Shelly returned to the States periodically over the next year. Her conversation topics mainly revolving around the new home abroad and the friends she and her husband had made. Rarely was Jaime even mentioned by her.
Fast forward to today, Shelly had called the salon a few weeks ago to book an appointment for herself, and her daughter. Yes, Jaime was coming to the salon , and she was booked with another stylist in the same time period as her mom. Mommy, daughter time at the salon. I was hopeful that the broken ties had been amended and Jaime's life had take a turn in a more positive direction.
The two arrived at the salon, first thing in the morning. Both with smiles on their faces and full of exuberance and enthusiasm about everything, from their hair appointments to the coffee we served them upon arrival. They talked about their plans to leave the country the following week, to stay in the house abroad, and their plans to find a rich South-American man for Jaime to marry. Mother and daughter were seated next to each other in styling chairs, and myself and my co-worker set to work on their hair color. For the next hour, Jaime was the director of most of the conversation, talking about her many dates with semi-famous men, showing us pictures of them on her phone and telling us of her wild adventures. She babbled on so many off-the-wall, random things that I can only remember snippets....She named her bong "Puff Daddy" after she spent a day with P. Diddy. She showed off her "camel toe," which was a tattoo of a camel on the big toe of her right foot. She kicked off her shoes and remained barefoot for the remainder of her appointmen, even when she walked about the salon. Shelly, who normally talked so much that she hardly took a breath, was silent for much of the time Jaime was commanding the attention of the room. Shelly kept her head bowed, with her eyes closed most of the time, with little interaction and lack of emotion. I wondered if she was embarrassed or resigned, and still honestly don't know the amswer to that question.
After the hour-long flurry of conversation, the action died down - almost suddenly. Jaime bowed her head and her hands reached up to cradle her face. After a few moments her fingers began to curl, the tips of them poking and prodding her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes and then her lips. I tried not to stare but had a hard time keeping myself from glancing over at the intense facial massage going on in the chair next to me. Jaime dug at her face as hard and fast as she could for the next forty-five minutes, as my fellow stylist continued putting the foils in her hair. And the kneading of facial tissue continued, lest time to pop a couple of pills and visit the bathroom, for yet another hour getting increasingly more intense. Meanwhile, Shelly remained in her bubble of oblivion, eyes either closed or averted from her daughter's fervent facial assault.
Near the end of Jaime and Shelly's visit, as their hair is being styled, Shelly comes to. Her eyes widen as she observes, closely, the fingers digging into her daughter's flesh. Shelly jumps up from my styling chair and rushes over, bending down to whisper in Jaime's ear. Jaime begins to cry, and for a moment I think that Shelly has had a moment of divine clarity. However, Shelly returns to my chair to tell me that the disease her daughter has is causing her intense pain and it is unexplainable. There is no diagnosis and no cure. As we are talking, we are interrupted by Jaime, who is holding her phone to her mother's face. She is asking her mom if she should increase her bid on a pair of shoes on EBay from $60 to $65 Shelly, the sucker, nods and says "Yes, baby. If you still want them."
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