Page 7 of The Ruse of Romancing

Mason

The bell above the door into Ed’s jangled as I stepped inside, greeted by the familiar sight of a trio of retired men lounging around, reading newspapers and shooting the breeze.

If anyone accused the women of Cascade Harbor of being town gossips, they clearly had never stepped foot inside the town barbershop on a Sunday.

The old men occupying the seats lining the storefront windows wearing matching button up shirts knew more about what was going on in this town than anyone else, and they were more than happy to share if you asked the right questions.

I’d used their information to my advantage on more than one occasion, especially when it came to wooing the many single female tourists who passed through town.

Through the various shop owners around town, they had an impressive network of informants that was borderline scary if I thought about it too hard.

Though I still had yet to figure how exactly they collected all of their information.

The only thing these men didn’t know: who originally started Ed’s. Town legend ranged from a mountain man who got tired of the fur trade to a fugitive on the run who changed his name and appearance, using the barbershop to hide from his crimes.

Davie, the shop’s current proprietor, never so much as hinted at the true story. Instead, if you ever posited a theory, he just grunted and responded simply by saying, “Could be,” before returning to his work.

Only one of the barbershop chairs was occupied by a client as Davie finished a beard trim for a hipster I’d never seen before.

That was one thing to be said for Ed’s. While the shop’s faded brick facade wasn’t much to look at from the outside, Davie’s skill with a razor was legendary, attracting clientele from as far away as Portland.

Though Davie had a policy that Cascade Harbor residents took priority, making any out of towners wait while Davie serviced the locals first.

Davie’s nephew and apprentice, Charlie, sat in the other barbershop chair, staring up at the ceiling as he rocked back and forth.

While Davie was a behemoth of a man with tattoo sleeves and bulging muscles that hinted at his life in the military before purchasing the shop, Charlie was a skinny kid who, despite being old enough to have completed all of the necessary coursework to become a barber, perpetually looked like he was skipping class thanks to a certain dreamy quality in his expression.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Art, a man who was at least ninety years old, called from behind his newspaper.

A newspaper that, if I was a betting man, he couldn’t read thanks to cataracts and old age, but it didn’t change the fact that he clutched one in his age-spotted hands every Sunday morning I stopped in for my bi-weekly trim.

“I’m surprised we’re seeing you this early,” Marty said from Art’s left.

While Art was slim and stooped, Marty was rotund with a belly laugh that carried through a crowd.

He claimed to be twenty years younger than Art, but I didn’t buy it.

He looked to be at least in his eighties.

“Heard you had some company last night.” Marty’s eyebrows danced as he waited for my response.

“Double company, if Benny’s to be believed.

He said he saw a car headed up your road after ten and a different car coming back down right after.

” This came from Clyde, a bald man who’d only recently retired as principal of the local high school.

From what I could tell, Clyde was spending his entire retirement situated at Ed’s and using his divorced insomniac son as an information source.

“Benny should mind his own business,” I said, leaning against the wall next to Clyde. “Doesn’t he have anything better to do besides watch outside your windows late at night?”

Clyde shrugged. “Wasn’t too late for you to have two lady friends come calling.”

I snorted, thinking of my second “lady friend.”

“That second visitor was my grandparents’ long-term summer renter. She didn’t get to town until after dark.” I shrugged, pretending nonchalance even as frustration at what my new temporary neighbor had interrupted filtered into my mind.

While Veronica couldn’t sit still long enough to really model for a drawing, she was a very skilled kisser.

I’d almost felt bad lying to her about having to go into Portland for a few days.

I wouldn’t have minded having her back for a second “modeling” session.

But if I’d learned anything about flirtations with the visiting tourists that flooded Cascade Harbor every year, it was that everything was easier if interactions were kept to one, two days max.

Keep things casual and fun and no one got hurt.

Which was why it was probably for the best that my new neighbor had so thoroughly rejected my invitation the night before.

I’d completely misread her, something I was blaming on the darkness and my make-out addled brain.

Thankfully, summer brought plenty of tourists and opportunities for other modeling invitations with women who’d be more than happy to spend commitment-free time with me.

Women who I might encourage to park in the middle of the driveaway, keep my neighbor on her toes.

“Benny said she was easy on the eyes. That true?” Clyde asked.

Both Art and Marty trained their full attention on me, not even pretending to read their newspapers anymore.

I shrugged, pretending like I hadn’t noticed her curves in the dim light of her headlights. “Don’t know. It was too dark to really see her last night. I haven’t seen her yet today. I left early this morning so I didn’t get trapped by Scooter’s truck.”

I’d tried to warn my new neighbor about our landscaper and his inability to park anywhere other than right in the middle of our driveway, but she’d closed the garage door so fast you would have thought a bear was trying to break in.

After moving into the duplex, I’d quickly learned to vacate the premises before eight every Sunday morning if I wanted to leave home before noon.

How it took Scooter four hours to mow the duplex’s postage stamp yard, I’d never know, but I wasn’t going to question it too closely.

Scooter charged a set rate, no matter how long it took him to finish, and his mowing meant I didn’t have to do it.

At this point, Charlie had stopped rocking back and forth in his barbershop chair, training his eyes on me in a way I didn’t like.

He had been trying to convince me to let him do my bi-weekly trim for months, despite the unspoken rule between barbers that you should leave each other’s clients alone.

Davie had always been available to come to my rescue.

Not so much right now as Davie was engrossed in discussing some kind of beard cream with the man in his chair.

