Shorn Star

The mailbox sits at the edge of the campground office beneath a faded wooden awning that has probably survived three hurricanes and at least twice as many management changes.

I park the Harvester beside the office and climb out into the afternoon heat. The air smells like cut grass, diesel fuel, and the nearby river. Spanish moss hangs from the trees like gray curtains while cicadas scream from somewhere overhead. Just another day.

The old woman behind the counter waves as I step inside. "Got a little stack for you today, Jezebel."

"Good news or bills?" I ask.

"Mostly bills," she alerts me.

"Then I probably don't want it," I quip.

She laughs and slides the bundle across the counter. I flip through it while standing there. There is an electric bill, an insurance notice, an advertisements for replacement windows, a church revival and a lawyer who promises to fight traffic tickets.

The usual collection of junk that somehow manages to find me no matter where I park the Airstream. Then I stop. One envelope doesn't belong with the others. The paper is thick, expensive and cream colored. My name is written across the front in elegant gold script.

"That's odd," I mutter.

"What is?" the woman asks. I hold up the envelope.

She squints at it. "Fancy."

"Fancy usually means somebody wants something," I note.

"Or somebody likes you," she laughs again.

I tuck the rest of the mail under my arm and carefully break the seal. The paper inside is even fancier. It's he kind of invitation rich people send when they're trying to convince other rich people they're richer. I unfold it.

For a moment I simply stare. Then I read it again. A grin slowly creeps across my face. "Well that's weird."

"What is it?" she asks.

I clear my throat dramatically."Congratulations, Miss Jezebel James. You have been selected as the recipient of our Grand Beauty Giveaway. This certificate entitles you to one complimentary styling package at Enchantments Salon and Spa. Services include haircut, coloring, makeup consultation, wardrobe consultation, luxury treatments, and a personalized glamour assessment. Estimated value: twelve hundred dollars."

The woman behind the counter whistles. "Twelve hundred?"

I continue reading. "Our panel of beauty professionals was impressed by your unique look and believes you would be an ideal candidate for our Signature Transformation Experience." I lower the paper. "Transformation Experience?"

"Sounds expensive," she says

"Sounds suspicious," I counter.

"Everything sounds suspicious to you," she notes, and she isn’t wrong.

"Because suspicious things keep happening to me." The woman considers this. I look back at the invitation. The salon's address is printed at the bottom. Oddly enough, I've never heard of it.

Still... I look down at my reflection in the office window. Dark curls. Blue eyes. A little road dust. A little exhaustion. A lot of split ends. The past few months have been busy. Between haunted churches, murderous cults, abandoned hospitals, and things with far too many teeth, regular maintenance has not exactly been a priority.

My hair has spent more time stuffed beneath hoods, hats, and rain ponchos than it has anywhere near a stylist. Even I have to admit it is starting to show. The curls are wilder than usual, the ends are frayed, and there is a stubborn knot near the back that has survived three separate attempts at brushing. Nothing catastrophic.

Nothing that justifies driving halfway across the state for a makeover. Yet standing here in the doorway, surrounded by polished mirrors and expensive perfumes, I suddenly feel every mile of road and every sleepless night reflected back at me.

Between investigations, monster hunts, stakeouts, and sleeping in campgrounds, salons have not exactly been a priority. The idea of somebody else paying for one sounds pretty nice.

"You're thinking about it," the woman says.

The invitation certainly looks legitimate. The paper feels legitimate. The address is local. And the words "complimentary styling package" have a surprising amount of power over a woman who spends most of her life covered in dirt, blood, motor oil, or some combination of the three. I fold the invitation and slip it back into the envelope.

"You're going, aren't you?" she asks.

"I haven't decided," I lie, shaking my head and gather my mail. As I head for the door, I glance down at the elegant gold lettering one more time.

ENCHANTMENTS SALON AND SPA.

The name sends a faint little shiver down my spine, just enough unease to make me pause. Then I shrug. It's probably nothing. After all, what could possibly go wrong at a beauty salon?