Beatrice Mae

This has to be a mistake.

It reminded me of the viral posts of receipts when celebrities leave two-thousand-dollar tips for their waiter “out of the goodness of their heart.”

Except Beatrice Mae was not a celebrity. And this was twenty-thousand dollars.

I felt like I was being pranked by an old lady.

I picked the envelope off the top of the trash bin, placed the check back inside, and readjusted the sticker Beatrice had used to keep the contents sealed: a little brown dog with heart-shaped ears and a red heart nose—a fierce protector of the treasure inside. I smoothed the sticker with the heel of my hand until the outer edges adhered without curling back up. I reached for my client book on the counter, flipped it open to the B tab, and wedged the envelope into the gutter. I placed it into my work bag as if it were alive, gently propping it on its spine between my wallet and my clipper case.

She said herself that she is becoming forgetful. Maybe she forgot the first few zeroes she had already written…

I thought about the very first time I cut Beatrice’s hair. It was only two months after starting at Regina’s salon and I was still trying to prove myself worthy to my new peers. When Beatrice walked through the door with her khaki loafers and rose-print blouse, everyone else turned their heads. I could see Ginny’s reflection in my mirror, smirking—like she was preparing to watch me crash and burn by inviting Grandma to sit in my chair. She was not our typical client, but Regina told me I may have to take what I can get until I secured a following.

I never expected to secure someone who would tip me twenty-thousand dollars for a forty-five-dollar haircut.

Seven years later and Beatrice was my most loyal client. At first it took her almost a month to rebook with me, but soon she was coming every two weeks, even when she didn’t need a cut. Sometimes she would come in just to have her hair washed and blown out on a whim. She would tell me to charge her “for the full works” because she wanted me to “make my quota” and “show that Jenny who’s boss.” But I never did, and I never corrected her on the pronunciation of Ginny’s name, mostly because she was always within ear shot and I knew how insulted she was that anyone in her presence did not know how to say her name.

I had learned a lot about Beatrice in those seven years. She would tell me about her childhood, how she liked to bake pies with her Nonna and lick the crust when no one was looking—not because she liked the crust, but because she was too short to stick her finger in the center for the “good gracious gooey part” as it cooled on the windowsill, and she thought it was her duty to be mischievous at Nonna’s house. By the time she was old enough to see over the resting pies, she was more interested in playing with the children that lived next door to Nonna and Papa because the eldest son was “as handsome as Desi.”

Stories of playing with Nonna’s neighbors as a child would get cut out of nowhere, as if she was getting too close to something she didn’t want to speak about. It took Beatrice three years to share that she had lost her own family—Vinny, Luca and Ricky—many years ago. I never pried for details; the look of devastation on her face every time one of their names escaped her mouth was all I needed to see to quickly change the subject.

When a new family moved in next door to Beatrice in 2002, she became enamored with their youngest son, Nicholas. They would play peekaboo through the backyard fence in the spring. In the summer, Deborah would invite Beatrice to cookouts on Saturday afternoons; she would watch Nicholas jump through the sprinkler with his siblings, pretending the streams of cold water were monster teeth closing in on them. When the mosquitos started coming out, Nicholas would whisper into Deborah’s ear, cupping his hands so that no one would hear his secret, and soon he would be moving the citronella candles closer to Beatrice so she wouldn’t get “eaten alive like a rind left in the compost.”

When Nicholas turned ten, Beatrice started paying him to rake her leaves in the fall and shovel her steps in the winter—ten dollars a day. She would make him hot chocolate when he was done, and they would sit in her kitchen and play tic-tac-toe with mini marshmallows on a paper plate. Sometimes he would be there for two or three hours, until Deborah would call for him: Nicholas! Dinner time! And he would roll his eyes at Beatrice because he hated it when his mother used his full name. She would warn him not to roll his eyes or else they might “get stuck in his brain muck and never get out.”

A week before Beatrice came to me for the first time, Nicholas left for college.

I set my bag down at my station and began unpacking my tools, laying out my shears and repositioning my chair for my first appointment. When my 11 o’clock didn’t show, I pulled my client book out, Beatrice’s envelope still bookmarking the B’s, and turned to G. Erin Gomes, fourth no-show in three months.

