Meanicures Read Online Free PDF Page A

low-rise jeans, and a belt made from miniature license plates. She almost looked like she should have been in a rock band, not a hair salon. “How’s the storm?”
    “Not too bad,” I said, looking around at all the products for sale, on glimmering silver shelves with pretty tinsel dangling off the tops, like trimmed silver hair. “At least it’s not terrible yet, anyway.”
    “Give it time,” she said. “How can I help you?”
    I slid my umbrella into the holder by the front door, then set down my backpack and took off my bike helmet. “I was wondering. Do you sell Nik’s Organix hair products?”
    “I’m sorry, no,” she replied.
    “Really. Not at all? Not even the Original Sea Clean line?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with those products.”
    “Really,”
I said. So this was one salon my mom hadn’t gotten to yet. “Did you just move here or something?”
    “No, I’ve been here for a while. I used to rent a chair at another place, though.”
    I opened my wallet to make sure I had enough money for a haircut and color. I’d saved the last couple of twenties I’d gotten for babysitting, and I had a Visa card as well. I hoped that would cover it.
    “We kind of chose to go in a different direction with our products,” the woman explained. “Will that be okay with you?”
    I smiled. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I want to do.”
    “Speaking of which—” She peered at my helmet hair. “Your color looks a bit different. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is that one of those at-home tint kits?”
    “Not exactly. I need a new color, or a recolor,” I said. “Please tell me you can fix this.”
    “Definitely I can fix it. Coloring can be wicked expensive,” she replied. “But since you’re a student, I’ll cut you a deal.”
    “It’s okay. I have a Visa gift card left from my birthday. Can I use that here?”
    “Sure. I’ll still give you a student rate, though.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I’m Poinsettia, by the way.” She held out her hand for me to shake.
    “What kind of a name is that?”
    “Difficult for anyone to spell correctly.” She reached into a drawer behind the desk, and handed me her business card, which I glanced at quickly.
Poinsettia R. Seasonal
, it said in loopy script,
Beauty Consultant
. “And what’s your name?”
    “Madison,” I said. “Madison McCarrigan.” Poinsettia didn’t seem to recognize my last name. There wasn’t that “McCarrigan? As in Nik McCarrigan? As in Nik’s Organix?”
    “My mom—” I started to say, but then I stopped. I didn’t want Poinsettia to form an opinion of me based on my mom.
    “What’s that?”
    “Oh, nothing,” I said, waiting patiently while she swept up from her previous customer—who, judging from the amount of hair left on the floor, must have been a werewolf.
    Poinsettia was wearing black boots and when she bent down to sweep up the clippings, I noticed they had high heels, little silver buckles on the sides, and pointed toes. They were the kind of boots I’d tried to convince my mom to buy for me once, when I went along on one of her business trips to Boston. I’d ended up with flat, furry kids’ boots instead.
    Poinsettia showed me a card with various hair color samples and we chose something close to my original color (whatever that was), but with a little extra shininess.
    “What grade are you in?” Poinsettia asked as she draped a black cape over my shoulders.
    I glanced up at her. “Seventh,” I said.
    “Really?”
    I rolled my eyes. “I know, I know,” I sighed. “You would have said younger.”
    “No, actually. Older. I don’t get a lot of clients in here on their own at your age,” she commented.
    “Well, let’s just say I’m really, really experienced at getting my hair trimmed, and cut, and washed.”
    “Huh.” Poinsettia didn’t seem to think that was strange … which
was
strange. “Well, you sit tight, I’ll go grab the color and be right back,” she