Expired by Evie Rhodes Read Free Book Online Page B

better investments. Women came to her salons from as far away as D.C. and Philly to get their hair braided in her shops.
    She had hired some of the best African talent in the city. The other thing was, these women were disciplined. They could stand on their feet, braiding for hours without tiring or needing a break. They worked hard, and they were loyal to a fault. Tracie had never met anyone like them. Under their skills, her braiding salons were raking in the cash.
    A huge percentage of the braiding styles parading around the streets of New York City were obtained in her salons. All her salons were named after her: Tracie’s Place One, Two, Three, Four, and so on. She loved it. The shop on 135 th and Seventh Avenue was her baby. It was her first shop. This was where her headquarters was located.
    At the Seventh Avenue salon she accepted credit cards as well as checks. In this salon the clientele sometimes tended to be a bit more exclusive. She serviced a lot of professional women with high incomes who worked in Manhattan.
    She had to accommodate them because these weren’t the type of women who walked around with wallets full of cash. Their credit card status was part of their esteem. It was part of their professional package. They expected to flip out titanium, platinum, and gold cards and use them for services rendered.
    Plus, these women were into caring for their manes, which they wanted to look healthy and shiny. They were also into weaves of every sort and variety. So her main salon was of a different feel from the braid sweatshops Tracie owned.
    The inside of the salon had an ultramodern look, with black and silver color schemes. There were eighteen hair stations. Each was doing a brisk business. Ninety-eight KISS FM dominated the room with its golden classic sounds. There was lots of laughter and lighthearted chattering going on. The cappuccino and coffee machines were pumping.
    The makeup stations were busy as usual, scattered with an array of colorful hues and makeup in every shade. Mirrors covered every angle, so a woman could admire the contours of her facial features and examine her coloring in different shades of light.
    The nail booths were pumping out glittery, shining jobs; not one drop of polish was out of place. There wasn’t a color that had ever been created that Tracie’s shop didn’t carry. The nail designs were cutting-edge. Customers fought for a seat here—particularly the young girls who changed their nail design every couple of days to keep ahead of the others, and who had taken airbrush to a different level.
    Eight pedicure booths lined the wall. Each booth was designed with heavily cushioned seats, laid out for pampering and comfort. The foot sinks gleamed and sparkled, boasting the best-smelling scents in the city.
    Bottled perfumed scents sat in antique holders. They were of the highest quality, to keep a woman’s feet smelling good and looking like a creation in art itself. An array of stainless steel instruments complemented each pedicure booth.
    Each seat had its own occupant, looking down upon the head of the pedicure stylist, who would churn out her pedicure as though she were a princess come to visit from a foreign land.
    Yes, it was business as usual, Tracie saw as she looked out from behind the glass-walled office. This was her domain, built from scratch. She had built her business from the ground up, with plenty of hard work, imagination, and a flair for the beautiful.
    Her goal had been to make beauty a sensual experience. When a woman left her shop, she left covered in the sheen of glamour. It wasn’t just physical beauty. Tracie’s salons poured it on so it reached the emotional recesses of a woman’s psyche, leaving her feeling like a queen.
    Tracie Burlingame had tapped into a secret, coveted place inside the black woman’s emotions. And she had come out shining. Visiting Tracie’s salon wasn’t just maintenance; it was an