Sam's mom offers to take him to a hair salon, a place where they "really respect hair". Reluctantly, Sam agrees but if he sees any scissors, he's out of there...

4. My mom is up to something...

While I sat thumbing through a salon-centric magazine, another woman approached. "I'm Layla," she said. "Sam, right?" I nodded. She had to talk loud for me to hear her, and I didn't feel like shouting back. She said, "Your Mom says you might want a mani-pedi."

I glanced at Mom across the room, getting her own hair done, and she nodded, smiling at me. I shrugged and looked back at Layla. She had coffee-with-cream-colored skin, hair and eyes and a style to go with it—sophisticated but relaxed. I liked her immediately. Maybe it was the braids.

She went on. "No color, just clean up your nails and shape them. Maybe some clear matte polish; no one can tell you're wearing it. You'll love it." She made it sound good.

I was still suspicious. Mom was smiling at me like she does when we're having eggplant for dinner. But who doesn't like getting pampered? While Janet worked on my hair, I had already seen an older gentleman getting his nails done. And not a gay guy, just an average-looking businessman who probably worked in one of the downtown offices.

Who was going to know? "Okay," I said. Honestly, it would be interesting to see what her work looked like.

Layla told me that all the clear polishes weren't really matte and had a slight shine to them. "We can pick an almost invisible matte color, like the same color as your nails."

"Um? Show me," I said.

We ended up with a color so close to my own nails that it really was invisible. Layla used it on my hands and feet, both. After shaping and filing the nails, she smoothed them and applied a base coat, then two coats of the magical invisible color and a clear non-gloss top varnish. After each layer, she put the hand or foot involved under a hood where an ultraviolet light and fan helped dry the polish quickly.

We finished about the same time Janet came to turn off the dryer. Just like Layla had described, my nails were neat and clean, without obvious polish on them. They looked great, and I told her so. "Thank you," I called back as Janet led me back to her station in front of the big mirrors. I caught another glimpse of myself with my hair done up in the huge rollers.

Layla grinned at me. "Next time, we'll do French nails," she teased, and I made a face at her to get her to giggle. Okay, I may have giggled, too. I liked Layla.

I liked Janet, too. Her blond hair was almost the same color as mine as she undid the rollers and gently combed and brushed the curls into a cascade down my back. I watched how she did this in the mirror, debating if I were willing to commit to such an arduous task every morning. Maybe not.

But the effect was stupendous. My hair had never looked so good!

"I love it," I told Janet.

"It's beautiful, Sam," Mom said, coming over to get a better look. She winked at me, or maybe at Janet.

Something was going on there that I wasn't catching. Mom seemed to have a plan. You should always be suspicious when your mom looks like she's got an egg to hatch. Or one to plant. I should have been more wary, but I was enjoying myself.

Mom looked at my hands and asked, "What color did they do your nails? I got mine in Wine and Roses."

I sniffed. "Nothing so girly for me, though they do look nice, Mom. I think the bottle said 'Champagne', but it's almost more of a 'Seashell', huh?" I spread my hands out where she could see. "What do you think?"

"Good choice," she said. She grinned at me, then nodded toward Layla, who smiled and wrinkled her nose.

"They dried them really quick with that UV light, so we don't have to wait," I mentioned. "I think I kind of like how it looks, and you really can't tell, can you?"

"Not at all," she agreed, smiling at me.

Well, there are mirrors everywhere in a salon, and I spent a while admiring my new curls since I could easily see myself from every angle. This hadn't turned out to be such a bad idea after all. Mom was busy finding out the damage done to her credit card, and I didn't want to have to know.

The afternoon had completely gone by the time we were done, and maybe it hadn't cost quite as much as I had supposed. Janet mentioned something about a discount, and Mom had had her hair and nails done, too, so all the financial injury wasn't mine.

"Now, Sam, do you want a set of curlers like those for yourself? And maybe a handheld air-only hairdryer?" Mom asked. The salon sold those things, but the prices seemed high. We paused at the door to look at the hair tools in the display case.

"Uh?" I said, looking at the colorful curlers in their boxes. "Well, it might be nice, but that would cost more money." One box was labeled 'The BIG Assortment' and included rollers from teeny-tiny, less-than-a-quarter-inch, up to mondo-hugeness-six-inchers. I wouldn't use the little ones, but the whole box still appealed to me.

She shrugged. "I want you to be happy, Sam. Your hair is obviously important to you. Enough that you're willing to hurt someone for it."

I winced. "I didn't do it on purpose," I protested. I pushed the door open and followed Mom out to the parking lot.

She looked back at me and shook her head. "Oh, I think you did. You could have just screamed when he attacked you and let the coaches deal with it. But you used force against force, and you might have killed that boy. That's why you got suspended." Mom could spread the guilt like a pro.

I sighed. I couldn't argue, and I did regret what happened to Leon. He was an asshole and a bully, but I didn't want him seriously hurt. "Yes, ma'am," I said. I sniffled a bit. A moment ago, I'd been so happy with my new curls and my nails.

"Cheer up." She let up on the scowling and smiled at me. "Let's talk to your father," she said as we climbed into the car and fastened out safety belts. "Before we spend any more money. Maybe he'll have a new idea about how to deal with all this."

This kind of surprised me. Dad was often the softie of the parental-units, willing to accept explanations and work out compromises. Mom had a stiffer attitude about transgressions, usually. "Okay," I agreed. "Do you think he'll like my hair?" I asked, all innocent and stupid.

"I'm sure he'll have something to say," she offered with an aubergine smile.

*