Chapter Two.

“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.

But Claude was touching Courtney and somehow–at this time, in this place as he had said–it felt weirdly intimate. Somehow okay. Bordering on feeling… nice.

“My daughter…” She began before trailing off. Wanting to protest that Violet was the reason she was here. Not her. Not destiny or fate. But the words died on her lips when the ostentatiously attired fashionista released his grip.

Her hands were suddenly, terribly empty.

“Ah yes, the girl. Here, let me take a look at you, child.” He said, refocusing his scrutinizing glare onto the younger woman who straightened up under his attention. “Hmm, I see unseasoned wood. Too green and too soft. Another basic valley girl; heavy on the eyeliner, lipstick and foundation. Common clay that lacks the sediment of life and struggle to grant it the strength to endure the hardening fires of my kiln without cracking or shattering completely.”

Violet wilted under the harsh assessment, her head and shoulders sagging as her dirty blonde bangs fell like a twin curtains to shield her downcast face.

“I–I’m sorry, Monsieur.” She gasped, a painful hitch of disappointment evident in her small voice. “I thought I was a true believer…”

Courtney was ready to rebel on her precious daughter’s behalf and tell the judgemental jackass where he could shove his shitty clay–no matter how nice and comforting his touch felt–when Claude softened his tone and rested his pudgy hands on Violet’s slim shoulder’s.

He had to reach upwards to do so, as his browline was level with her perky young cleavage.

“You are, child, I am certain that you are.” He consoled, rubbing her upper arms. “You were simply meant for another, less stringent artist's hands. Someone like… ADAM!”

Claude shrilled the name with a violent toss of his backcombed head that disturbed his coppery coiffure not at all.

"Master Claude?"

A tall, well built young man stepped out through the curtained back doorway. He was sharply dressed in a black button up tucked into matching slacks and black leather oxfords. Dark hair fell to his broad shoulders, held back by a simple headband, and a brown suede half-apron tied about his waist gave him the appearance of a handsome, high class cafe barista.

"Come forward, my boy." Claude waved him over until they were standing side by side in a visual display of opposites before addressing Violet. "Allow me to introduce Adam; my protégé. He has dedicated himself to the study of my style and techniques as a faithful disciple should.

“Adam is good, he’s very very good, and I do not doubt that one day he will achieve greatness if he continues to devote himself wholeheartedly to the process.” He continued, patting the taller man companionably on the hip and looking up at him. “Adam, this is Violet and she will be your canvas today for her… makeover.”

Courtney almost missed the downturning of the peacock's lips this time. Almost.

Glancing over at her daughter, she was unsurprised to see the bashful smile and warmth dusting her cheeks. Adam was handsome in a well put together way and Violet was, well… Violet. An energetic young lady with liberal views on relationships, if not an actual heartbreaker.

“Hi–Hi there Adam.” Violet batted her lashes at him.

“Yes, yes. I don’t want to waste too much time on this.” Claude huffed, waving perfunctorily. “Give her the full treatment. Begin with the wash, cut, style and color. Blonde, I should think. Not dirty but a proper golden blonde, no?”

He looked to Violet for confirmation who just nodded enthusiastically, clearly tongue tied as her fashion idol gathered creative steam.

“Then skin care, cosmetic applications and wardrobe selection. I will trust your singular tastes in this, Adam but must insist that any notable changes are run past me first. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Claude.”

“Good. I will need time to meditate upon my own subject. You may begin by cleaning that ridiculous clown makeup off the poor girl’s face.”

Courtney opened her mouth to protest the backhanded remark but only ended up coughing as she caught a throatful of the potently fragrant air.

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