t you run along home?”—Goldie bolted out the door.
Zel was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to smack her head against the wall. “Mother, please! You can’t do that to customers!” Behind Gothel, Zel saw Mary inch across the chairs toward the doors—preparing to flee. No customers was not better than too many customers. “Mother.”
Without glancing at Mary, Gothel said, “No, you stay, dear. You need it.” Mary froze. From the manicure room, the lamb baa-ed and kicked frantically at the door. “Sheep?” Gothel asked.
“Sick dog,” Linda said.
“Would you like me to take a look?” Gothel offered.
Instant silence from the manicure room.
Gothel’s cheek twitched, and for a second, Zel thought she saw . . . No, her mother couldn’t be bothered by people fearing her. “Pity,” Gothel murmured. “It would have made a lovely shish kebob.”