But it was a little while before Bessie could sit beside Nona Jean. By the time Bettina got her shampooed and in the chair for her trim, Miss Jamison was stretched out on her back with her head in the shampoo sink and Beulah, gloved, was working brown dye into her platinum hair. Bessie knew it was brown because she could hear Beulah telling Miss Jamison that, when she asked what shade it was.

“ ‘Mocha brown’ is what it says on the package,” Beulah said. “Exactly what you want.”

Mocha brown! Bessie had to blink again. Why in the world was Miss Jamison having that beautiful platinum hair dyed mocha brown—especially when she must have invested a ton of money into getting it platinum in the first place? It made no sense at all. Bessie was itching to know why she was doing it.

But by the time Bettina got Bessie pin-curled and finger-waved and ready to go under the dryer, Miss Jamison was sitting on the other side of the room, her head in a wrap, a magazine on her lap, and a cigarette in her hand, waiting for the mocha brown color to set. And when Bessie was dry and ready to be combed out, Miss Jamison was back with her head in the shampoo sink, and Beulah was rinsing and conditioning her mocha brown hair.

But at last they were sitting side by side in the chairs. Bessie met Miss Jamison’s eyes in the mirror and gave her head a wondering shake.

“Mercy me,” she said. “What a difference a little color makes.”

“Don’t it just?” Beulah replied cheerfully, snipping a bit off the left side of Miss Jamison’s bob and shaping it with her hands. “I said to Miz Jamison, I was afraid the brown might make her look just a teensy bit older. But it don’t at all, do you think, Bessie?”

“Not a bit of it,” Bessie lied, as Bettina pulled the last curler out of her hair. “I think brown is a perfect color for you, Miss Jamison. But if you’ll forgive a bit of neighborly nosiness, why would you—”

Miss Jamison cut her off. “Because I felt like it,” she replied, in a curt, mind-your-own-damn-business tone clearly designed to deter other questions. She reached for the pack of Marlboros and the gold cigarette lighter on the counter, and lit one.

“Just wanted a change, I’ll bet,” Bessie said, and wondered who it was that Miss Jamison was trying to hide from. It was the only reason she could think of for dyeing that pretty platinum hair a muddy brown. “By the way, how’s your aunt this morning?” In explanation, she added, “I heard that little commotion over there yesterday evening.”

“She’s better, thank you.” Miss Jamison blew out a stream of smoke, glancing warily at Bessie in the mirror as if she were wondering just how much she had heard.