"Stop getting into that!" The voice is distinctly female, and though it chastises you, there's warmth in it too, and you can't help the grin that tugs at your mouth as you pull your hand out of your mama's desk drawer, the prize of a licorice whip clutched in your hand. "You've already had three. No more or you're gonna spoil your supper." You're already biting into the candy, though, and you can tell by the look on your mom's face that she's not really mad, not really.
Her attention turns from you though as she goes back to the lady whose hair she's doing, and that leaves you to your own devices. You climb up onto the chairs and spin until you're dizzy and laughing, and as the chair comes to a slow stop, you settle in and gnaw on your licorice, just watching your mama as she works. The sun streams through the windows, bright and full of the afternoon light, and the shop is hot inside, the rotating fans doing little to alleviate the heat. But you'd rather be in here, watching her, keeping her company, than you would be out there, playing with the other kids. After all, it's just you and her against the world, and she's always there for you, so you better be there for her. You don't mind it at all, though. There's licorice in the drawers, magazines with shiny images plastered all over them, and the women who come in to get their hair pinned and curled, washed and dried, they all have nice things to say about you. So you sit, and keep her company.