The Influence(12)

Amazingly, he was already halfway through the town. On this side of the street there was a closed post office, a feed and grain store, a combined blacksmith and machine shop… and that was about it. On the opposite side of the street, a bar he had not noticed before was housed in a skinny building shoved between an empty storefront and a consignment shop. As he passed by, he smelled cigarette smoke and heard Mexican music wafting from the bar’s dark interior.

Most of the other businesses on this side of the street were closed—although whether permanently or only for the day it was hard to tell—but around the corner, he remembered, was the beauty salon.

It occurred to him that he could probably use a haircut.

Not that he had any important interviews lined up.

Still, it was important to maintain standards, and it was probably a good idea to remain prepared. Just in case.

The beauty salon was open, though empty of customers, and Ross went in, a bell jingling above the door as he entered. An older, heavyset Hispanic woman got up from a pink chair near the back to greet him. A younger, slimmer, considerably more attractive version of the woman—obviously her daughter—remained seated, reading a People magazine.

“Excuse me,” Ross said, looking around. “I was wondering if there was someplace in town for a man to get a haircut. I didn’t see any barber—”

“Right here,” the older woman said. “Men, women, children: we do all.”

“But is there a—”

“There is only us. Do you need a shampoo, a trim? Have a seat. Market day special. Six dollars.”

Six dollars? The price list above the cash register said that men’s haircuts cost fifteen. They must be really hurting for business, Ross thought. Which was only logical. He had no idea how many people lived in the outlying areas, but the town itself was smaller than a subdivision in a regular city. It must be nearly impossible to make a living cutting hair here. Especially when, judging by the people he saw at the farmer’s market, many of the locals probably cut their own.

“Sure,” he said, moving over to the chair the woman indicated.

The younger woman had stood, putting down her People magazine. “Don’t you have an appointment, Mama? Isabel?”

“That’s not until… Oh. Yes.”

Ross was not sure if the mother really did have another appointment, if the daughter wanted to be the one to cut his hair, or both, but the thought that an attractive young woman was purposely maneuvering to work on him because she might be interested got his attention. He smiled at her in the mirror, and she smiled back. There was no ring on her finger, he noticed as she draped a protective sheet over him and fastened it around his neck.

“How do you want it?” she asked, lifting the hair on the top of his head, and was there a sly sparkle in her eye as she said those words?

He explained how he wanted his hair cut, and she went to work. Her body pressed softly against his as she leaned forward, and beneath the sheet, his penis stiffened. Really? he thought. He looked at himself in the mirror, realizing how pathetic his life had become.

The bell over the door jingled again, and he glanced over to see a mailman, or, more accurately, a mailwoman—mail carrier—walk in and drop a stack of catalogs and envelopes on the counter near the door.

“Thanks, Jeri!” the mother called.

The postal worker nodded in acknowledgement before heading back out to the street.

The mother’s supposed customer—Isabel—hadn’t arrived by the time his hair was finished, Ross noticed. The daughter spun him around in the chair. “How’s it look?” she asked. She gave him a hand mirror and spun him around slowly so he could see the back of his head.

He’d asked for a slightly shorter version of the haircut he already had, but the stylist had obviously followed her own instincts and had taken off far too much. He forced himself to smile. “Looks good,” he lied.

He paid, leaving a two-dollar tip that wasn’t really deserved.

“Jesus Christ!” Dave said when he returned. “You’re bald!”

“He looks fine,” Lita said, walking around him in a circle as she examined the haircut. “He kind of has that Rotary Club, Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis vibe.”

“Kill me now,” Ross moaned.

They both laughed.

“Was it the mom or the daughter?” Lita asked.

“The daughter.”

Dave shook his head. “Always go with the mom.”

Like most of the other vendors, they started packing up around ten minutes before the farmer’s market was scheduled to close. There hadn’t been any customers for nearly twenty minutes, and no new people had arrived.