Page 41 of Secrets of Starshine
I lift up my scissors, and watch as he takes a huge gulp of his Baileys. In fact he practically drains the glass.
“Don’t take this personally,” he says, “but I’m just going to close my eyes, okay? Let me know when you’re done…”
I grin, and tell him that’s fine, and get to work. The first few cuts are brutal – several inches from the bottom, which I do quickly before he changes his mind. The eye-closing is probably a good thing; every hairdresser I know has had clients who have panicked or even burst into tears when they see a load of hair plop onto the floor.
I know he won’t appreciate any huge changes, so I keep it simple. I use my clippers on the back, but keep them at a number three so it’s not too drastic. I do the same around his ears, and then add some layers to the top. This is not a man who will appreciate an all-over cut, so I keep some length there, leaving it with a decent fringe so he doesn’t feel suddenly too exposed.
It is an intimate business, cutting somebody’s hair. I am usually in a salon surrounded by chatty women, but this is different – quieter, more personal. I am aware of how close we are, and hope he doesn’t feel too awkward. Hope that I don’t feel too awkward...or feel anything else, in fact, like the tiny but distinct flush of response that kicks in as I brush against the solid bulk of his body.
I look at his reflection in the mirror, see that his eyes are still clamped shut, his big hands dwarfing his now-empty glass. At least he won’t have noticed me blushing.
I stand back, examine my handiwork, and tidy up a few stray strands. I nod to myself, satisfied, and move around to his side.
“Beard trim coming right up,” I say reassuringly. “And don’t worry, I won’t shave it off!”
“Good,” he mutters back. “The world isn’t ready for that just yet, and neither am I.”
Beards are not my specialist subject, as you can imagine. We don’t get many men in the salon, and Sam very much takes care of himself on that front. But I’ve done a few, and had some basic training about a million years ago, so I tell myself I’ll be fine.
I comb it through, smiling at the glints of red – between Archie’s ginger-by-stealth and Sandy’s full-on redhead glory, the girls didn’t stand much of a chance of avoiding it really. Not that they’ll mind when they’re older.
I work carefully with my scissors and clippers, so close to his face that I can feel his breath against my skin. I tidy up his sideburns so they’re not running all the way down to his neck, and regularly step back to see how it looks. I’d like to go further – give him a nice short version – but that would be too much, I think. To start with at least.
I admit that while he has his eyes closed, I enjoy the freedom of letting my eyes roam over his features. They are really rather fine once all that fuzz is removed – the strong nose offset by a wide mouth; the skin around his eyes lined with white creases from smiling in the sunshine. He looks about ten years younger, and it makes me grin.
I brush away some of the off-cuts, and bundle up the towel to catch everything. I run my hands down the back of his now much smoother head, and am finally sure that I’m done. Now the moment of the big reveal has come, I am actually a bit nervous. What if he hates it? What if he freaks out?
“Okay,” I announce, trying not to let any of those nerves seep through into my voice, “you can open your eyes now.”
He blinks against the light, and his green eyes go wide in surprise as he stares at himself. His hands go up to his face, stroking his beard, and then to the back of his head. He is silent and solemn as he surveys his new look, and I allow him that without interruption – it is quite a change, and I know that sometimes the shock of that needs time to settle.
“What do you think?” I eventually say, when I can’t stand the suspense of it any longer. “Do you hate it? Do you want me to glue it all back on?”
His face breaks into a smile, and he replies: “No. I don’t hate it. I’m just…well, I haven’t seen myself like this for a long time. I’d almost forgotten what I look like. What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say firmly, brushing one last lock from his shoulders. “Kind of early Hugh Grant meets Aquaman.”
He tilts his head to one side, still fascinated by what he sees. The smile stays, though, so I think he’s warming to it.
“Thank you,” he says with feeling, when our eyes meet in the mirror. “For tonight. For helping, for the makeover, for…everything.”
“You’re very welcome,” I answer, not quite able to tear my gaze away from his; I’m suddenly aware of how small this room is, of how close my body is to his. My fingers are still remembering the touch of his hair, his skin, his shoulders. I am not usually a woman who blushes, but I can feel a gentle heat rising on my cheeks.
“I was thinking,” he says, “while you were working your miracle…you could stay, you know. You don’t have to leave next week. If you don’t need to be back for work, that is. You could stay a little while longer.”
The heat is still rising, and our eyes are still locked, and the room is still small. I have no idea what is happening here, and his words have knocked me off balance. I hadn’t even thought about staying – but now that he has said it, I feel its power. I feel the tug of belonging that I’ve noticed ever since I arrived here. I feel a sense of peace at the thought of staying in Starshine Cove – with Connie and George and Ella, with the dogs, with the girls. With this man, staring so seriously at me – a man I have only known for days but who already feels like a friend. Who could feel like so much more.
The moment stretches out between us, and I am about to reply when I hear the door downstairs slam open. There is a solitary booming woof from Lottie, the sound of the girls shouting for their dad, followed up by George’s voice telling them to calm down. I hear Lilly screeching: “Dad, whereareyou?”
Archie grins at me, and says: “Saved by the yell. Just think about it.”
He stands up, and I notice that he has to duck to get safely through the bathroom door. I wonder how many times he whacked his head before he learned that.
I take a moment to let myself settle, to gather my tools, to breathe – and then I follow him down the stairs. I walk into the room to be greeted by the amusing sight of Lilly and Meg, still bundled up in their coats, staring at their father as though he is a complete stranger. I suppose that neither of them can ever remember a time BH – Before Hair.
After a brief stand-off, Lilly squeals in excitement, and throws herself at his legs.
“Daddy, I love it! You look so handsome!”
