“Your mother was the best hairdresser I’ve ever had.”
The girl still didn’t reply. Marion would have to take the reins. First she had to figure out how to talk to the girl. At the church, the girl had kept her attention focused on pulling loose hairs from her ponytail, one after another, out of time with the hymns, and Marion had wondered how the girl’s hair could be so thick if she was always pulling it out when she was anxious. Lambert’s mongrels followed the girl the whole time, and she hadn’t met with anyone. No men, no friends. Not even Margit. Surely no one that age could be so antisocial. She returned bags of bottles for recycling, but no drinking companions ever showed up. Alvar suspected the dealer had gone underground, and the girl was keeping a low profile. But there was no real evidence that the girl knew about her mother’s business activities.
—
Marion opened Anita’s workstation cabinet and stepped aside. The girl didn’t make any move to take anything. She looked spindly from behind and had a complicated turban wrapped around her hair. The hair wasn’t tinted, so the girl wouldn’t be interested in a free dye job—Marion couldn’t even offer that. She couldn’t find any point of contact. The girl obviously hadn’t come to cut a deal or to ask about Anita’s fate or to discuss hair orders. Maybe she believed the suicide story. But then why didn’t she ask anything about Anita’s state of mind before the accident? That’s what Marion would have done.
Marion made her decision quickly and hugged the girl tightly. There were customers who came to the salon only because they wanted someone to touch them, even if it was just a scalp massage. You noticed the same longing for touch in some children, and the girl had been wearing that expression.
“I’m going to make a little cocoa with a splash of something stronger,” Marion said.
The girl leaned limply on Marion’s shoulder. Her sunglasses had fallen to the floor. The client peeked through the crack in the door and then, after seeing the situation, returned to the backyard with a few women’s magazines under her arm.
Marion sat the girl on the sofa. “How’s work? Anita said you’re going through some difficult times.”
“Difficult enough that I don’t have a job anymore.”
The girl spoke. That was progress. Marion switched on the electric teakettle and nodded at an empty styling chair.
“What would you say to coming to help me every once in a while? Until you find something else. The wedding season is about to really heat up. To tell the truth, I’m in a bind. I can’t even handle all the messages I have to deal with.”
The ringing of the desk phone underlined her words.
“I’m not a hairstylist.”
“Anyone can answer the phone and take reservations. You should have seen Anita in action. She loved her work,” Marion said, grabbing a keratin glue stick. “This magic wand can make dreams come true. We are priests and midwives and therapists and doctors. We officiate at rites of passage. We wrap women in strips of foil and towels and capes to wash away their old lives and send them toward the future. Turning points in life depend on the success of our work. And best of all, once women develop a taste for good hair, they’re willing to pay anything for it.”
The girl’s wandering gaze stopped for a moment, just long enough.
“The hair business has gone completely crazy over the past few years. Did Anita talk about it? Things aren’t quite as wild here as in South America, though. In Colombia hair bandits have started running around, and in Venezuela the women of Maracaibo keep their hair concealed in public places. Otherwise a piranha will come and steal it.”
Marion illustrated her words by making a swift swipe with her styling razor. The girl flinched but didn’t respond to Marion’s probing gaze.
“Ask any stylist you want. Business has gone bananas. The situation in America is really hot because of a wave of thefts. In Atlanta a friend I know just lost her whole stock. The robbers left new flat-screen TVs and cash. All they wanted was the virgin Remy.”
The girl’s expression was incredulous.
“You just have to work with reliable partners. So you don’t end up in dangerous situations. Take your time thinking about it. The career opportunities are excellent.”
—
When Marion went back to her client’s hot fusion extensions, Norma poured more rum into her hot chocolate and pulled an antinausea pill out of her pocket. The hair dust had assaulted her at the doorway, and there was evidence of her hair everywhere: in the chinks in the floor tiles, the wheels of the tool cart, the bin overflowing with bags of hairpins. Through the smells she relived the past six months of her life. The casual sex, the hangover she had after May Day—she could even sense the changes in the structure of her hair caused by the vitamin supplements. Her working environment had made the quality of her hair uneven, but from March on, you could hardly tell anymore. Her mother had known what she was doing. Norma had become a carefully bred leghorn hybrid, the changes to her nutrition leading to flawless hair production.
