Chapter 1:
A Shortage of Eligible Bachelors
“I’m dying to get married,” Linda Ironback says, chugging down a beer I’ve fished out of the refrigerator in my hair dressing salon.
“Who to?” I ask, clipping her frizzy curls shorter.
“Anybody, Tracy. I’m forty years old and it hasn’t happened yet.”
I look at Linda Ironback in my salon mirror. Brown eyes surrounded by crow’s feet, brown hair damaged from the sun. She’s burly—weighs about 200 pounds. Tall—about six foot two. I doubt a new haircut will do her any good.
She chose her career early in life—roustabout, then diesel engine mechanic, in the oil fields to the east. I imagine she salted away quite a nest egg during the oil boom. Now she’s come home to help her aging parents and make sure everyone knows she’s looking for a man.
Trouble is she scares away Mr. Right, not that there are many Mr. Rights to choose from in this town. All the forty-year-old men I know are married, gay, or nerds. I imagine her hooking up with a computer jockey. They’re usually lightweight and skinny. She could wrestle one into bed and he wouldn’t know what hit him. Would a computer nerd enjoy that? I catch myself simpering a bit in the mirror and return to her unruly hair.
“What kind of man are you looking for?” I ask.
“I met a guy the other day at Mrs. Oscar’s gas station. He’s the mechanic. Knows his way around a motor.”
“You two could make beautiful engines together.”
“He had a wedding ring on.” She turns her head and the blade of my scissors scrapes her hair like a razor. “Tracy, why are they all married?” She drowns her sorrows with more beer and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Blow dry today, Linda?”
“Nah, leave it the way it is.”
No styling for Linda. She wears her hair short to keep it out of her eyes while she’s snuffling about inside the motor of a D8 bulldozer.
I remove her rust-colored terry and the sandy cape—colors I’ve chosen to make her feel as if she’s back in the desert—and we gravitate to the front of the shop. The Citrus Salon is a one-woman show. I can’t seem to hire any other good stylists, but sometimes my masseuse is here. As usual my salon is empty and we continue talking as we approach the desk. “Where are you shopping for Mr. Right?”
“Church, the grocery store, gas stations—everywhere I go.”
“Have you tried the airport?”
