The St. Ambrose School for Girls(18)
Inside its consumer value interior, the air smells like strawberries and wax paper, soft Muzak is piped in from somewhere, and fluorescent lights rain false sun on the thousands of products available for purchase. I wonder, if someone steals something, whether the two middle-aged, uniformed women stationed behind the mile-long candy display are rugged enough to swing their legs over their counters and chase a shoplifter down the sidewalk. Probably not. Maybe they have panic buttons to call the police, which are stationed, along with the town library, right behind the store, although it seems unlikely the cashiers have been trained for such misdemeanor emergencies. Greensboro Falls seems like the kind of town where everyone knows everybody else, and because of this, you have to be honest whether you want to be or not.
Then again, bad people travel, don’t they.
The cashiers watch me as I descend on the household products aisle, and I bet they’re looking to see if I am a shoplifter with my big-pocketed black pants and my lowered head. If I were to tell them the reason that I’m here, would they be more kindly disposed to my presence?
I find the shelves with laundry supplies in the back. They’re by the pharmacy section, and a white-coated man looks up from behind an elevated counter. He does a double take and then resumes counting pills. Behind him, the drugs that can be given only upon doctors’ orders are like soldiers ready to be called to the front lines of battles, the labels-out lineups of opaque, mostly white bottles too far away for me to read their names. This is where I will have to go for my refills, and I know he’s going to look at me and not be surprised by what he must count out for me.
As I stop in front of the fabric softeners, I find the Rit brand dyes next to the bleach, and this proximity seems like a portent. The boxes are lined up like crayons, the colors cheerful and primary. There are three boxes of black available and I wonder how many I will need. I look around. There are a couple of other people strolling down the various aisles, like one with a basket full of things, another using his hands as a cart, but no one looks like a colorfast docent. I check out the pharmacist. He glances over at me as if he senses my regard—or more likely, he’s waiting for me to slip something in my pocket and try to run out of the store.
After checking the price, I find that I can afford up to four boxes and be certain that I have enough left over for tax, so I clean the CVS out of its stock of three. I imagine I’ll be a topic of conversation for the cashiers, probably for the pharmacist, maybe even for the manager wherever he or she is. This is a busy store, but that’s a relative term in this sleepy little town, and the people who work here no doubt have plenty of time on their hands to discuss odd customers. Like a girl with black clothes buying black dye.
Just wait until I come in for my lithium.
As I turn away from the shelf, I can sense the pharmacist looking at me again, and I want to give him a little wave and tell him I’ll see him soon. He and I are in a relationship.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
Up at the cash registers and the candy bars, I wait in line behind a woman who is buying hairbrushes, hair spray, mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. She’s telling the clerk that she is going to her cousin’s wedding. She’s frumpy and on the young side of thirty, with no wedding band. It’s clear by her conversation that she’s hoping to attract a specific groomsman’s attention, and is placing her bets on the makeup she is purchasing and the new hairstyle she is going to try out. I feel sorry for her, and I almost wish her luck as she puts her change into her wallet, takes her white plastic bags with their red lettering, and heads off to attempt to alleviate her spinsterhood.
When the cashier’s eyes settle on me, the smile she gave to the wedding guest is traded in for a professional mask of customer service. “You find what you need?”
“Yes,” I say as I put the three boxes on the counter.
“You know, that’s not for your hair.”
So she sees my roots. Although given the amount of new growth I have, that’s really not an eye test.
“Yes, I know.”
When she doesn’t scan the boxes, I look at the other cashier. She’s staring at me, too, and I have the sense I will fare no better if I take two steps to the right and give her a try. I know what they are both thinking.
Aren’t your clothes black enough, kid? Do you have to pretend you’re special? God, your poor mother.
I want to ignore the thoughts going through their heads, but they’re so clear to me that I can hear them in their own voices, with separate inflections and accents. And that is when a shiver of warning hits me.
What is a simple commercial transaction becomes a race against time. I take out my five-dollar bill and put it next to the boxes. This does the trick, jump-starting the process.
“You’re going to use salt, right?” the cashier says as she hits keys on the register.
“What?” I mumble through the concert of voices that has started to play in my head.
“You need to add a cup of salt to the water in the washer.”
This is very helpful of her and not because it has anything to do with the dyeing process. Her advice provides me with a platform on which to refocus on the task at hand.
“I didn’t know that,” I say.
She eyes my clothes. “Have you ever used dye before?”
“No. What do I do?”
“How much are you dyeing?”