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But he immediately looked at something else on her.
Then pointed, just for good measure.
“That incredibly wild hair should have disqualified you, for starters. You look like you’ve been running over the moors, crying for Heathcliff for the last week. Put you in a black dress and get you dancing around and you’d be Kate Bush,” he said, and okay, this time she couldn’t help wondering if he meant itthatway. The you-look-like-a-very-beautiful-woman way.
Because Cathy and Kate indisputably were.
There was no getting around that.
But the thing was: she kind of wanted to get around it.
It felt like there must be a way to get around it, somehow.
Supermodels, she thought,he dates supermodels, not mad-haired cuties in rainbow-print blouses. Then tried to focus on the other part of what he’d said. The part that made more sense. “Honestly I’m kind of scared to tame it at this point,” she said. And was thankful when he didn’t seem to think anything of it.
“You don’t need to be scared. You just need to go careful.”
“Know a lot about the subject, do you?”
He shrugged. “Used to do it for my little sister.”
“Because you were her real parent.”
“Pretty much that, yeah. They’d let it go to the dogs, so I’d sort it.”
He shrugged then, like it was no big deal. Even though it was. All this kind of was, if she was being honest. The thing about Jessica Rabbit, and Kate Bush, and then her hair, and him being weirdly complimentary about it, and now somehow, she’d led them to this. Then to cap it off, he said, “Can sort yours for you now, if you want.”
And she just didn’t know how to respond. She pretended to jot something down for a second, just so she wouldn’t blurt outthe wrong answer. Which definitely felt like a yes.Don’t say yes, she told herself.Just fob him off, somehow.
But god, she didn’t sound convincing when she did.
“Oh no. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s not any trouble. I like doing it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Youlikedoing it?”
“Yeah. It’s soothing. In fact, you’ll probably find it soothing, too.”
“I seriously doubt that,” she said. Though very likely not for the reasons he was thinking. He chuffed at her, as if she were saying he didn’t have the skill. But honestly, right at that moment in time, she was more worried that hedid. That he was going to be super amazing at touching something on her, just as she was feeling complimented by him and inexplicably happy about that fact.
None of which seemed like a good thing.
In truth, it seemed like a very dangerous thing.
But it wasn’t like she could just say no.
That would look even weirder.
So she agreed.
And tried to take comfort from the fact that he didn’t seem the least bit concerned about the whole thing. “Good stuff,” he said, then he slapped his knees like some old boy getting ready to strike a deal, and stood, and went off to find what she assumed was just a (hopefully) very powerful hairbrush.
Which it was.
But he had other things, too.
Some kind of product that you put in floofy hair, and one of those fancy combs hairdressers always had with a spike on one end, and a whole hairdryer with attachments that she couldn’t imagine he would ever need to use. His hair was obviously thicker and curlier than he ever let it seem, but it was fairly short.
