Page 7

Chapter six

Chris

R iding around in the freshly washed Jeep with the September sun streaming into the windows is all I need to drive away the guilt of lying to my mom. If I’d have told her the truth, that Carolina calls me often, that would have sent her on a tirade. If she found out I’ve been sending her bits of money here and there so she can enjoy herself in Malaysia or whichever country she’s currently in, she’d really lose it. Despite me trying to help her out, a ticket home never seems to transpire. When my parents drove her to the airport three years ago, I don’t think they had any idea she’d stay so committed to travelling. Hell, I had no idea my bratty younger sister would be able to visit so many places with only a backpack and a whole lot of guts.

Parking a few businesses down from Anna’s salon, I cut the engine and listen to the sea birds screech from the tops of lamp posts as I work up some courage. The window display for Shine Salon is modern with a clean, black awning stretching above the entrance. A sandwich board balances on the sidewalk with a chalk-written message welcoming clients inside.

“Just a haircut,” I say to myself in the rearview mirror, blowing air out of my cheeks while flattening my too-long strands to my forehead. If that’s all it is, how come I’m so nervous?

I stretch my neck from side to side as I walk toward the door. She might not even work on Sundays, I think, a wave of disappointment hitting me at the thought. When I push the glass door open and step inside, I’m hit with a sweet, clean smell. The salon is larger than I imagined but not as feminine as I assumed. A row of four black leather chairs, not unlike the ones at my barber, face one wall. A young woman with long, vibrantly green-streaked hair walks behind the smart-looking glass reception desk.

“Morning. Do you have an appointment?”

My mind goes goldfish-level blank at her question. Maybe I should have called ahead. Three of the four salon chairs are occupied and each woman in this place has given me a sidelong glance. Seconds are passing and the person in front of me is doing a great job keeping her face arranged in a position that doesn’t say, ‘is this guy an idiot?’

The card.

I pull the card Anna gave me out of my back pocket and approach the counter, sliding it across to her. She plucks it off the surface with inch-long nails that click on the glass.

“You’d like to make an appointment with Anna? Have you been in before?”

I laugh, some of the awkwardness leaving me. “This isn’t really my normal choice of hairdresser.”

She raises a darkened brow like she’s taking stock of my appearance. Admittedly, I’m not looking that appealing. My army green t-shirt has a grease spot from working with Dad and my khaki shorts could use an iron. I regret the choice to not go home and change.

“Hey, Anna?” The receptionist turns her head over her shoulder and hollers.

My heart jolts and my dishevelled state becomes exponentially more embarrassing. A heavy velvet curtain next to a set of sinks parts and Anna’s face appears between the fabric panels. Her eyes track from the girl in the apron to me and her mouth pops open in surprise. The curtain falls back into place, blocking her from view. I yank off my hat, wondering if she’s going to come back out or if she’s wishing she never offered to do my hair. But the curtain opens again, and she makes her way to the front desk with all the confidence of a successful businesswoman. Tight black jeans and boots with low heels, a black top that is so close to slipping off one shoulder. The outfit is so different from the one she wore at Isaac’s place. It makes me wonder which one makes her more comfortable. Which one is more her.

“I’ll handle this, Jenny.”

Handle this? Like I’m some sort of problem?

“Sure.” She shrugs, handing Anna a pencil with a fluffy pom pom on top.

Anna opens a massive scheduling book, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

I note that she hasn’t looked me in the eye yet, and I don’t miss the titch of pink that blooms over her cheeks and nose.

“I said I would.”

Does she think I’m that unreliable?

“Let’s see…” she scans the book. “I can fit you in a week from Thursday.”

“ Next Thursday?” I raise my eyebrows .

“Is that a problem?” She finally turns her hazel eyes up from the paper.

She’s trying, and failing, to prevent a smirk. Those eyes shine with amusement and it lights me up inside.

“I’ll look again.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Her glossy fingernail meanders down the page, making a show of turning a page ahead, then back.

I lean my elbows on the glass, “Are you busy right now?” I give her my best pleading look.

“Right now?” Her voice is high.

“If you won’t take him I will,” says another of Anna’s coworkers while she puts what looks like tinfoil in someone’s hair.

Anna shoots her a look as sharp as her scissors.

I gesture to one of the empty hairdressing chairs, the one I assume is hers because of flowers on the narrow live-edge wood shelf below the mirror. It’s the type of bright, wild looking bouquet that Ashlyn makes.

“Can you do it right now?”

“Technically, yes, but-”

“Great, because I technically need my hair cut right now.”

