Page 14 of Unhurried Hearts

“Are you going to tell me what you want?” she asks, meeting my eyes in the mirror. Even though we aren’t looking directly at each other, the connection feels surprisingly intense.

“You know what I want.” My voice comes out way raspier than I expect and at this point, I’m ready to grab some extra-hold hair gel and glue my lips shut.

Stopsayingstuff like that.

“My number?”

Right. I instantly recall demanding her phone number the other night.

I watch her turn pinker in the mirror and thank God she’s not at the cutting phase of this appointment yet because her hands have a slight tremor.

She gives my hair a gentle, teasing tug and tips her head toward the sinks, “Let’s start with a shampoo.”

Reclined with a cape around my shoulders and my neck cradled against the curved edge of a sink, I can’t help but think I’ve been missing out at the barber. Sure, it was fast and let me get right back to work or whatever activity I needed to rush off to. Is this what a spa day feels like? Pleasantly hot water pours over my scalp. Her magic fingertips and nails feel delicious and surprisingly strong as she massages my head. A tingle travels down my neck as she works the thick suds into a minty lather. Jesus, that feels nice. An involuntary groan escapes my slightly parted lips and my eyes, which I hadn’t even realised were closed, pop open. How mortifying. It’s so painfully obvious, at least to me, that I’m touch-deprived.

“Yep. I’m that good.” A self-satisfied smile is painted across her full lips. “You can close your eyes again, it’s part of the experience. You’re supposed to relax and let me take over.”

Are we still talking about shampooing? This is a far cry from writing my name on the chalkboard in the barbershop waiting room and listening to old men shoot the shit during a ten-minute haircut.

“Conditioner now.”

“That’s a new one for me too.”

“Let me guess. You have a 3-in-1 bottle of soap in your shower? You poor, deprived man.”

“I think you mean depraved,” I drawl, realising that flirting with Anna is too damn easy.

I’ve fake-flirted with Anna before. She’d bite my head off, and everyone would laugh. Today, though, the words are heavier. Laden with possibility.

While she wraps a warm towel around my head to catch the drips, she leans close to my ear and speaks quietly enough that only I can hear, “Guess we’ll see about that.”

I swallow. No. No, we won’t. Not this month.

Thirty minutes later I stare at my reflection and am damn impressed with Anna’s work. She got the fade right, the part looks perfect, and whatever product she put init smells like a beverage that needs an umbrella and I’m a-okay with it. She pulls the black cape off my shoulders.

“You’re all done.”

“I appreciate it. You did a good job. It’s, uh, better than what I expected, Anna,” I say with sincerity.

“See, not just highlights.” She smirks.

“No, a lot more.”

A pause stretches between us, and I wonder if I should head to the front desk to pay now. But she seems reluctant to say goodbye.

“Do you have another appointment now?” I blurt.

She shakes her head. “Once I clean up my station, I’m pretty well good to go.”

“Can I walk you home?”

Walking girls home is a totally innocent thing to do.

She looks up at me and smiles. “Chris, you know I live upstairs. It takes no time at all.”

I put my forehead in my palm. “Right.”

Frick, what an idiot.

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