paused, waiting for us to applaud ourselves. When we didn’t, she did, and we all joined in. “As students, you’ll learn the art of fixing hair over the next six months. Along with the latest fashion trends, you will master vital skills like pin curls and finger waves. And though perms and color will be your bread and butter, if you can learn to do an upsweep, you can make a fortune these days.
“Class, if you can give a woman a good hairdo, she will crawl to you on her deathbed for you to fix her hair. A woman whose hair has been properly colored is a customer for life. Let me assure all of you, there is great honor in making a woman in your charge look and feel beautiful. This is indeed one of life’s highest callings.”
We stood there applauding for all we were worth, completely mesmerized by Mrs. Cathcart’s address to the class of 1983. I looked around the room. There were twenty-three of us. One girlwas crying. Later on, when she dropped out, Mrs. Cathcart would say she was called elsewhere.
After the applause ended, Mrs. Cathcart led us past the area with all of the dryers and shampoo bowls to a large room in the back that was both storage room and our classroom. Each workstation had a faceless mannequin head with glossy black hair. All of them were identical, except one or two looked newer than the others.
Most everyone leafed through the blue clothbound textbook at each station, except for the crying girl. She ran her hand over the top of
Cosmetology Today
and started to cry again. She bawled at the drop of a hat, every day. I think it must have had something to do with her being pregnant, although I don’t think she knew she was at the time.
Sara Jane Farquhar leafed through her book, and then shoved it onto the little shelf under the top of her workstation. She looked at Mrs. Cathcart like she already knew it cover to cover and was ready to go to work. Mrs. Cathcart gave Sara Jane a dirty look and told everyone to open her text to page one.
All of Mrs. Cathcart’s lessons were drawn out on the back of old maps, the kind teachers pull down like window shades. They were yellow and torn in a couple of places, but when she pointed her yardstick to “Cosmetology, an Introduction” and started teaching, it was clear that she was a very good teacher.
I was the only one who took notes; I may have been the only girl there who knew how to take notes. Mrs. Cathcart liked that. She smiled and nodded at me every time I recognized something important and wrote it down. She went on for at least two hours before she told us we could have a break. There was a rush for theCoke machine, which by the time I got there only took exact change.
“You need dimes?”
I looked up and saw Sara Jane Farquhar smiling at me with a Coca-Cola in her hand. “Thanks.” I handed her my quarter, but she gave it right back.
“Keep it. I always have change.”
“Thanks. I’m Zora.”
“I’m Sara Jane Farquhar,” she said, the way Marilyn Monroe might have introduced herself. Sara Jane wasn’t putting on; that was just the way she talked. “So what do you think about all this?”
“I’m excited and a little nervous, how about you?”
A group of girls were huddled together listening to a bony girl with a bad perm mimic Mrs. Cathcart’s speech to us. All of them kept cutting their eyes around to make sure she didn’t come around the corner and catch them.
“They shouldn’t be making fun of her,” I said.
Sara Jane nodded. “The joke’s on them. Everything Mrs. Cathcart said was right.”
“She’s sweet, but don’t you think she’s a little overly dramatic?”
“Maybe, but women come to a stylist because they want to feel beautiful. Even if it’s just for that one hour they sit in your chair, even if their hair looks like hell the next morning. For an hour, they had the undivided attention of someone focused on making them beautiful. They don’t get that in real life unless they give it to themselves,
“Class, if you can give a woman a good hairdo, she will crawl to you on her deathbed for you to fix her hair. A woman whose hair has been properly colored is a customer for life. Let me assure all of you, there is great honor in making a woman in your charge look and feel beautiful. This is indeed one of life’s highest callings.”
We stood there applauding for all we were worth, completely mesmerized by Mrs. Cathcart’s address to the class of 1983. I looked around the room. There were twenty-three of us. One girlwas crying. Later on, when she dropped out, Mrs. Cathcart would say she was called elsewhere.
After the applause ended, Mrs. Cathcart led us past the area with all of the dryers and shampoo bowls to a large room in the back that was both storage room and our classroom. Each workstation had a faceless mannequin head with glossy black hair. All of them were identical, except one or two looked newer than the others.
Most everyone leafed through the blue clothbound textbook at each station, except for the crying girl. She ran her hand over the top of
Cosmetology Today
and started to cry again. She bawled at the drop of a hat, every day. I think it must have had something to do with her being pregnant, although I don’t think she knew she was at the time.
Sara Jane Farquhar leafed through her book, and then shoved it onto the little shelf under the top of her workstation. She looked at Mrs. Cathcart like she already knew it cover to cover and was ready to go to work. Mrs. Cathcart gave Sara Jane a dirty look and told everyone to open her text to page one.
All of Mrs. Cathcart’s lessons were drawn out on the back of old maps, the kind teachers pull down like window shades. They were yellow and torn in a couple of places, but when she pointed her yardstick to “Cosmetology, an Introduction” and started teaching, it was clear that she was a very good teacher.
I was the only one who took notes; I may have been the only girl there who knew how to take notes. Mrs. Cathcart liked that. She smiled and nodded at me every time I recognized something important and wrote it down. She went on for at least two hours before she told us we could have a break. There was a rush for theCoke machine, which by the time I got there only took exact change.
“You need dimes?”
I looked up and saw Sara Jane Farquhar smiling at me with a Coca-Cola in her hand. “Thanks.” I handed her my quarter, but she gave it right back.
“Keep it. I always have change.”
“Thanks. I’m Zora.”
“I’m Sara Jane Farquhar,” she said, the way Marilyn Monroe might have introduced herself. Sara Jane wasn’t putting on; that was just the way she talked. “So what do you think about all this?”
“I’m excited and a little nervous, how about you?”
A group of girls were huddled together listening to a bony girl with a bad perm mimic Mrs. Cathcart’s speech to us. All of them kept cutting their eyes around to make sure she didn’t come around the corner and catch them.
“They shouldn’t be making fun of her,” I said.
Sara Jane nodded. “The joke’s on them. Everything Mrs. Cathcart said was right.”
“She’s sweet, but don’t you think she’s a little overly dramatic?”
“Maybe, but women come to a stylist because they want to feel beautiful. Even if it’s just for that one hour they sit in your chair, even if their hair looks like hell the next morning. For an hour, they had the undivided attention of someone focused on making them beautiful. They don’t get that in real life unless they give it to themselves,
Similar Books
'Twas the Night Before Mischief
Nina Rowan
Copper River
William Kent Krueger
Werewolf Wedding
Lynn Red
A New Death (Savannah's Only Zombie Novel)
Josh Vasquez
Whispers of Home
April Kelley
Hot for the Holidays
Lora Leigh
Harvest Moon
Mercedes Lackey
Winterwood
JG Faherty
The Blacker the Berry
Lena Matthews
Dark Blonde
David H. Fears