She waited on the cool clinker floor for the pills to take effect and added another splash of rum to her cup. Lambert’s scent trail was also all over the salon. Marion hadn’t mentioned him, but Norma hadn’t sensed any avoidance of the subject either, which would have smelled almost the same as lying. Marion’s hug had contained only sorrow and longing. The farrago of hair scents that clung to her skin and clothing was just as unpleasant as Norma had guessed it would be, and Marion’s own hair smelled of insomnia, wine, and slapdash meals. But her high stress level could be caused by anything. It wasn’t insanity or instability on a par with Helena’s.
Anita’s cabinet was full of unimportant junk: spare keys, including her own and Norma’s, a brush, lipstick, a stack of customer loyalty cards, safety pins, pepper spray, two pairs of work shoes, a scarf, and a sweater. The smells of the brush made tears well in Norma’s eyes: their last meal of lamb, garam masala, almonds, and apricots. Her mother had visited the salon afterward. Norma struggled against the longing. The vitamins at the back of the cabinet could go into the trash. Norma’s days as her mother’s fatted piglet were over.
Norma put off opening the drawers next to the cabinet. Their contents were obvious even before she pulled the first one open. Wearing extensions made of this hair, women would proceed to the altar. They would travel with cavaliers, fiancés, lovers, husbands, and the fathers of their children to family reunions and festivals. They would dash among birch trees toward the lake on Midsummer Eve. They would preen and, during arguments late at night around the bonfire, think that at least their hair looked nice. Norma’s hair would make for countless happy holidays and conjure enchantments from new love to June babies. It would float in fans on the surface of lakes in the unfurling midnight sun and twirl in fields of ripening grain. Wearing her hair, those women would receive everything she never would. At any moment she might walk past one of them, even near her own home. Maybe she already had but far enough off that she hadn’t smelled her own locks on a stranger’s head. Why had her mother taken a risk like that?
Suddenly her mother’s unexplained interest in new apartments made sense. Norma had wondered at the energy her mother had devoted to tracking real estate listings and attending open houses since February. Norma wasn’t at all excited by the prospect and caused a minor fight after saying so. She enjoyed living in Kallio, despite the seedy reputation, because the neighborhood accepted everyone as they were and allowed anyone to be anonymous. No one watched you here. Perhaps Marion’s salon was located in the neighborhood for precisely that reason. Just then it occurred to Norma that her mother hadn’t had any documentation of the origin of the goods she was selling unless she had forged it herself.
—
On the salon side, the client inspected her new hair in the mirror with a professional air. Empty packages of Great Lengths lay on the tool cart. The woman’s careful diet and enthusiasm for protein products made it seem likely she was a bodybuilder.
“Next time reserve U
krainian for me!”
“You’re first in line,” Marion assured her.
“I need it for the finals. I hear it doesn’t tangle at all.”
When Marion popped into the back room to look for product for her client, she pointed to the drawers lying open in front of Norma.
“That Ukrainian has been driving our clients nuts. What on earth are those women eating? We women in rich countries ruin our hair eating processed food and then have to spend all our money on treatments to fix it. Whereas women in the Romanian countryside just wash with soap at most and maybe use some herbs, but they eat tomatoes from their own gardens. No wonder Romanian hair is on the rise. But this Ukrainian stock is in a class by itself.”
Alvar handed Marion a list of potential clients in addition to a new prepaid phone, then turned back to the company computer screen. Her brother had no intention of leaving. The mistrust was reflected everywhere, from the double-checking of the accounting to Alla’s constant pecking and the way Alvar always glanced at the reservation book. Apparently Marion wasn’t even going to be allowed to handle agency client calls alone anymore. If there weren’t cameras in the salon, it was probably only because Marion would have found them and ripped them out of the wall like the last time there was a trust issue in the organization. That had been caused by Albino, who worked here as an eyelash technician. Still, Marion and her salon had ended up under the magnifying glass.