I stared at the envelope, closed my eyes for a few seconds and reopened. I let out an audible sigh, catching Ginny’s attention as she cashed out Leena Thomas, her every-four-Fridays root touchup with a bad attitude and even worse chewing manners.

“What’s up with you, huh? Rough night? Chris giving you grief?”

“No, Ginny.” I ignored her jab at my on and off again relationship. “I just have to call Beatrice. I think there’s a mistake with her check.”

“You know, that’s why I encourage cash tips. Less hassle. And no paper trail if their math works in my favor.”

“I’m not sure what kind of math may have been done to calculate this amount of money,” my voice faded away as my intention was to keep it to myself. Ginny looked like she was waiting for an explanation, but after a few seconds she rolled her eyes and walked away.

I wish her eyes would get stuck in her brain muck.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through my recent outgoing calls—Beatrice was number four on the list from the confirmations I made on Wednesday. I held the phone to my ear as it dialed, rang, and went to her voicemail. Hello dear. This is Beatrice Mae Bianchi. I can’t quite pick up the phone right now. Please leave me a message. Thank you.

I stood in silence for what felt like three whole minutes. How do I ask someone if they meant to give me twenty-thousand dollars?

“Hi Beatrice, it’s Viv. Give me a call back when you get this message. Talk soon!”

Beatrice was always great at returning my phone calls. When Monday came around and I hadn’t heard from her, I called again, this time asking her to call back just to confirm her next appointment the following week. It wasn’t unusual for me to speak to her a few times in a matter of days; she would occasionally adjust her appointments by a day or two here and there. Sometimes she would change things last minute so she could do an extra load of laundry or get to the grocery store in time to use the coupons she would find posted in her doctor’s office waiting room.

On Wednesday Erin Gomes called me in her usual panic, apologizing that she missed her appointment and begging to get in with me as soon as possible. I rescheduled her for later that afternoon, after Janice Riley’s perm. Sometimes I felt guilty making clients sit through that lingering stench, but considering the chance that Erin would somehow miss the appointment she scheduled five hours earlier, I wasn’t feeling too concerned.

I was about to take my lunch outside when a young gentleman walked in. Regina greeted him and directed him my way. Great, a men’s cut. Isn’t Kara here today? I peered across the salon at Kara’s station, hoping to see her free—she was a better fit for male clients than me, having started at a barber shop down the street.

“Hi there, Vivian? I was told you may be free for a haircut?”

“Oh, yes. I think I should have time before my next appointment.” I hoped he couldn’t sense my anxiety. “Right this way.”

He was young, maybe in his twenties, and did not have much direction for me regarding his desired look. “My mom said it would be a crime to show up anywhere with this mop on my head.”

Ahh yes, I can handle this one.

I finished the cut with plenty of time to take my lunch outside before Janice arrived. I wrote up his ticket, pulling out my client book to record his contact info so we could keep in touch for future appointments.

“Can I get your first and last name, dear? You let me know when that mop needs another trim. I’m here Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and most Saturdays.” I gave my usual rebooking spiel.

“Well, I’m only home for a few days, but sure. Last name is Phillips. You can call me Cole.”

“Just a few days?” I questioned. We weren’t much of a tourist attraction of a town, and no big events were coming until the autumn fairs started in September. “On a trip? Visiting family?”

“Not exactly the kind of trip I wanted to make,” he exhaled. “My family lost a dear friend this weekend.”

My heart sank. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Cole. My condolences to your family.”

“Thank you. Apparently it was expected, but I haven't been home.” He got quiet. “Anyways, what do I owe you?” He retrieved the wallet from his back pants pocket, placing it on the counter, the faux leather mimicking the black binding of my client book that laid open to the P’s. As I watched him fumble with the bills crumpled under a money clip, I caught a glimpse of his driver’s license. Between the glare of the protective plastic, I could make out a handful of letters: N…I…C. I shifted my stance slightly to cheat the reflective beam bouncing away from his photo, and I could make out his full name.

“Nicholas?”

He stared at me with no expression. “I go by Cole.”