Bimbo Salon - Girl's Day Out

"Are you sure this is the right place, Sweetie?" Courtney asked her daughter, frowning about in suspicion at the dingy old strip mall. "I don't feel safe leaving the car unattended in this kind of neighborhood."

"You gotta relax, Courts. We live in Frederick, Maryland, not downtown Detroit." Her daughter Violet scoffed with the eye roll audible in her voice. "And this is definitely the spot, it fits perfectly with how he chooses each new location."

Courts... Not Mom, or Mother, or even Courtney. No. Her one and only daughter called her... Courts.

She wasn't sure when it had begun. Sometime around her baby girl's eighteenth birthday when she had apparently decided that being old enough to vote also meant she could start addressing her Mother by a reductive nickname.

Well Courtney wasn't going to bite. Not today. Not when they were finally spending some quality time together. Mother daughter bonding time. An increasingly rare and precious commodity as her little Violet bloomed into an independent young lady.

"You said that it was a pop-up... thingy, but not a restaurant." She pressed for clarity while stepping around a wilted stack of old magazines moldering outside a boarded up news agency. "Run by some big-shot celebrity?"

"A pop-up beauty salon, yeah but not just any celebrity. Claude Bimbeau was, like, the stylist to the stars! Still super famous in international circles. He's been making these flash appearances all over the world since he quit the Parisian fashion scene. It's all the rage now."

Violet's evident excitement was enough for Courtney to suppress her own eye roll--goodness, but the girl had probably learned it from her mother--and plastered an attentive expression on her face instead of asking the obvious questions.

Like; "if this so-called stylist was so famous, what were they doing in a quaint country town like Frederick?" She didn't ask.

Or "what sort of name was Claude Bimbeau?" She refused to inquire.

Courtney wasn't about to plant loaded--if totally reasonable and rational--conversational landmines on the path to a pleasant day spent with the most important person in her life.

Even if that same person was walking blindly through a derelict suburban mall with her nose buried in her smartphone.

"Sweetie, I thought we promised to be present for each other today." Courtney gently guided Violet away from a toppled shopping cart with a maternal hand on her elbow. "Real life face time. Can we put the phone away, please?"

"In a second, I'm double checking the location pin on Google Maps. Turn left up ahead."

Courtney absolutely didn't sigh in frustration as she took in the dimly lit storefronts with dusty 'out of business' signs taped to the security shutters. She would indulge this minor distraction and, when it reached an inevitably disappointing conclusion, suggest they should get mani-pedis together at that Vietnamese place on West Third Street and share a hot fudge sundae at the North Market Pop Shop afterwards.

A proper day of argument-free togetherness.

"There it is!" Violet squealed gleefully after they turned down another unswept walkway. "I knew it would be here. Suck on that, internet haters!"

Up ahead of them, standing out like a shiny penny amongst the overflowing trash bins and dead planter pots was a brightly lit glass door and display window with the words 'Bimbeau's Salon' curled across the polished glazing in fancy gold leaf lettering.

It was so clean. So new. So out-of-place against the background of commercial ruination that Courtney paused and pulled her daughter back behind her on pure mothering instinct.

"Courts, what are you doing?" Violet squawked, struggling in her white-knuckled hold. "You're hurting me."

Feeling a sudden wash of shame and not a little ridiculous at her knee-jerk reaction, Courtney eased her iron grip and let her shoulders relax with a deep, calming breath.

"Sorry, Sweetie." She apologized meekly. "The spooky feel of this place has me on edge is all."

"Right?" Her daughter enthused, rubbing at her sore wrist. "This is part of Claude's genius. He finds some out of the way dump that no one would visit and refits an old outlet into one of his exclusive beauty parlors for true believers to find. It's all about the theater. Kinda like a treasure hunt."

"I think I understand." Courtney demurred, though as a self made businesswoman, she didn't get it at all. What sort of backward business paradigm was that? "Shall we take a peek?"

"Yes, we totally shall!"

________________

A silver bell tinkled over the door as the mother and daughter duo shyly entered the salon.

Courtney was immediately dazzled by bright overhead lights, shining reflective finishes, and powerful aromas of perfume and peroxide pervading the shop's interior. It was such a jarring transition from the mostly abandoned strip mall outside that she had to blink spots from her vision.

