“No,” I said. “If I see it again, I’ll call one. It could’ve been a dusty bunny or a clunk of someone’s hair.”
Tess laughed. “True.”
I mixed up a batch of color for my client, put on my apron, and wheeled my cart back to my station. Melody hadn’t moved an inch since I’d left. She was still sitting there paging through her magazine. She didn’t even look up at me when I returned.
I got started on her hi lights while sneaking glimpses outside every so often. The truck was still there, but after a half hour or so, he’d driven off. My station was too far in the back of the shop to catch a glimpse of who the driver really was, but I was just glad he didn’t come inside.
Tuesdays were my late night, which meant I was working until 8pm that night. Everyone else was done by six, so it was just me and the receptionist.
“Your 7:00 cancelled tonight,” she lamented as she walked up to me later that evening. “Said she was having car trouble or something.”
“Ugh,” I sighed. “There goes the hundred bucks I could’ve made. Did she reschedule?”
“No,” the receptionist said. “She’s going to call back.”
“Like they always do, right?” I laughed.
“So, what should we do?” she asked.
I knew the kind thing would’ve been to send her home. It wasn’t necessary to keep her there and on the clock when we had no clients, but I also didn’t want to be in the shop by myself. I also didn’t want to go home yet and be there by myself either. Working that day had been a good distraction from what had happened the night before, but now reality was setting in and the fact that I had to go home soon was gnawing away at me.
“Why don’t you straighten up the waiting area and tear foils. Maybe wash some towels?” I suggested. Selfishly I decided against sending her home.
I planted my butt in the seat of one of the chairs in the back room and pulled my phone out of my purse to keep me preoccupied. There was always the chance that we’d get a random walk in, but that rarely happened this time of night.
I watched the clock on the wall tick by, minute by minute, and waited until the eight o’clock hour truck. By seven thirty, I heard the chimes on the front door tinging and knew someone had walked in. Hopefully it was someone just wanting to buy products before we closed, but sometimes we’d get those late, last minute walk ins that wanted the full monty.
I heard the clicking of the receptionist’s heels on the laminate floors as she walked back to the back room.
“There’s a guy here who wants a haircut,” she said causally.
My heart sunk.
“What does he look like?” I asked.
She scrunched her face at my odd question. “Um, kind of longish brown hair. Scruffy face. Dark eyes.”
I knew it was Blaze. I knew it.
“Tell him no one’s here,” I said.
“Um, too late,” she replied. “I told him you were here and I’d see if you could squeeze him in before we close.”
I sighed, annoyed, and stood up. I wanted to walk out the back door, hop in my car, and drive way, but I couldn’t leave her there alone with him.
“I’m confused,” she said. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no,” I assured her. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“Do you know that guy?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said as I walked out of the back room and towards the front area to greet him.
“Well, well, well,” he said as a smile spread across his face and he stood up to greet me. For the first time, he looked normal and not creepy. He seemed excited to see me. “Think you can fit me in for a cut?”
“You know I charge $60 for a cut, right?” I asked him. “You could go to a barber shop and get one a whole lot cheaper.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m good for it.”
“Okay,” I lamented. “Follow me.”
He followed me back to the shampoo bowl where I gave him a quick wash and hurried him over to my station. I pulled out my clippers and shears and got to work.
“I can’t help but feel like you’re rushing this experience,” he said. “Don’t I get pampered at all? I mean for sixty bucks and all.”
I sat my clippers and shears down and pulled out a bottle of hand lotion.
“Give me your hand,” I said.
He reached his right hand out as I gave it a quick massaged, followed by his other hand.
“Feel better now?” I asked.
I couldn’t help but notice the receptionist watching us from the corner of her eye. She could clearly tell this wasn’t an ordinary client-stylist interaction.