are too stupid to even notice, right? Wow!” She contemplated those thoughts while crunching a carrot. “That’s so brave.” Jamie stared at Lacey. “And you’re going to, like, do something about it, right? That is so tremendous.”
Lacey glared at Stella. “Actually, I’m not—”
A tall, slender man flung himself down in a chair next to Stella. “How much longer for this little drama, do you think?” Wire-framed glasses were perched on an aquiline nose. He pushed them up with his middle finger and gazed around the room. A dark auburn lock of hair drooped ever so piquantly over his forehead. Black slacks and a white linen poet’s shirt completed the tormented-artist look. He was, Lacey concluded, not one of the straight male hairstylists. “Piled it on a little thick, didn’t we, Stella?” he said. “You really think she was Little Miss I-Love-My-Hair-Too-Much-to-Die?”
“What do you think?” Stella said.
“I think the salon was closed for two whole days just to clean up the bloody mess she left. Simply destroyed my appointment book.”
“Don’t be a jerk. She didn’t kill herself, Leo.”
“Of course she did. Angela Woods was not important enough to murder.”
Stella’s eyes were daggers and her bloodred fingernails looked dangerous as she spread them on the table.
“Maybe not, Leo, but you are.” He merely snorted. “Leo, this is Lacey Smithsonian. You know, ‘Crimes of Fashion’ Lacey Smithsonian. Lacey, this is Leonardo, the Leonardo. He worked next to Angie. Sometimes he’s almost human.”
“Dear sweet Angie. C’est la vie. She was so young and naive. I shared what I could with her. My skills, my experience, my je ne sais quoi. My card.”
Lacey took his offered business card. “Why would Angie kill herself when she was a rising star? Isn’t that what she worked so hard for?”
“Because she couldn’t handle all the attention. Besides, Marcia Robinson should have been mine.”
Lacey had heard a lot about the temperamental Leonardo. No last name, just Leonardo. He had been the resident star stylist at Stylettos and “a royal pain in the butt,” to quote Stella. He often left other stylists in tears during a tirade. He refused to see clients if they had been “unfaithful.” He overbooked his schedule and made clients wait for hours, or he disappeared for days and made others cover for him.
Leonardo straightened up and gave his full attention to Lacey. “So you’re the little style sniper at The Eye . I can’t believe we haven’t met before. But of course, Stella has told me all about you. We just adore your column. You know, you have great hair. You’re wasted on Stella.”
Leo grabbed a handful of Lacey’s hair and ran his fingers through it, pulling gently and letting it fall into place. “Nice texture, good weight. Do make an appointment with me, doll, next time Stella’s out of town. Don’t tell Stella.” He winked at Stella and squeezed Lacey’s hand.
“You wouldn’t like her, Leo,” Stella snarled. “She’s one of ‘those.’ ”
“You mean she insists on having it her way? Naughty, naughty. You have to remember who the expert is, Lacey.”
Yes. Me. It’s my hair. I’m the expert. “Sorry, Leonardo,” Lacey said. “Stella’s my stylist. I’m afraid to ditch her.”
He sighed. “Come in anyway, we’ll talk about ‘Crimes.’ You know it’s a crime what women in this town do to their hair. Can you believe they still want their hair frosted? Oh my God. With all the edgy alternatives available? It’s ridiculous. Does it make you want to gag or what? You take a twenty-five-year-old woman and give her a frosted Helmet Head, what do you get? A woman who looks forty-five. Of course, D.C. is full of the prematurely matronly and geezerly. Forget the spandex, and bring on the sweatpants, honey.” Leo’s private mission was to break the hammerlock of the frosted Helmet Head look that was so popular in Washington.
“Tell me, Leo, did
Lacey glared at Stella. “Actually, I’m not—”
A tall, slender man flung himself down in a chair next to Stella. “How much longer for this little drama, do you think?” Wire-framed glasses were perched on an aquiline nose. He pushed them up with his middle finger and gazed around the room. A dark auburn lock of hair drooped ever so piquantly over his forehead. Black slacks and a white linen poet’s shirt completed the tormented-artist look. He was, Lacey concluded, not one of the straight male hairstylists. “Piled it on a little thick, didn’t we, Stella?” he said. “You really think she was Little Miss I-Love-My-Hair-Too-Much-to-Die?”
“What do you think?” Stella said.
“I think the salon was closed for two whole days just to clean up the bloody mess she left. Simply destroyed my appointment book.”
“Don’t be a jerk. She didn’t kill herself, Leo.”
“Of course she did. Angela Woods was not important enough to murder.”
Stella’s eyes were daggers and her bloodred fingernails looked dangerous as she spread them on the table.
“Maybe not, Leo, but you are.” He merely snorted. “Leo, this is Lacey Smithsonian. You know, ‘Crimes of Fashion’ Lacey Smithsonian. Lacey, this is Leonardo, the Leonardo. He worked next to Angie. Sometimes he’s almost human.”
“Dear sweet Angie. C’est la vie. She was so young and naive. I shared what I could with her. My skills, my experience, my je ne sais quoi. My card.”
Lacey took his offered business card. “Why would Angie kill herself when she was a rising star? Isn’t that what she worked so hard for?”
“Because she couldn’t handle all the attention. Besides, Marcia Robinson should have been mine.”
Lacey had heard a lot about the temperamental Leonardo. No last name, just Leonardo. He had been the resident star stylist at Stylettos and “a royal pain in the butt,” to quote Stella. He often left other stylists in tears during a tirade. He refused to see clients if they had been “unfaithful.” He overbooked his schedule and made clients wait for hours, or he disappeared for days and made others cover for him.
Leonardo straightened up and gave his full attention to Lacey. “So you’re the little style sniper at The Eye . I can’t believe we haven’t met before. But of course, Stella has told me all about you. We just adore your column. You know, you have great hair. You’re wasted on Stella.”
Leo grabbed a handful of Lacey’s hair and ran his fingers through it, pulling gently and letting it fall into place. “Nice texture, good weight. Do make an appointment with me, doll, next time Stella’s out of town. Don’t tell Stella.” He winked at Stella and squeezed Lacey’s hand.
“You wouldn’t like her, Leo,” Stella snarled. “She’s one of ‘those.’ ”
“You mean she insists on having it her way? Naughty, naughty. You have to remember who the expert is, Lacey.”
Yes. Me. It’s my hair. I’m the expert. “Sorry, Leonardo,” Lacey said. “Stella’s my stylist. I’m afraid to ditch her.”
He sighed. “Come in anyway, we’ll talk about ‘Crimes.’ You know it’s a crime what women in this town do to their hair. Can you believe they still want their hair frosted? Oh my God. With all the edgy alternatives available? It’s ridiculous. Does it make you want to gag or what? You take a twenty-five-year-old woman and give her a frosted Helmet Head, what do you get? A woman who looks forty-five. Of course, D.C. is full of the prematurely matronly and geezerly. Forget the spandex, and bring on the sweatpants, honey.” Leo’s private mission was to break the hammerlock of the frosted Helmet Head look that was so popular in Washington.
“Tell me, Leo, did
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