A stab of uncertainty speared her gut as she drank in the colorful decor. The salon had been outfitted in a warm pastel palette. Soft pink, yellow and blue painted the walls, and the vinyl padded seats were upholstered to match. Polished chrome glittered everywhere; from the wash basins to the struts on the reclined styling chair to the varied combs, brushes and scissors laid out with painful precision on spotless worktops, and reflected in the many tall mirrors mounted upon every vertical surface.

It all looked so... retro. Was that the right word? Vintage, maybe?

As though it had been sliced directly out of a 1950's women's fashion magazine and dropped into the rundown commercial district on the westside of town. Soft violin music warbled from invisible speakers and tickled the ear in a most distracting manner.

Set to the side of the large display window was a row of four large stainless steel dryer bonnets mounted behind plush beige armchairs. Two of which were already occupied by unmoving figures shrouded in powder pink cutting capes, the tops of their placidly smiling faces masked from view behind the quietly whirring metallic domes.

Courtney thought they might have been asleep if not for the gentle, pleased noises they occasionally breathed out through dreamy lips.

"Bienvenue mesdames au salon de maître Claude Bimbeau." A silken voice hummed from the back, bringing both mother and daughter's wandering stares to a vision of beauty emerging from behind a curtained doorway.

The stranger's willowy body, elegantly long and supermodel thin, moved with impossible grace as she straightened up behind a small serving counter and smiled. Her face was regally attractive, fine-boned and delicate. Her complexion flawlessly pale, and her glossy onyx hair parted in an almost severe center-part before falling down to her slim shoulders.

A lacy black panel dress swaddled her feminine frame, with billowing mesh sleeves that reached her slender wrists and hip hugging skirts that pinched in her tiny waist before dropping down past her knees.

"That's French," Violet whispered, sidling closer to Courtney with her phone clutched tightly to her perky chest. "Claude Bimbeau is from France and she just said his name. This is really the place, we actually found it."

The young woman appeared to be actively trying to imprint the pivotal moment when she got to meet a true fashion demagogue into her impressionable brain. Blonde brows cutely bunched and her big hazel eyes grew wide, searching for the man of the hour.

"Pardonne-moi, I am Celine; one of Monsieur Claude's personal assistants." She introduced herself in smoothly accented english, neatly clasping her hands together in front of her waist. "Are you both seekers, finding your way here to partake in his noble craft of creation?"

Seekers? Craft of creation?

The opening levels of pretension were already pinging Courtney's bullshit detector. Like, that was the sort of language a sommelier--a fancy name for a wine waiter in her opinion--used to triple the markup on a ten dollar bottle of chardonnay at an already pricey restaurant.

Honestly, when her daughter had brought up the idea of a spa day, Courtney had envisioned cucumber circles over her tired eyes and a lemon foot wrap for her equally tired feet. Maybe go so far as getting her nails done or a small trim to clean away the split ends.

Not that she couldn't use the pampering. Her job as an independent real estate agent was stressful. Especially in an economic slump that saw businesses like this shopping center closing down en masse. Doubly so when she factored in the expenses of looking the part. Project success if you seek success, the industry maxim went. Nobody was buying big dollar properties from the lady wearing Target and driving the dinky 2010 Datsun.

Even her four year old BMW 4 series was a lease that added to her credit card debt each month and her wardrobe of discount J.Crew blazers, close-fit button-ups and pencil skirts only stretched that line ever thinner.

And it showed, dammit. Courtney could feel the crows feet working their way out from the corners of her mouth and eyes as her sales numbers steadily declined. She was losing weight too, and not in a healthy way. She had a sparing, sometimes scrawny build that could always use a little extra padding but lately she had begun to look a touch sallow. Even her caramel brown hair was beginning to fade and lose any hint of its old luster.

She looked enviously on her daughter who was fast coming into the sunrise of her womanhood. Violet had always been pretty, even if she still carried a bit of baby fat in her cherub cheeks and soft little belly, with her long-vamoosed father's dirty blonde hair in a perpetual ponytail and burgeoning curves that must have also been handed down from her paternal genetic line.

