She gives me a shaky smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m here to make this as easy on you as possible. If you need to keep booking days where you come in early for your haircut, I’m open to that.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says with wide eyes that convey surprise.
That makes two of us. I’m a nice guy, but this need to be helpful is a bit extra.
“Do you want to go to my station?”
She swallows and nods. Tears glisten in her brown eyes and my heart aches for her. Courage is doing something despite being afraid. I guide her over to my station, and Houston follows us. I pump the bar that brings the chair to the right height and spin it to face her. She’s tall for a woman, at least five foot ten or eleven with nice curves. It’s refreshing to see. I like women of all shapes and sizes, but I’ve always been a sucker for a woman with an hour glass figure. She sits down and slowly unwinds her scarf.
A part of me experience sadness. Her curls are full, dark, and well-cared for. I go to touch them and stop.
“May I?” I meet her eyes in the mirrors.
“Yes.”
I bury my fingers in her coarse mane and decide on the best process.
“How about we cut this down with scissors, then I’ll buzz it with clippers, and we’ll move to a straight razor for a clean, polished look.”
“S-sounds good.” Her voice wavers. After giving her shoulder a brief squeeze, I move to my station to pick the appropriate scissors for her grade of hair. I set them on the black counter and walk away to grab her a black cape. Draping the fabric over her body, I close it around the neck and begin to cut. The spirals of hair fall to the floor. Her shoulders shake, but she holds it in. The more I cut, the more pronounced the patches become. Soon her hair is nothing more than three to four inches of coarse curls. I turn her to face the mirror, and she releases a shaky breath.
“Are you ready for stage two?” I ask after a few moments.
She nods. I pick up the clippers and slowly buzz away her hair. The room is silent, except for the sound of clippers as I slowly go over her head. I don’t think the loss of hair takes away from her beauty; it simply enhances what’s already there. Her eyes appear larger. The angles of her face seem sharper. She’s a Nubian princess, a comic book character in her prime. I want to say these things to her, but I have no right to. I watch the emotions roll across her eyes like a mood ring.
Brushing the hair off her shoulders, I allow her a moment with this new version of herself before we proceed. Hair is an important part of our identities. It helps us express the way we feel about ourselves, and dictates the first impression we want to make.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“As I’ll ever be.”
I coat her hair with shaving cream, remove my straight razor from its holder, and slowly begin to work my way over her head. It’s an intimate experience. Maybe because it’s such a poignant moment in her life. In the end, her head is gleaming like a brown sun, and she’s actually smiling.
“Do you like it?” I ask cautiously as I keep my tone neutral.
“It feels like a new dawn, a new day.”
“A new life?” I ask, continuing the Nina Simone song she quoted. I’m warming to her swiftly. She’s got a chill vibe I’m drawn to like a magnet.
She laughs. The rich chuckle twists my insides. “You know your music.”
“Only the good kind,” I counter.
“I like that answer. Can I touch it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smooths her hands over her scalp. “Does it look awful?” She bites her full bottom lip and turns to Houston. The unconsciously sexy gesture makes me glance away.
“You look just as gorgeous as you always do,” Houston replies.
Taking a deep breath, she nods at her reflection.
“How much do I owe you?”
“First one’s on the house. You can get me next time.”