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De Beaux Cheveux

Joe Giordano

    Margaret Thalacker examined her gel-manicured nails as she spoke. “We live in dangerous times. The very threads of our society are unravelling. Imperial actions don’t promote a return to democracy, rather opponents seek an alternative dictator who will impose their idea of rule.”
    Bernadette Sandler’s feet soaked in a warm bath anticipating her pedicure. Bernadette frequented De Beaux Cheveux Salon on a regular schedule for a manicure, pedicure, hair color, and cut. She insisted that Tiffany, the young black woman who attended her, call her by her first name. Social distinctions and formality only furthered the country’s rigged system. At the golf club, friends nicknamed her Bernie. The reference, “friends,” was a Facebookian term for women who gossiped about others to you, and spoke about you behind your back. Bernadette was one of the few club members who could afford regular visits to De Beaux Cheveux. The other women would’ve sold their children by the kilo to replicate Bernie Sandler’s lifestyle.
    “Margaret, please.” Bernadette’s voice had an exasperated tinge. “Salaries are stagnant and many people drown in debt. Management holds the gun to workers’ heads to accept a subsistence wage. Businesses can afford to wait for labor’s capitulation. Globalization, the latest evil of immoral capitalism pillages jobs from the United States in order to prey on third-world country labor. We need a reboot of the entire system. A global minimum wage. Confiscatory taxes to rebalance income inequality and strong regulatory measures to curb the rapacious instincts of Wall Street and their banker consorts.”
    Margaret shook her head. “I know that comparisons between the United States and the decline of the Roman Empire have gone out of fashion, but men like Caesar pushed the envelope of their authority until civil war raged, and the consequences were so dire that the people relinquished their republic and chose emperors to keep order. I’m telling you, the country is at a breaking point. Talk of secession echoes in several statehouses.”
    Tiffany massaged Bernadette’s feet; a sensation that always lulled her into semi-sleep. Conversation stopped.
    Bernadette’s gratuity to Tiffany would be generous; her goal was to be the biggest tipper to every service provider. The response to money was like the crack of a whip, and Bernadette could wallow in a gesture that furthered the redistribution of wealth so desperately needed. A thought stirred Bernadette’s eyes open. Did that mean that she was an unconscious racist? She shifted in her seat. Tiffany’s skillful hands kneaded her soles, and Bernadette soon reclosed her eyes.
    Margaret’s comments resurfaced in her mind. Bernadette grimaced. Tiffany finished washing her feet and returned them to soak. Bernadette’s finger tips luxuriated in the feel of the soft, cashmere-like material on the decorator-style recliner. Societal change wouldn’t come in her lifetime, if ever. She sighed. Bernadette could take comfort in that.

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