So cute and brimming with the boundless energy of optimistic youth. That, and a fondness for cropped rock band tees paired with skin-tight leggings or ripped jeans that hugged her thick butt and thighs.

"That's us, two questing pilgrims!" Violet practically vibrated with excitement, dancing in place like she needed the bathroom. "I'm a huge fan and couldn't believe it when I heard the rumors. Is this the right place, is he really here?"

"If the he you are speak of is moi... then yes, child, you have found the exclusive salon of Claude Bimbeau." A cultured, mildly reedy, male voice said from behind them. "Welcome ladies."

Courtney managed not to jump, merely freezing for a moment before she turned in tandem with her daughter to find a short, smartly-attired man trying to fill the store's doorway with his larger-than-life personality.

He was posing--literally posing--in a sky blue three piece suit with the jacket slung over a shoulder and his face turned in profile, chin raised imperiously, as though preparing for a photo shoot. A loud, floral patterned dress shirt and a canary yellow necktie were tucked into the slim-fitted waistcoat, while monochrome wingtip boots poked out from under his pressed trouser cuffs.

The self-announced Claude couldn't be taller than five feet and a few nickels if Courtney didn't factor in his enormous pompadour hairdo. It was gelled in place like a helmet of shimmering copper with a massive quaff jutting out and up from his forehead, adding another eight inches to his Napoleonic stature.

This was what all the fuss was about? An undersized peacock with an overblown ego trying to awe wholesome small-town folks with his big city flare?

Courtney wasn't buying it but, unfortunately, her daughter was...

"Bonjour--" Violet began before being cut off by a raised palm.

"Stop. Please do not butcher my native language with your bumbling American tongue." Claude interrupted sharply. "There is no need for... unpleasantness so early in our passing acquaintance. Myself and my highly trained staff are all fluent in your colonial form of english."

"S--Sorry."

Courtney bristled when, rather than graciously accepting the stammered apology, he stalked around them to join his straight-backed assistant, invading her personal bubble and weighing them up like raw cuts of beef the entire way.

"Mon Dieu, what have you sent me to work with today?" He asked no one in particular, melodramatically pressing his palms together in prayer and casting his eyes to the heavens. "A trial, no doubt about it. Your humble servant shall endeavor to do his best with the medium you have seen fit to provide this day."

"Oh, you'll do it then?" Violet squeaked, perking back up and attacking her smartphone with both thumbs. "Let me just snap a quick selfie for the 'before' photo--"

"NO PHONES!" Claude snapped, whipping a pointed finger to a small sign posted on a section of the wall not covered in mirrors. "I do not allow the cheeping devices in my workspace, nor will I have my work cheapened by worthless displays of amateur photography!"

The sign was a simple black pictogram of a cell phone with a red X crossed over it set above a similar sign featuring a camera. Both were partially obscured behind a large crystal vase sprouting a bouquet of yellow tulips.

Cecile procured a small silver tray from behind the reception stand and, plucking Violet's phone from her shocked fingers, she laid it neatly on the filigreed surface before turning expectantly to Courtney.

"Madame?" She asked politely, her regal face a neutral mask but for one perfectly plucked brow raised in inquiry. "Your phone please? It will be kept safely behind the front desk and returned at the end of your consultation."

Her phone?!

Courtney couldn't name a single sane person who would willingly relinquish their phone to a stranger. Never mind the threat of theft or invasion of privacy--most of her life was locked up in the hideously expensive digit device, including all of her business contacts, accounts and credentials.

There was simply no way she could take that risk.

"Mom, please..." Violet begged, her big hazel eyes brimming with unspoken entreaties. "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity."

Suddenly she was Mom again, huh? Not 'Courts'.

With a sigh, Courtney turned from her daughter back to the up-jumped little man to find him standing there with his arms crossed over his out-puffed chest and staring at her with an inscrutable expression. As though he was performing complex calculus in his head while badly constipated.

"May I have a moment with my daughter please?"

"Naturellement, Madame." Claude nodded but didn't step away or cease his troubling gaze. "Of course."

Taking in a deep calming breath--the powerful reek of fragrant shampoo and cosmetic chemicals in the air was nearly thick enough to taste--Courtney turned her daughter by the arm and leaned her head in close to whisper.

