Stuffstream

When I was a preteen, we visited my aunt in Alabama every summer. Verleane "did hair," as she called her job as a beautician. My uncle Bunch was a dairy farmer (Yes, Bunch. His real name was Nathan.) He had built a beauty salon on the back of their house, between the house and the milking parlor, just for Verleane to "do hair." I loved her shop. It was full of what I thought were guilty pleasures. Bottles and bottles of shampoos and conditioners, hair dyes, permanent wave chemicals, straightening chemicals, hair rollers, bobby pins of all sizes. Verleane also "did nails." So, bottles and bottles of nail polish, in all colors, but probably not black. Cuticle conditioners, buffers, nail polish remover, nail strengtheners. One afternoon, when my aunt and mother were drinking coffee and smoking in the kitchen, I went into the salon and painted my nails, then painted them again with whatever mysterious substance was in the other bottles on the tray. I has...