Chapter Eleven“Puh-leeze, Timothie, no more purple spikes,” begged his client, Maude, as she sat in the silver chair two weeks later. Her reflection showed a tall older woman with tortoise shell eyeglass frames, a pink tee-shirt, and white capris. A complementary white denim jacket with brass buttons hung on the lobby hook. She wiggled her feet in the hot pink Under Armor runners. Maude was prone to fidget, and today was no exception. The mirror in front of her swayed with the tap of her foot. Her black and white Québec bag nestled at the foot of the chair, which Timothie had cranked to its lowest setting.
“Whatever you say, darling,” he said, smoothing her tresses with a round brush. “Let's not do spikes anymore. I agree. What about this?” He flipped to a magazine page that showed a coup