“Hello,” Alvar said over the screen.
Marion grabbed the list and pretended to read it.
“It’s from Lasse,” Alvar said.
Marion nodded. All the nurses handled their duties differently. Kristian’s patient lists were a particular mess, but Lasse, a dedicated marriage equality activist, made everyone else’s work easier by doing an initial screening himself. The agency had sent brochures to the fifteen names on the list, and seven of them had made inquiries. Marion decided to concentrate on the Finns; the foreigners would have to wait. If she could hook three, Lambert would be happy.
“How did it go with that Down syndrome woman?” Alvar asked.
Marion had forgotten all about her.
“You’re slipping. Call her right now.”
“Why can’t Alla handle it? Alla was with us in Lviv,” Marion replied.
Alla and Marion had traveled with this particular client to Lviv, Ukraine, to audition surrogates. After reviewing the agency’s brochures, the woman chose a few prospects, who were then dressed up and taken to a salon before the meeting to give their hair that healthy shine that made them seem more reliable to Western women. The nail technician removed their pink acrylic nails, which had been done before shooting the promo videos, but the Donetsk women had already returned to their old style.
The visit had gone well, although they could tell from the woman’s expression that the facade and interior of the clinic hadn’t lived up to the image created by the website. However, Marion had previously noted the woman’s weakness for sweets. That was why they’d timed the visit to coincide with the Lviv Chocolate Festival. By evening, the woman had surrendered herself to the new life Lviv promised her. After the baby was born, it turned out to have Down syndrome, and the woman refused to take him. She began bombarding the agency with tears and curses and threats of bankruptcy and the police. Finally Lambert showed mercy by offering the child at a discount rate. The woman was still being difficult, though, and she might have new demands. If she did, Marion couldn’t pass them on to Lambert, not in this situation.
Alvar set the phone on the table and pushed Lasse’s list into Marion’s hand again. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll handle the Down syndrome case. You do the list.”
Marion took a sip of water and keyed in the first phone number. Lasse had written a short summary below the name: “35-year-old unmarried woman from Lahti searching online for surrogate for one year. Sales director for export company, several rounds of IVF without success. Credit checks out. Owns her own home. Unable to adopt due to probation judgment related to assault and slander case.”
But when the woman answered, Marion couldn’t get a word out.
At the third hello? Alvar grabbed the phone from her hand. “Good evening. This is Alvar Lambert from the Source Agency,” he said in his most trust-inspiring sales voice. “Perhaps you’ve already seen our brochure.”
Marion stared into the yard as the girls from the nail studio brought out their garbage and, as always, left it unsorted. Anita had tacked instructions in English onto the shed where the trash cans were kept and installed some sorting bins. That had amused Lambert, but he stopped laughing when Anita pointed out there was no point attracting attention by breaking trivial laws. Alvar ended the call by warmly wishing the woman a good evening, assuring her that the christening dress handed down from her grandmother would be seeing some use before she knew it, and saying he looked forward to their meeting.
The phone banged on the table, and Alvar’s face came close. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Don’t tell Lambert,” Marion said.
“You’re putting everything at risk.”
“I’m trying!”
“That isn’t enough now.”
Alvar could still cut her some slack because they were siblings, but Lambert wouldn’t. Marion should be thankful she hadn’t already been flown to Vietnam, Thailand, or Nigeria for a suitable vacation accident. Or Colombia.
“Do you need a vacation?”
Marion shook her head.
“You got Anita’s daughter to agree to work here. That’s a good start but only a start.”
“I need more time.”
“You’re past your deadline.”
Marion focused on the window, on the name Shear Magic sparkling in the glass. This was the first salon she had run. There would be others, many more. She just had to endure. She just had to find a solution. In the first days after Anita’s death, she had kept expecting the wind chime to jingle like normal and Anita to appear bringing the lemon scent of her perfume and suggestions for what they should do next. But Marion wasn’t waiting anymore, even though sometimes she thought she glimpsed a familiar profile outside the window. Chin up, move forward. That was what Anita would say now, too. Move forward. Focus on priorities. You have to go on. You can’t give up. A pair of twins in the front of a cargo bike zipped past the window. A retired woman from the building across the way sat on her walker drinking beer. A couple walked by briskly. The winos. The customers still walking in and out of the nail studio.
