Martha is mad at him. She hates Hair Trix, the hair salon in the strip mall, wedged in between the China Wok II and Sonny’s Laundromat, and it’s the only place where Martha’s father will drive her to get a haircut. Something about a five-mile radius, he always says. But the true reason is he’s cheap. Anyway, she’s desperate because her hair looks like a mullet right now. Hair Trix is a place where old people get their hair cut.

“Old people, huh?” her father says.

“Like in the geriatric ward or something,” Martha says.

“I don’t have 50 dollars for you to get a haircut at that frilly place in the mall.”

“They cut your hair horrible at Hair Trix. And it smells like burning Chinese food in there. It’s not fair.”

“Awww. And weren’t you also neglected as a child?”

Martha stares out the passenger-side window passing by a strip mall. Havenwood is the kind of place where you can buy a gun, find a plumber, and get a tattoo, all in the same place.

“Tell me, it’s because you didn’t get that talking bear for Christmas one year, isn’t it?” her father teases. He always makes this joke. She never even wanted the bear that bad.

“You had all those gifts under the tree. A brand-new bike. And all you cried about was how you didn’t get that talking bear. What was its name?”

“Nothing,” Martha says.

“Nothing the Bear,” he says, pulling up to the curb to let Martha out. “I remember him well,” he continues. He never stops.

Martha gets out of the car, sulking. It smells like detergent from the laundromat and greasy Chinese food from the China Wok II. Why is it called that? Why is there no China Wok I? Only in Havenwood. Havenwood is a stupid town.

Martha wishes she could live in a place where there is art and culture. Everyone at her high school only cares about the wrestling team. Mr. Melvin is her history teacher and also the wrestling coach, so he never teaches anything; he just sits on the desk talking about wrestling and demonstrating head locks with the boys.

“I’ll be back at three o’clock to pick you up,” her father says.

Martha turns to face her fate. The door of the salon is plastered with their cheap prices. WOW! VALUE! ONLY $15. BLOW DRY EXTRA. The glass is smudged with fat fingerprints and the door handle is oily. Martha enters. DREAD!

In the waiting area out front, the receptionist chews gum, making a sucking noise that sounds like something dirty. They are uncivilized at Hair Trix.

“Hi there, hon,” the sucking woman says. “Whatcha havin’ done today?”

Martha shrugs. “A haircut.”

“You have a favorite stylist you like?”

No, thinks Martha, and she shakes her head. Words are futile.

“Looks like I’ve got Julie available right now. Let me take you back there.”

The sucking woman leads Martha back into the salon area. There are no other customers. They never sweep this place. There is other people’s dead hair all over the floor. Old-lady-white-hair and dark-curled-hairs and probably some dog hair too.

Julie has been her stylist before. Julie, the one with the short red hair, which Martha suspects is dyed. Julie, the one who dots the “i” in her name with a smiley face. She probably thinks doing this makes her adorable.

Martha sits down in Julie’s chair, examining herself. She has plain brown hair that drapes over a round face. Shaped like a heart, her mother says, but Martha suspects that’s just a nice way of saying fat face. Heart-shaped just like your father, her mother adds. One day, Martha will appreciate this resemblance to her father, but for now, all she sees in the mirror is fat—and she sees Julie, picking out somebody’s hair from the comb she is about to use.

“How do you want your hair cut today?” Julie asks.

They only know one cut at Hair Trix. Layering. And no matter how many photos Martha points to in the style book from 1985, the only book they have, they will only layer her hair.

“You want layers?” Julie asks. Right on time.

“Whatever makes it look good,” Martha says, knowing nothing will.

Julie leads her to the sink to wash it. Martha read on the Internet that people have severed their spines from resting their neck in the dip of the basin. It’s true. Julie has probably never heard of this danger, but it happens all of the time. Martha lays back into the dip, praying it happens. That will teach her father.

“How old are you?” Julie asks.

“Fourteen,” Martha says.

Julie squirts a gob of shampoo in her hand and begins lathering it into Martha’s hair. Julie smells like cigarettes and Diet Coke, and the shampoo smells like strawberries. Martha’s neck tenses. Maybe it’s about to disconnect.

“I have a weird question for you,” Julie says.

“OK.”

“Have you ever seen a stripper?

“Sure,” Martha says. She knows what a stripper is, if that counts.

“Okay, well one of the girls here, it’s her birthday. We’re surprising her with a male stripper, and he’s supposed to be here pretty soon. Any minute now,” Julie says.

“Oh,” Martha says, trying to sound unimpressed, the “oh” as though it simply falls out of her mouth.

But Martha is mortified. She secretly begs God and Buddha and Jesus and Santa, and whatever else is up there and whoever else will help her to please make it not happen before her father comes back.

“You kids see it all these days anyway,” Julie says. She stands Martha up and wraps a towel around her head. The towel smells like a shampooed dog. They walk back to the styling chair for the ritual layering.

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