"Sweetie, I know you are excited but this is crazy." She hissed, trying to maintain a level, motherly tone. "I refuse to give that man my phone and I don't appreciate his bad attitude. We should leave."

"Really, it's fine. You need to understand he's eccentric, Mom. All the top stylists are a little cracked in the head." Violet shot her a sly grin. "He once brought Christina Carangi to tears backstage during Paris fashion week and still sent her out onto the catwalk with her mascara in a total mess. It's actually super cool, like, we're getting the genuine Claude Bimbeau experience. How many people can boast that?"

Trying a more direct approach, Courtney kept it blunt. "Money is tight right now and I don't see any prices listed anywhere. I refuse to believe that the services of a big-shot like him won't come cheap."

"Pardon my interruption, Madame but I could not resist eavesdropping and feel compelled to inform you that I do not demand payment for the performance of my god-given talents."

Doing a lightning quick double-take, Courtney looked down to find the self-important Claude had inserted himself into their not-so-private moment. Somehow he had snuck up behind them in his laughable boots and was peering directly up at her through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his beaky nose.

Where had those come from?

No payment? The astute business side of herself wasn't buying it and she said as much while gesturing about the lavishly appointed salon.

"So you put in all this work and outlay with no expectation of financial returns?" Courtney challenged as Violet whined and tugged desperately on the sleeve of her blazer. "I question your business practices, sir and would love to see your books."

"Mom, don't--"

"Outlay... returns?" Claude clutched dramatically at his pigeon chest as though her words had speared him through the heart. "Do you mistake me for some petty profiteer? Madame, you wound me! I assure you that I am an artist, not a gigolo renting myself out by the hour.

"I carefully select the subjects of my craft from those true believers whose fate leads them to my door. I do not take appointments like any nattering twit with a pair of scissors and the gall to call themselves hairdressers." He spat the word with evident disgust. "Neither will I accept remuneration from those who entrust themselves to the process of my genius. To act otherwise would be debasing the masterpieces of feminine form which I lovingly labor to sculpt and create."

His sudden passionate tirade knocked some of the indignant wind out of Courtney's sails, throughout which not a single bronze hair on his shiny head shifted a nanometer despite his wild gesticulations. Everything appeared firmly glued in place.

"It's true, Courts--I mean Mom." Violet quickly added, sensing her mother's hesitation. "Monsieur Bimbeau doesn't charge a penny for his legendary makeovers if he chooses you as a canvas."

Courtney didn't miss the grimace that flashed across the flamboyant man's face at her daughter's words before he schooled his expression again. Something in the way he spoke nagged at her.

True believers, subjects, canvases. He had a dehumanizing way of talking about people.

"So you choose your... clients, did I understand that right?" She asked warily. "Then this whole discussion is still a waste of everyone's time unless we meet some nebulous requirements you haven't disclosed."

"You are partially correct, Madame. I do indeed select my subjects but there are no fixed requirements to withhold. It is more akin to a sculptor choosing a piece of stone. Seeing the vision trapped within the rock and gently peeling away the excess layers to reveal the beauty hidden beneath." A fervor had begun to burn behind Claude's eyes as he locked his sea-green orbs on her. "And the longer I look at you, dear lady, the more I see a gorgeous triumph in the finest Carrara marble."

Gorgeous?

Courtney hadn't been called anything close to that in a long time, much less felt like it. She knew she should be put off by the diminutive man's odd intensity and the way he kept shuffling in closer to her. Crowding her in this overly bright shop with its dizzying smells, and soft, yet ear-catching music.

"Please, allow me to ply the secrets of my humble trade upon you, Madame." He begged, seizing her hands. A great many jeweled rings sparkled upon his fingers and they captured her gaze. "There was a reason you walked through that door today. You were destined to be here, at this time, in this place. I can feel it, don't you feel it too?"

Courtney wasn't sure that she was feeling anything but growing confusion and his chubby digits closed around her own. Claude was touching her and Courtney didn't like being touched by strangers. She wasn't one of natures 'huggers' except with those she was truly close to--a number which was depressingly small--and even kept handshakes professionally brief to avoid unnecessary skin-to-skin contact.