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I pulled out my phone. “Here’s her website…at the bottom of the homepage there are two small-print credits. The company that set up the site and someone named Caspian D who she thanks for ‘helping me to achieve my personal best.’ ”
I keywordedcaspian d hairdresserand pulled up five hits on a “master stylist” named Caspian Delage. All were tributes from people identified by their initials. Gushing posts praised Delage’s “wizardry.” One rater tagged him a “hair god.”
I searched for Delage’s website, found only a couple of pages of Instagram photos. Nearly all were headshots of good-looking young women sporting an impressive variety of hairstyles. But two in the center, slightly larger, featured a young man in a black T-shirt with a pale roundish face and a wry smile. His own hair had been shaped high and swirly on top, like a brunette cockscomb.
I enlarged one of the images and showed it to Milo.
His jaw set. “Narrow shoulders…right age…definite possibility. What’s his address?”
“None listed,” I said. “Hours by appointment, contact via email or a phone number. Nine-three-two exchange, probably a cell.”
I tried the number and switched to speaker. Two rings, then a pleasant boyish voice.
Hi, this is Caspian. I’m out beautifying the world. Love to hear about your aesthetic conundrums and tricho-anxiety so leave a message and I’ll most certainly get back to you. Ex-Oh-Ex-Oh-Ex.
Milo said, “Trick anxiety?”
“Tricho.” I spelled it. “Related to hair.”
“Guy knows Latin?”
Greek derivation but no sense belaboring it. I said, “Maybe he had a classical education.”
He said, “Speaking of education, barbers and stylists need a license. Basia just told us there were no prints on file.”
I checked the state regulations for cosmetologists. “Plenty of other requirements but being printed isn’t listed as one of them. One good thing: If he is licensed, there’ll be an address for him.”
“If? He could be winging it? Like Cordi?”
“Lots of laws in California,” I said. “It can lead to improvisation.”
—
Dumpster Drive gave way to a residential neighborhood overshadowed by a dizzying series of looping freeway ramps seemingly at battle with one another. Treeless streets were lined with shoebox multi-units. Landscaping was an alien concept.
Not a human in sight. City of the dead.
Milo pulled to the curb, worked his phone, gave a thumbs-up.
“Looks like ol’ Caspian didn’t always improvise. He got licensed five years ago but let it expire three years ago. Last place of employment was The Go-For-It Salon on Sunset…just east of San Vicente. Right on the way home once we enter purgatory.”
—
Five miles north to Sunset took thirty-five minutes. Go-For-It Unisex sat on the north side of Sunset between a smoke shop and a laser-removal/spray-tan outfit. Time to mellow out and achieve your personal, honey-baked best.
Milo pulled into a red zone. “Stay here and guard the car against the meter Nazis.”
I said, “Happy to try but what’s my leverage?”
“Dazzle them with psychology. That doesn’t work, drive away before they get out their little handheld, then circle around for as long as you need to and pick me up.”
A civilian driving a police vehicle was utterly illegal. This was the second time in a year he’d had me do it.
I said, “Sure.”
He hopped out of the unmarked, strode to the salon, was inside for less than a minute before emerging shaking his head.
Just as he made it to the driver’s door, a gangly West Hollywood meter cop rolled up in a golf cart and stepped out looking hungry.
