* * * * * *
Emily wiped a tear off her cheek.
The woman immediately turned off the machine.
"What's wrong? You don't like it? I didn't take much off ... I did what you asked," wheedled Wendy soothingly, talking to Emily’s mirrored reflection as she sat in the chair. "Please tell me what's wrong... you know I hate to have an unhappy customer. Whatever it is I'll fix it."
"I'm okay... really it’s nothing," Emily said tearfully, batting another runaway drop with her hand, "Why did I read this damn book?" she commented aloud, not expecting an answer. It upset her when heroic figures appeared then disappeared out of someone’s life. Gnawed at her insides. She didn’t understand why.
With her Midwest upbringing it’s not like she had abandonment issues; mom and dad, her brothers -- were all alive and well. Her childhood had been normal to the point of boring, with one possible exception, she thought. No need to think about that now.
Her emotions were still jumbled up with the beauty of the current story. So poignant and wonderful. She tapped her tablet, closing the app.
Emily glanced up from the device, spotting her reflection in the mirror. Alert though tearful. She could see a trace of something -- a nugget from the novel perhaps-- in her own eyes.
"Why are you crying?" Wendy prompted again.
"It was sad....the book that I just finished reading... I mean I knew it was going to be sad, and I read it anyway," Emily admitted.
"What's it called?"
"The Light Between Oceans, by M.L. Stedman, You want me to spell it?"
"No" replied Wendy as she jotted a note to herself.
"If you want, you can borrow my tablet, that way you don't have to download it," offered Emily, naturally helpful.
"I'm not gonna download it."
"Then why are you writing it down?"
"To make sure I remember the title so I don't get it by mistake... I hate books that make me cry."
Mopping her face with the back of her hand, Emily snorted lightly, Wendy’s candor catching her by surprise.
The hairstylist was still occupied with writing.
Emily ducked down, sliding the tablet into her backpack on the floor across from the booth.
She felt rather than saw the salon owner return to her rightful position behind the chair.
Leaning back upright, Emily apologized for worrying Wendy and moving out of place, “Sorry.”
The older woman smiled, spreading her hands over the smock on Emily’s shoulders, idly brushing off a few loose hairs then pushing aside her long locks before reaching for the garment’s snap at the nape of the neck.
“You’re such a big softy,” Wendy chided.
“Well, if I’m going to be a novelist one day,” Emily explained while looking at Wendy in the mirror, feeling wistful, “I gotta read all kinds of books...figure out what genre I’d be good at.” Wiping a hand across her eyelids, knocking some of the moisture from the wet spiky lashes.
“Is Making People Cry a genre?”
“No, it’s the mark of a really good book.”
Would she ever be able to write something so appealing? Emily wondered. Doubt clouding her thoughts. The corners of her mouth turned down, slightly mournful.
Wendy’s brow creased as if anticipating more waterworks.
Shaking her head ruefully, Emily gave the hairdresser’s reflection a half-smile to prove that she was indeed okay. No need to upset a woman who owns so many pairs of sharp scissors, she thought wryly.