AllFreeNovel
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They just need the foundation, which happens to be my specialty.
I spend the next five hours workshopping a song I haven’t even confirmed will see the light of day. But that’s how writing is. It’s yours and only yours until maybe one day it’s not. Nothing is guaranteed, but the chills I have zipping up and down my spine confirmsomethingis happening, and those chills are rarely wrong.
Before long, Arlo arrives, his usual Lucky Work Fedora in place and a new set of shined-up loafers on his feet, with his jeans cuffed higher than I would know what to do with. This morning, he reminds me of Jason Mraz, minus the penchant for environmental activism and hipster jams. His arrival is followed by a folk band named Baker’s Dozen, who’ve spent the better part of the last two decades touring small music festivals and coexisting in a refurbished school bus with their commune of children. These guys are low maintenance to the nth degree, despite my every effort to instill even the smallest amount of professionalism in them. But really, they’re not in it for the money. Which is a good thing, because I doubt they manage to break even, selling their CDs quite literally out the back of their bus. They like my studio, though, because of the “vibes,” andthey’re polite, which to be honest is rare and appreciated around these parts.
All of this is to say, I let Arlo take the reins on recording Baker’s Dozen and instead send a text to Coolidge, confirming where he’s playing tonight. He mentioned he likes to lay low and hit small bars off Broadway to stay fresh, and I thought I caught one of his stage aliases on the listing at the legendary Lulu Mays. He texts back quickly to confirm, and almost immediately after, I have a text from Lorelai, letting me know she caught her flight and would meet me on our balcony at seven.
I bite back a sigh, trying not think so hard about why this feels significant. Or why Iwantit to feel significant. Or why I need to just get the fuck out of my head because this is the same Lorelai I dropped off at the airport three days ago.
Christ. I run my hand through my hair and scratch against the scruff covering my face and grimace. I could use a haircut. Melissa mentioned it a time or seven yesterday, and while I don’t love admitting she’s right, or giving her fuel to think she can convince me, a grown-ass man, to do anything I don’t already want to do…
She might have a point.
I tap my phone: 5:01P.M.Two hours before I’m meeting Lorelai. I decide to make myself an appointment at my barber for thirty minutes from now and duck out early. Arlo promises to clean up and practically shoos me out when I tell him I’m going to get a trim, which is all the confirmation I need that I’m looking rough. I spend the couple of blocks’ walk to the barber convincing myself I would be getting a haircut regardless of my night’s plans. It’s overdue and I looklike a seventh-year college student who has run down his scholarships and is shacking up in the depressing attic at the frat house. I might not be your typical buttoned-up record executive, but I am the boss. I should look it.
At least that’s what Arlo and Melissa are always telling me. I’m not entirely convinced it matters, but I guess it doesn’t hurt.
Burl Matteson has been cutting my hair since 2015 and hasn’t once asked my opinion. I can’t tell if that’s because he knows exactly what looks best on me or if he just gives the same haircut to everyone. His shop is so small, he doesn’t accommodate lines. It’s like the barber equivalent of Fight Club. No one talks about it. Every now and again, I’ll see someone with a vaguely familiar hairstyle and wonder if they know Burl, but I won’t ask. It would feel like a betrayal.
All of this to say, I don’t change it up this afternoon, but I do ask for a shave. I’ve been halfway growing scruff for the better part of the last few years, but I wouldn’t call it a beard. It would be an insult to real bearded men everywhere. At best, it’s a near goatee, at worst it’s mossy laziness. Burl gives me a smooth finish and surprisingly does something a little different with my unruly hair. My hair’s never been what I would consider stylish so much as… convenient.
“You got a lady friend in your life, Mr. Boseman?”
I start to shake my head and he holds it still, scissors held precariously close to my earlobe. He meets my gaze in the mirror and raises a pair of well-groomed brows. I exhale.
“No, sir.”
“Man friend?” He checks in a notably judgment-free tone.
“None of those, either, though I’m less inclined in that direction.”
“Are you one of them perpetual bachelor types?”
This is more talk than I’ve gotten from Burl in the entire eight years I’ve been going to him. If you pressed a gun to my head this morning and asked me to identify his voice in a lineup, I wouldn’t have made it to this afternoon. Because of this, I really consider my response. “I’m only thirty-six, Burl, so I don’t think that qualifies me as a perpetual anything. But I guess I wouldn’t hate to have someone to talk to at the end of the day.”
He continues to nail me in the chair with that discerning look until I squirm. “Why’d you ask?”
He doesn’t say anything, just nods to himself and moves to block my view, tugging on the ends of my hair and pursing his lips under his massive mustache.
When he finally turns me around, I’m shocked to see the difference a few well-placed snips and a close shave can make. I run my fingers through my short lengths and turn my head side to side.
“Damn, Burl, what kind of magic you got in those scissors? You mean I coulda looked like this all along?”
Burl only grunts, brushing off my neck and removing the collared cape.
Guess we’re done talking.
Still flummoxed over the entire encounter, but incapable of finding fault with the results, I pay Burl, including a generous tip, and head home to shower off the loose hairs scratching through my shirt. It’s after six and I’m feeling the press of time.
Lorelai. Lorelai. Lorelai.
She’s here by now, in Nashville, and it’s almost like I can feel her. Like the air feels different—more charged—when she’s here. As if the entire city is waiting to see what she’s gonna come up with next.
9CRAIG
HURRICANE
I get home and shower and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean V-neck T-shirt before fiddling with my hair the way Burl did, using a tiny bit of pomade that Arlo gave me last year for Christmas. I’m still early, so I decide to hit the liquor store around the corner from our place and pick up some wine. Next to the register is a display of Prosecco and champagne, and for an insane minute, I contemplate buying her a bottle before offering to act out my most poetic fantasies.
