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Or Hair by Shayla. I couldn’t seem to decide.
Which was why I was using both #hairbyshay and #hairbyshayla across all social media platforms, posting at least three times a day and making sure it was included in my signoff.
I had hope one of the hashtags would eventually reach trending status.
I wanted to work for myself and build something from the beginning, something I could be proud of knowing how it all began—a quiet idea I couldn’t shake that blossomed into a living, breathing passion. And staying in the one-bedroom studio I had been occupying for the past five years wasn’t going to give me the room I needed to shape and create this new life.
I would’ve felt weird cutting hair in the middle of my living room/kitchen/bedroom.
I was anticipating keeping male clientele. Aside from the level of unprofessionalism, I really didn’t want people seeing where I slept. I was not a bed-maker.
So, I started picking up as many extra shifts at Whitecaps as possible, socking away as much money as I could, and when I found an apartment I could afford with the room I needed to shape and create, I signed the lease, quit my job at Salon 24, and began the journey leading me in the direction of my dream.
It was scary.
It was stressful as a mother.
But it was exciting.
So, even though Pebble Dune Apartments sucked when it came to views, mine being nothing more than dirt and blades of grass, since I was on the bottom level, it was perfect to me.
I didn’t need a view. I needed that second bedroom for my dream.
Sucking ice-cold Mountain Dew through my straw, I hit the lock button on my key fob after parking in front of my building and took to the stairs, carrying my lunch and, depending on how full those chalupas were stuffed, my dinner.
I was hoping to get two meals out of this. Hair by Shay (or Shayla) was on a budget.
Descending the three concrete steps, I paused when I hit the landing, having spotted the large, rectangular cardboard box that was perched in front of my door and the man leaning his elbow against it, playfully looking bored.
“Finally.” Patrick, the manager’s son, dropped his head back with a heavy sigh. He was tall, nearly lanky, with skinny limbs and strong, angular features. “I’ve been freezing my nuts off out here. I thought you said you’d be home when this thing was delivered.”
My eyes fell to his unzipped hoodie and the thermals he’d layered underneath. “Freezing your nuts off? You have on, like, four shirts. And it’s not even that cold out.”
It really wasn’t. The air was cool, not cold, this time of day. Mornings called for coats and hats, but by lunchtime, the temperature typically hung out in the low sixties.
When Patrick looked at me again, his dark brown hair flopped over his right eye, the way it always did lately since he’d committed to growing it out.
Patrick was only a couple years older than me, and basically ran the front office at Pebble Dune. He was good at it too. Everyone living here was grateful to be dealing with him when they needed someone to deal with.
Even though I’d only seen him a couple of times, Pat Senior was stricter about certain things, such as paying rent in a timely fashion and abiding by certain pet policies.
Patrick just didn’t give a fuck, as long as you paid your rent before the next round was due, cleaned up after yourself and any roommates with fur, and didn’t cause any trouble.
Pulling the straw out of my mouth, I stepped closer to the box, head tilting slightly, and noticed the stamped logo running along one long side. “I ran out for food,” I explained. My eyes widened. “Is that my chair?”
“That or a fucking elephant. This thing’s huge. You should’ve seen me and the guy getting it off the truck. I almost dropped it.”
My face split into a grin. “This is the best day of my life!” I shrieked, raising both arms straight above me, careful of the precious items in my hands. “First free tacos and now my beautiful baby is here? Shit, yeah!”
Patrick snorted and stepped back, shuffling the box back with him to allow me space to get to the door. “How’d you get free tacos?”
“The guy in front of me. I got up to the window, and my order was paid for.” I slid my key into the lock and twisted, pushing the door open.
“That’s fucking baller,” Patrick commented. “I need to start doing that. I don’t think to do shit like that.”
“Ooh, for Angela. I bet she likes free tacos.”
Angela lived at Pebble Dune too, in one of the other buildings, and Patrick was totally infatuated with her. I liked giving him a hard time about it. It was all in fun.