I reach her chair in a few strides and plop myself down without waiting for an invitation. I toss my hat on the counter next to the glass container of Barbicide and a plethora of corded mystery tools. Polaroids are taped neatly along the edges of the large rectangular mirror in front of me. One shot features a very youthful looking Anna and Ashlyn at an airport departure gate, arms around each other and grins on their faces. Watching her in the mirror, she tightens her already perfect ponytail as she walks to join me. She kicks the pedal on the bottom of the chair, and I’m lowered abruptly with a loud clunk.

“Don’t usually have someone so tall in my chair.”

I resist the urge to inhale and sit up taller.

“May I?” Her hands hover over my shoulders.

When I nod stiffly, she runs her fingers from the nape of my neck to the crown of my head. I let out my breath at the contact, pressing my lips together and working to keep my heartbeat steady as she examines my head of hair. While she’s busy examining my hair, I’m taking the time to notice the soft swoop of her nose, her cheekbones, and almost-almond shape of her eyes. Features I should have catalogued before because they make a very pretty picture.

“Are you going to tell me what you want?” she asks, meeting my eyes in the mirror. Even though we aren’t looking directly at each other, the connection feels surprisingly intense .

“You know what I want.” My voice comes out way raspier than I expect and at this point, I’m ready to grab some extra-hold hair gel and glue my lips shut.

Stop saying stuff like that.

“My number?”

Right. I instantly recall demanding her phone number the other night.

I watch her turn pinker in the mirror and thank God she’s not at the cutting phase of this appointment yet because her hands have a slight tremor.

She gives my hair a gentle, teasing tug and tips her head toward the sinks, “Let’s start with a shampoo.”

Reclined with a cape around my shoulders and my neck cradled against the curved edge of a sink, I can’t help but think I’ve been missing out at the barber. Sure, it was fast and let me get right back to work or whatever activity I needed to rush off to. Is this what a spa day feels like? Pleasantly hot water pours over my scalp. Her magic fingertips and nails feel delicious and surprisingly strong as she massages my head. A tingle travels down my neck as she works the thick suds into a minty lather. Jesus, that feels nice. An involuntary groan escapes my slightly parted lips and my eyes, which I hadn’t even realised were closed, pop open. How mortifying. It’s so painfully obvious, at least to me, that I’m touch-deprived .

“Yep. I’m that good.” A self-satisfied smile is painted across her full lips. “You can close your eyes again, it’s part of the experience. You’re supposed to relax and let me take over.”

Are we still talking about shampooing? This is a far cry from writing my name on the chalkboard in the barbershop waiting room and listening to old men shoot the shit during a ten-minute haircut.

“Conditioner now.”

“That’s a new one for me too.”

“Let me guess. You have a 3-in-1 bottle of soap in your shower? You poor, deprived man.”

“I think you mean depraved,” I drawl, realising that flirting with Anna is too damn easy.

I’ve fake-flirted with Anna before. She’d bite my head off, and everyone would laugh. Today, though, the words are heavier. Laden with possibility.

While she wraps a warm towel around my head to catch the drips, she leans close to my ear and speaks quietly enough that only I can hear, “Guess we’ll see about that.”

I swallow. No. No, we won’t. Not this month.

Thirty minutes later I stare at my reflection and am damn impressed with Anna’s work. She got the fade right, the part looks perfect, and whatever product she put in it smells like a beverage that needs an umbrella and I’m a-okay with it. She pulls the black cape off my shoulders.

“You’re all done.”

“I appreciate it. You did a good job. It’s, uh, better than what I expected, Anna,” I say with sincerity.

“See, not just highlights.” She smirks.

“No, a lot more.”

A pause stretches between us, and I wonder if I should head to the front desk to pay now. But she seems reluctant to say goodbye.

“Do you have another appointment now?” I blurt.

She shakes her head. “Once I clean up my station, I’m pretty well good to go.”

“Can I walk you home?”

Walking girls home is a totally innocent thing to do.

She looks up at me and smiles. “Chris, you know I live upstairs. It takes no time at all.”

I put my forehead in my palm. “Right.”

Frick, what an idiot.

“But,” she begins, “the stairs are pretty treacherous and the building is riddled with persistent men.”

“How could I, in good conscience, let you wander through the danger all alone?”

“I mean, I guess you couldn’t. Not without living a life of guilt from now until the end of time. ”

I grin, enjoying our banter.

“Let me finish up here?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’ll wait for you out front.”

When I stand, I tower over her, bodies inches apart. I can still feel the sensation of her deft fingers on my scalp and shoulders, the gentle brush of her arms and chest as she moved around me doing what she does best. When you only spend the odd evening with someone, those little touches don’t seem to matter. When had I last enjoyed the more innocent touches of a woman? A hug, a shoulder massage, one sweet kiss? What would it be like to be with Anna? Softer? Sweeter? Is that the type of thing I’ve been holding out for?