The fact that Charlie’s eyes were twinkling with mischief behind his glasses told me he’d just come to the same realization, and I no longer had the ability to hide behind Davie.

“You ready for your trim, Mason?” Charlie asked, his voice filled with far too much enthusiasm.

“Yep. Just as soon as Davie’s available.” I hedged. I’d seen Charlie’s first attempts at cutting hair, I wasn’t letting him anywhere near my long locks.

“Come on, Mason! You said once I had more practice, you’d let me give it a go.”

I winced, knowing I promised as much back when I was convinced Charlie’s desire to take over the barbershop one day was simply a passing fancy.

I’d made a bet with Marty that Charlie’s efforts would last less than a month.

Not only had that bet cost me twenty bucks, but it looked like it was about to cost me today’s appointment with Davie as well.

“I did say that...” I trailed off, trying to buy myself time. If I stalled long enough, maybe Davie would finish with the hipster in time to help me.

Unaware of my turmoil, Davie continued chatting with his current client, clearly in no rush.

I hesitated a moment longer. Charlie had been working with Davie for six months now.

I’d even seen some of his clients walking around town with both ears and a decent haircut. What was the worst that could happen?

Taking a deep breath, I nodded, climbing into Charlie’s barbershop chair. The Gossip Gang laughed at my predicament, Art and Clyde taking bets on how badly Charlie would mess up. I clenched my fists, not about to back down with an audience.

I settled into the chair, allowing Charlie to wash my hair before beginning the cut, the chair turned away from the mirror as he worked.

I slowly began to relax at the familiar motions.

While his technique wasn’t identical to Davie’s, it was close enough that I could see myself using Charlie again if Davie was having a busy day.

Davie finished up with the hipster, ringing the man up at the cash register before settling in to chat with the group of men lining the window. The conversation shifted from my haircut to speculation about my new neighbor and how long she’d be in town.

“Oops,” Charlie said, just as I felt the last bit of tension ease from my shoulders.

I stiffened, reminding myself not to make any sudden movements with Charlie holding a pair of scissors near my head. I closed my eyes, not ready to see the damage.

“Charlie, what do you mean by ‘oops’? Oops is not a word you use when trimming a man’s hair,” I said through clenched teeth.

The Gossip Gang guffawed, and it took everything in me not to look their way to see their reactions.

“I just... took a bit more off than intended in one spot,” Charlie said, hesitantly.

The sound of footsteps followed this declaration, indicating Davie had come over to examine Charlie’s handiwork.

“Boy, in what world is that ‘a bit’?” Davie’s voice rang through the quiet shop, and I pinched my eyes closed tighter. All hope was lost.

“My hand just kind of slipped and—”

“If your hand slips, you cut off an inch at most. That is not an inch.”

The laughter from the Gossip Gang rang through the shop, punctuated by Marty’s distinct, deep belly laughs.

“How bad is it?” I asked, my eyes still closed. I really should just open them, take a peek at the damage. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

“Depends,” Davie said, his voice deep and calm, though I could hear a level of hesitation. Davie never hesitated.

“On?”

“How much you like your man bun.”

Deciding I couldn’t put it off any longer, I opened my eyes, turning in the chair to see the damage. Charlie stood to one side, looking sheepish, his scissors dangling awkwardly from one hand. Davie stood next to Charlie, arms crossed over his chest as he waited for my reaction.

A large chunk of hair had been cut from my head, decorating the floor like the world’s saddest confetti. The hair next to my right ear, which had reached past my shoulders, was now only an inch or so long.

“How—” I broke off, realizing the question wouldn’t do any good as Charlie ducked away from me. I pinched the bridge of my nose, counting to ten as I breathed in and out slowly.

“Can you save it?” I finally asked, already knowing the answer but needing to ask anyway. I remembered the awkward stage of growing my hair out and there was no amount of product or styling that made this particular length look flattering on me.

“Only if you don’t mind having a matching mullet with Mrs. Prescott for a few months,” Davie said, fingering the cut strands.

He was right, of course, but I still hesitated just a moment before nodding.

“Then I guess you better cut it off, Davie. Just be gentle,” I said.

I knew it was just hair, but it had become a part of my identity.

My long hair was integral to my persona as a beach-loving artist. It had also helped transform me from the punk, ignorant kid who attempted to have a relationship with a visiting tourist into the strong, grown man who knew better.

“Uncle Davie, I can fix it! No need for you—”

I held up a hand, cutting Charlie off. “I think you’ve done enough, Charlie.”

Charlie deflated, and I only felt a little bad for crushing his dreams.

“What do you want to do about your beard? The usual?” Davie asked as he got to work fixing my hair.

I bit my lip for just a moment, hesitating. I’d grown the beard to go with the long hair. If I was being forced into a fresh start, I might as well go all in. My beard grew fast enough that, if I hated being clean-shaven, I could always regrow it.

“Might as well shave that too. Looks like I’m getting a fresh, summer look.”

Davie got to work, gently lecturing Charlie as he did about respecting client’s preferences and needing to rein in his enthusiasm.

“Charlie, I know you just want to do a good job, but if you don’t stop acting like an overeager puppy, you’re not going to make it far in the business. You’re lucky Mason’s handling this so well.”

A snort from Art sent the Gossip Gang into another fit of hysterics.

They really were worse than a group of middle-aged women.

I could only imagine how they’d be recounting this episode to everyone who stopped by the shop today.

Fingers crossed a group of kids decided to spray paint a building or Mrs. Olsen hit another fire hydrant with her car, anything to shift the gossip away from me and onto another subject.