Pretty Hurts (Left 1.50)

***

Edgar

I’ve been cutting hair as long as I can remember. As the oldest of three boys and two girls, it came naturally to me. I went to hair school with the intention of owning my own business one day. I’ve had my shop for over ten years now. I know what I’m doing. I haven’t been anxious about an appointment in a long time. Today, I’m nervous. Houston called me yesterday asking me if I had a spot today for a friend. He said there were special circumstances and he’d be in early to explain it before she arrived. I don’t get many women in here.

Not that I mind. I’m down to style whoever sits in my chair. This woman sounds like a rare case. My first thought is she might have cancer. I’ve seen the ravaging that disease can do, so my heart goes out to her.

I come through the back entrance of the shop, flip on the lights, and go to make sure my booth is properly stocked. Our normal hours are ten o’clock to seven, but I’m in at eight-thirty to open up the shop at nine for her. Houston wanted to make sure she had privacy. I refill the Barbasol, open up a fresh pack of talcum powder, and arrange the brushes that have dried out overnight from my washing the previous day. I’m meticulous when it comes to my station and cleanliness. You’re dealing with people’s scalps. It’s a much more sensitive area than people realize.

I’m sitting on my chair when I see Houston approach. I turn off my word search app, set down my phone, and rise to open the door and greet him.

“Hey, man, it’s good to see you,” I say as we shake hands and do a manly hug.

“Same here. Thank you for fitting my girl in.”

“Anything for you. You want to break down what’s actually happening?” I lock the door behind him and lead him to the leather couches set up for our waiting room.

“Yeah. The other day my wife’s best friend, Efia, came over and told us as she has Alopecia.”

I whistle. “That’s tough. What type?”

“She has Alopecia Areata. She says it means for the rest of her life she’ll lose her hair in varying patches. So far it’s been focused on her scalp. She’s taking the plunge and going bald.”

“Wow. That’s gutsy as hell,” I say.

“Yes, if you knew her you’d say even more so. She works as a make-up artist and stylist, so looks are everything.”

“How’s she handling it?” I ask.

“Like a fucking champ. I think this is her way of managing a situation she really has no real control over.”

“Could be. You know I have no problem walking her through everything. It has to be daunting going bald as woman. Society has some very antiquated concepts on femininity.”

Houston nods. “It has to be disconcerting. She’s putting up a brave front though. You’re the only person I’d trust her with. She’s vulnerable right now. It’s a given you’ll be nice, but if you can maybe boost her confidence a little, that’d be awesome, too.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Are you trying to be a matchmaker or a friend?” I ask, hearing an undertone in his words.

“A friend. She needs a solid support system right now. You’ll be seeing her every other week or so, and you know hair. It’s a good match. You’ll get along well.”

“With a stylist?” I ask skeptically. I envision a superficial model look alike with an upturned nose and haughty attitude. She probably lives like those chicks on Sex in the City. I know all about them thanks to

the torture my sisters put me through growing up. After my father died when I was nineteen, I took the role of man of the house and moved back in to help my mother raise my siblings. It’s why at forty, I have no plans on having kids of my own. There’s no need when I practically raised four already.

I wouldn’t change a moment of the sacrifices necessary to give my siblings a good foundation and the start of decent lives. But that means this is my time now. I’m looking forward to traveling, indulging in things I want instead of need, and pursuing my hobbies like making my own beer and wood carving. I’m an odd duck. I have no problem admitting it. I’m past the age of needing to fit in, and I don’t think I ever really cared what others thought of me. It’s the influence of my Italian father.

Houston shakes his head. “Don’t judge her by her career. She’s not what one imagines when they think of a stylist. She’s funny, down-to-earth, and incredibly unique.”

I glance over at the photo of my father hanging on the wall. Remembering where I came from helps me stay on track. He’d be ashamed of the assumptions I’m making right now.

Loud, boisterous, charismatic, and confident. At six foot two and three-hundred pounds he wasn’t traditionally handsome, but he made up for it with personality and moxie. He taught me you could have whatever you wanted if you were willing to put in the work, and ignore the naysayers.

Maybe she is. Houston is good people. I can’t imagine him caring so much about someone who didn’t deserve it. “I’ll make sure she’s comfortable and happy when she leaves. That doesn’t mean I’m going to ask her out for drinks or anything.”

“I’m not asking you to. Thought you might just want to after it’s all said and done,” Houston says, looking thoughtful.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “I’m free and happy about it.”

Houston smirks. “Fair enough.”