Page 1 of Starlight Salon

1

Chloe

I pinch hair between two fingers and drag them down slowly until only a few centimetres of hair is left below them. Bringing the scissors close, I snip blonde strands and watch them float to the tiles on my bathroom floor.

Everything’s fine. No reason to panic.

I blow out a breath directed upwards, attempting to move the hair blocking my eyes. The clips I haphazardly shoved into my hair droop and block my eyesight, ruining the sections of my layers. I comb through the shortened lengths of my hair, now sitting above my chest when earlier today it was closer to my bra strap.

Now all I need is a fringe.

Yes. A fringe will help the stress, but maybe a curtain fringe instead of a straight chunky one.

All my clients want them, so I may as well try it and report back on the simplest way to style the fringe. Releasing the sagging clips, I comb and section my hair, pull strands forward angled diagonally, and cut. Repeating on the other side, I shake it out.

My fingers run through the freshly cut hair, and I tilt my head. Not bad. Definitely not bad for a spontaneous haircut. I glance at my phone and cringe. A spontaneous two-in-the-morning haircut.

Maybe everything isn’t fine.

The last time I cut my hair this early in the morning was when I signed the papers to rent salon space. Clearly, renovating it is just as stressful, if not more so, considering my new look. After scooping hair off the floor, I put it in the bin and turn to analyse myself in the mirror. It’s not a bad cut. I learned to cut hair on myself before I trained as an apprentice, so I’m used to working on myself, but why am I doing this and not sleeping? My eyes roll to the back of my head and I shove my hair into a bun, heedless of the fact it’s wet and will dry funny. I’ll fix it tomorrow in a great blowout to meet the plumber.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach, tingling and churning, not helping the nerves running through me. Lachlan—the plumber who’s going to fix my salon—also happens to be the person I secretly long for. I didn’t know he was a plumber until recently, and tomorrow he’ll be in my salon, in my space helping me. Jitters prevented me from sleeping. A haircut seemed like just the thing to settle me.

I tuck the new pieces of hair by my face behind my ears and huff when they fall into my eyes. Right. There’s a reason I don’t have a fringe. I hate the feeling of hair on my face. So much for good ideas at two A.M. Or was it that nothing’s a good idea after two A.M?

Flicking off the bathroom lights, I stumble to the rumpled bed and cringe as the wet fringe clings to my forehead.

My eyes squeeze shut. I’ll fix it tomorrow.

The fringe is sticking out every which way, and I groan when I see the dents in the lengths of my hair from the hair tie. That’s what I get for sleeping with wet hair.

“Why? Why did I cut it?” The cut isn’t bad, in fact it looks pretty good, but I couldn’t have blow-dried it before going back to bed?

I plug in the hair straightener and curl through it all, smoothing out the bumps and creating bouncy waves with a fun swoop in the front with the fringe. I squint at the result. It’ll do.

My fingers run through the curls to break them up and I finish with some texture spray. If my hair isn’t done, I feel naked. I refuse to leave the house without styling it. Forget makeup, hair makes or breaks a person.

Once I chuck my keys in my handbag, I lock the door behind me, my flowy skirt narrowly missing being jammed in the door.

The weather’s too hot and sticky to wear anything except loose clothing. I shudder at the thought of putting on jeans.

It’s a short walk to the salon. I live as close as I can afford and walk there when possible to save money. It had been a dream to open my own place and finally leave the toxic salon I’d worked at since I completed my apprenticeship. Running my own salon had a steep learning curve, but I figured it out.

Starlight Salon is on The Esplanade—the road leads to the popular tourist beach which, thankfully, results in a lot of business. It was a difficult decision to close for a few weeks and renovate, but the building’s old and needed a revamp to fit the business. I grin when I see the new sign in cursive above the door.

Entering the salon, I set my bag on the reception desk and turn in a slow circle to see all the changes.

It’s nearly done.

The walls are a soft shade of green with arched mirrors along the walls in front of each station. A bohemian style with small pops of bright colour, exactly how I wanted it. My chest warms and I bite my lip. I did it. Now all I need is the hot water fixed and to add small finishing touches.

A glance at my phone shows Lachlan should arrive in an hour, which gives me time to organise the staff room and the stock sitting in boxes. A shaky breath leaves me. He’s going to be in my space. I’ll be able to see his brown wavy hair hunched over the basins.

And maybe check out his ass while he’s here.

I twist my hair into a claw clip to stop it from sticking to my neck—the new air-con unit has already proved its worth—and begin unpacking, pushing him from my mind.

The clock ticks to the hour and I frown at the door. He was supposed to be here two hours ago.

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