Because I know how anxious Max is about this, I bargain with my friend Carl, who owns the barbershop near campus, to let me cut Max’s hair myself. Even though I’d cut hair professionally in college for four years, I haven’t cut anyone’s hair in nearly a decade. Which is the only logical reason for me to be nervous about cutting Max’s hair.
Yes, I suppose a professional with more recent experience might do a better job. But I’m less worried about giving Max the perfect haircut and more worried about him not showing up at all. Or panicking halfway through the shave and having Max end up looking like a rush hazing gone wrong.
I arrive at the shop early enough to chat some with Carl. Even though I’ve known him for years, I have no idea why he owns a barbershop named Pete’s. I’ve never asked. The university tends to go a little crazy with their traditions. I’ve always just assumed it has something to do with that.
Pete’s caters to a very masculine clientele, so Carl doesn’t cut my hair. However, I know him because I send a lot of business his way as part of my how-to-prepare-for-job-interviews workshops I give at the university. I figured he owes me a favor. He must have agreed, because he didn’t even blink when I asked if I could use his shop after hours on a Friday.
Carl and I chat as he shows me around. I’ve been there before and I know my way around a barbershop, but I still appreciate his help. Plus, he’s leaving his baby in my hands.
When Max shows up, stomping in with his cane, dripping rain all over the floor, Carl gives me a skeptical look. “You sure about this?” he asks under his breath.
“Yep!” I lie.
Because no, I’m not sure. And the sight of Max standing in the door to the shop doesn’t calm my nerves or dismiss my reservations. It’s raining tonight and he’s wearing his duster again. He seems to take up even more physical space than normal and I tell myself that it has nothing to do with how much emotional space he’s been taking up in my head.
Despite that, I’m sure this is the right course of action. The right course for Max, that is. And I’m not a wimp. I’m not a scaredy-cat. I don’t let anyone intimidate me.
Besides, after all the manipulation it took to get him here, I’m not letting him go.
That is, I’m not letting himleave.
The shop.
Without a haircut.
Yeah, that’s what I mean.
Max stomps the rest of the way into the shop, looking around critically. “Where are all the other people? Isn’t this a business?”
Carl looks at Max and then back to me. “If you’re sure . . .”
He lets the question dangle there in the air.
“I am.”
With any luck, the smile I give Carl is more reassuring than it feels.
“Okay, then.” He slaps the keys to the shop into my open palm. “We open at nine tomorrow, so make sure I get these back before then.”
He walks around Max to the front door to the shop and turns the bolt. On his way back past Max, he gives him a look that seems to say, “Don’t forget I know what you look like and that you were the last person to see her alive.”
As he walks past me, he gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Good luck with that one.”
A moment later, Max is still glaring after him when the back door to the shop closes behind Carl.
“Where the hell is he going?” Max asks.
“Home for the night. The shop closes at six thirty on Fridays.”
“Then who the hell is going to cut my hair?” He looks around the shop like he’s expecting someone to pop up from behind one of the sinks.
I cross over to him and start to guide him toward the sinks in the back before I answer. “I am.”
“You?” He jerks his arm away from my touch and stops to glare at me. “You can’t cut hair.”
Naturally he’s going to argue with me about this. Why did I ever imagine he wouldn’t?
“I can, in fact, cut hair.”
