Kiera sat in the small beauty salon wondering when love would find her or if she’d already found it and cast it aside. The smell of deep coconut conditioners and tanning oil tickled her nose. The salon was filled with old men waiting on their wives. Farmers dressed in their town clothes. The old man with the open sore on his monstrous nose was dressed in gray pants, white socks, and brown shoes.
The white socks reminded Kiera of her latest failed attempt at loving someone—George. No matter what he wore, he was never without those damn white socks. The last dinner party they’d went to he’d looked like a Mormon missionary: black pants, black shoes, black tie, white shirt, and white socks glaring bright from under his cuff. Normally George was well-dressed at least in casual settings.
A thirty-something woman entered the shop with a small blonde boy attached to her hand. Again with the white socks. Kiera began to wonder if it was a mid-west thing. Here in Iowa it seemed quite the fad and George was from Chicago.
Photo:skoticus
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