Marion grabbed the phone and dialed the next number. People always trusted women more in these matters. That was why she made most of the domestic customer calls. Her Finnish was perfect, even though she’d grown up in Sweden, and she was used to soothing women. Clients trusted her, both at the agency and at the salon.
After five minutes on the phone, the couple from Vantaa was ready to put the future of their family in her hands, and for a moment Marion felt joy. She was still good at this, even after everything. Just two more, and Lambert would be satisfied, and Marion would dare to visit Lasse. Since Anita’s death, she had become more careful about where she went and how often. She had to be more cautious than before. She had one more day left and didn’t think it would be enough.
Norma walked from the salon to the patio at the Playful Pike Pub and ordered a large glass of wine. What Marion had said about the hair industry sounded unreal. She’d noticed some of the growth, of course, and the change on the street. Near her apartment, a business had appeared specializing in Afro hair extensions, the Angel Hair Saloon, and next to it was an import company. She always turned her head away as she passed, but she still knew what the windows said: “Virgin hair donors! Our agents find the best virgin hair donors in the world. Also Caucasian donors! Be like Beyoncé.”
When her mother had told Norma about her new job, Norma slammed the door on the way out and then came in a huff to this same pub and ordered the same house wine. Her days were so saturated by trouble with hair that he
r mother’s news disgusted her. “So this hell isn’t enough for you?” Norma had said. “You want to spend all day every day on it? I don’t want to hear any more.” She had sat in a window seat, staring into the winter darkness and trying to use alcohol to drive away the image of her mother bringing a cloud of filth from the salon into her home every day. Nightmare pictures throbbed in her head: women with a morbid fear of balding, dandruff from all over Helsinki, seeping sores, dermatitis, fungus, ringworm, necrotic flesh hidden with dye, keratin glue, micro rings, and hair products, their artificial fragrances masquerading as life. After becoming sufficiently drunk, she had sent her mother a text ordering her to shower before coming to visit after work. Now she could admit to herself that her reaction might also have contained a nugget of jealousy. Her mother’s hands had only ever belonged to her hair.
Accepting Marion’s offer was the only way to learn what had happened. Norma intended to reconstruct the final months of her mother’s life, just as she’d tried to recreate her mother’s final moments on the metro platform. It had to lead somewhere. If she couldn’t find a reason for what her mother had done, at least she might be able to better understand her mother’s betrayal.
Norma peeked into her handbag. Eva nodded back at her.
Five
Every day this spring I’ve been confronted with evidence of what these people would be prepared to do if they could get their hands on someone like you. And the world is full of people like them. If I didn’t have Eva, I wouldn’t be able to bear the things I’ve seen. I can talk about them only with her. I don’t have anyone else.
Norma left for work at the same time her mother would have and walked on the same side of the street her mother had, passing the same Angel Hair Saloon, the same street food joint, the same massage parlors, the same bars. On her way to work, she saw the same scaffolding, the same wino crew, the tattoo parlor and the sex shop, the parolee support center. And outside the same Chinese restaurant, she spotted the dated fonts of the window decals at Shear Magic that her mother would have seen. The layout of the display window was clumsy, but it blended well with its environment, the year-round holiday lights of the massage parlors and the stardom promised by the advertisements at the nail shops. The golden locks glued in the upper-right corner brought to mind a shampoo bottle from the 1980s. It wasn’t a salon where her mother would have wanted to be a client, but she had still gone there eagerly every morning, always on time. Norma tried to mimic her mother’s verve as she walked through the door. Despite the exhaustion hanging in the bags under her eyes, Marion greeted her cheerfully and asked her to take the Viennese chairs outside. She had a meeting, but she would be back in the afternoon.