So yes, he has other things on his mind, and he thinks he can be forgiven for forgetting to trim himself up. Though, today is important. It’s very important. And while he knows Sean likes him no matter how he looks, he doesn’t want there to be even the smallest doubt in Sean’s mind that Mike’s serious about this. Mike doesn’t think he’s ever been more serious about anything in his life. And after three years, it’s about time.
They’re waiting for him, five women and one man, staring at him like they have all the time in the world, trusting him to keep to the right decision (and see it their way).
He sighs and says, “Fine. A trim. That’s it.”
“Honestly,” Mrs. Richardson says. “Always the difficult way with you. Donald, hop to it. You only have so long before I’ll need him for my side of things. Now, ladies. Just what are we going to do about those bags under his eyes?”
Donald nods happily, starting to whistle that little tune he always does when he’s about to get to work. Mike asked about it once years ago, and Donald shook his head, saying it was something from when he was a kid. He couldn’t remember the lyrics, just the tune, but he thought it’d been something about a love shack, baby, love shack. Mike had never heard the song before. Donald couldn’t remember the name of the singer, and Mike didn’t push him. He didn’t think he and Donald had the same tastes in music, if the look on his face was any indication when Mike put on one of his jazz records.
But he whistles that same song whenever he works.
Like he is now.
It’s comforting to Mike because it’s familiar. He lets it slide over him as Donald lays an apron on him, snicking a pair of scissors around his face with a practiced twitch of his fingers.
The womenfolk are moving in the periphery, chatting quietly, listening to the orders barked by Mrs. Richardson. He doesn’t know what she’s up to, but he’s certain he won’t like it when he finds out. He knows she means well, but the Mrs. Richardsons of the world tend to bulldoze rather than ask.
Donald wants Mike to let him do his hair a little differently, maybe a jelly roll or a flat top, but the glare he earns has him holding his hands up in placation, saying that even if it’s all the rage these days, he doesn’t expect Mike to go along with it.
“Why would he?” Mrs. Richardson says, standing at Donald’s shoulder, surveying his work with a critical eye. “He has a beard, for heaven’s sake. Why, I had to convince Mrs. Kim at the florist just the other day that he wasn’t some Red living in our midst, waiting for the perfect moment to strike to bring us all into Communism. I don’t know that she actually believed me, but there you are. Watch your back around her, Mike Frazier. She subscribes to the belief that the only good Commie is a dead Commie.”
Mike doesn’t know what to say to that, aside from the obvious that he isn’t a Red, that he thought maybe Red spies in small towns were stuff you only saw at the pictures, but he doesn’t want to open that can of worms with Mrs. Richardson of all people. That, and he doesn’t think she has the right to comment on hairstyles, given that her own nest looks like she got into an altercation with a pack of hair rollers and lost.
His nerves are starting to get the better of him as the morning passes. He knows he did the right thing in asking Sean on their first date, knows he’s ready for something more after all this time, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling a little frayed and strung out. Last night probably didn’t help, whatever the hell that dream was about.
Donald’s done a little while later, brushing loose hairs off Mike’s beard. He’s done something with his hair too, at Mrs. Richardson’s insistence, slicked it back with some oil. Mrs. Richardson says it makes him look more presentable, and Mike can barely keep from rolling his eyes.
“A little old place where we can get together,” Donald sings under his breath, bending down until he’s inches from Mike’s face, studying it closely.
“Perfect,” he says, standing back up and clapping his hands once. “I am very good at what I do, would you look at that.”
The Amorea Women’s Club oohs and aahs and tells Mike that he’s never been more handsome, that Donald did such a wonderful job, that Sean will simply die at the sight of Mike and how wonderful all this is.
Mike doesn’t want to look in the mirror in case his reflection is that of a trussed-up trollop. Sean’s going to give him shit, to be sure, and Mike is almost dreading it.
It’s made that much worse when he’s handed off to Mrs. Richardson and sees what the bundles they carried in are about.
“Now,” she says, a firm grip on his arm like she thinks he’ll flee at any second. “About what you’re wearing.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” he asks. He’s got his Chucks on, his jeans, his shirt. What he usually wears.
“The fact that y
ou don’t know the answer to your own question is precisely why I’m here,” Mrs. Richardson says. “I’ve brought seven different outfits to choose from and you will pick one of them, because I won’t have you looking slovenly while out with Sean. You are meant to impress him. Not underwhelm him.”
“You’re a terrifying woman,” Mike says.
“Thank you,” she says. “Now, I was thinking a suit, but it’s so warm out today that you’ll probably end up sweating right through the jacket. Tell me, how do you feel about knee-high socks?”
IX
AT A quarter after twelve on a sunny Saturday afternoon in the little town of Amorea, a man named Mike Frazier closes the door to the bookstore, takes a deep breath, and begins to walk slowly toward the residence of one Sean Mellgard, who he’s spent the last three years in a vague sort of courtship with.
If asked, Mike Frazier would say that at this very moment, he’s certain he’s only a few stomach twists away from vomiting the hastily eaten toast and burnt coffee he made himself that morning.
It’s not as if Mike’s never been on a date before. He has, he’s certain about that, even though the details are lost in a milky haze he finds he has no will to sift through. Besides, he tells himself, it’s not polite to think about past dates when preparing for a future date. Even he knows that, and Mike has been called obtuse more than once.
It’s probably not helping that he feels utterly ridiculous wearing bright yellow shorts with a white collared shirt tucked in and opened at the throat. He has checkered socks pulled up to his knees and brown loafers on his feet. He’s told that it doesn’t clash at all with his hair and beard, and in fact, according to the Amorea Women’s Club in a fit of slightly breathless giggles, he looks rather dashing, like a rogue from one of the tawdry romance novels that he carries a few of in his store. “You look like you just stepped off a yacht in the Mediterranean,” one of the ladies told him. “A yacht of love.”