My Husband’s Girlfriend Sits in My Salon Chair Every Thursday — She Has No Idea Whose Wife Is Holding the Scissors

PART 1 — The Woman in My Chair

My husband's girlfriend sits in my salon chair every Thursday at two, tips me twenty dollars, and tells me everything he's planning.

She has no idea whose wife is holding the scissors.

This week, with foils in her hair, she told me exactly what he's putting in my name before he files for divorce.

"You're the only person in this whole town I can trust. You know that?"

She said it the very first week. She has said it every Thursday since.

Her name is Ashley. She drives a white Lexus that my husband's company leases.

My name is Carol. I rent a chair at a salon on Vineville Avenue in Macon, Georgia. Everybody there calls me Miss C. I've been married to Dale for twenty-six years.

The first time she said, "My guy Dale — he's in commercial roofing," I dropped a comb.

She told me he was stuck in a dead marriage. She told me his wife had let herself go and "does hair or something." She told me he'd bought her a condo on the north side through the business. She told me about the boat.

After she left each week, I wrote every word in the back of my appointment book. Date. Time. Dollar amounts.

Twenty-six years of marriage, and I learned more about it from the back of a stranger's head than I ever did across my own supper table.

This Thursday, at 2:05, she came in waving her phone.

"Okay, you have to see this. He finally did it."

A photo of a ring. Two carats, easy.

"He says the divorce will be quick. He says she won't fight, because she doesn't even know what they have."

I sprayed her hair with water. "Doesn't she?"

"Honey, she thinks they're broke." She laughed. "He's been telling her the business is struggling for two years. She even took a second job cleaning a dentist's office on weekends to help out."

I did. Saturdays. Since last spring.

The comb slipped in my hand.

"Oops. You okay?"

"Fine. Hold still."

My face in the mirror behind hers looked like a stranger's. Calm. Too calm. Calm like ice on a pond.

*Struggling.*

"So here's the plan," she said, lowering her voice like it was girl talk. "He has this account for the boat. The real money. Four hundred thousand, give or take."

Four hundred thousand dollars. I had put off a mammogram in the spring because of the copay.

"And next week he's moving all the business debt into her name. The equipment loans. The back taxes. So when they split, she gets the debt and he gets the boat account."

"How does he get her to sign that?"

"He doesn't. He's signing for her. He's done her signature for years. He says she never reads anything anyway."

I never did. He always handed me the pen with a kiss.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it and giggled.

"That's him. He wants to know if I asked you yet."

"Asked me what?"

She tilted the screen toward the mirror so I could read it.

*"Did you ask your hair lady about the paperwork? You said she's a notary, right? Needs to be someone who doesn't know us."*

I am a notary. The certificate is taped beside my mirror. It has been there eleven years. He has never once come into this salon to see it.

"He needs a few things notarized next Friday," Ashley said. "He'll pay cash. Like, good cash."

I didn't drop the scissors. I didn't scream. I didn't let her see one thing.

"Of course, sweetie," I said. "Tell him Friday at four."

She squeezed my arm. "Miss C, you're the best."

After she left, I flipped the sign on my station. And at 3:40, I called the only divorce attorney in Bibb County whose hair I don't do.

Her name is Patrice Moody. She listened for eleven minutes without saying a word.

Then she said: "Carol. Bring the appointment book. And on Friday — let him hand you the folder before you look up."

Friday at 3:58, Dale's truck pulled up out front. Ashley was in the passenger seat, fixing her lipstick in the visor mirror.

Patrice was sitting in the shampoo chair behind the curtain, phone recording.

Dale came in first with a folder under his arm. He took off his sunglasses, set the folder on the counter, looked up —

— saw who was standing behind the notary stamp —

— and said…