Page 46 of Golden Hour

“I’m sorry,” I say, shielding my eyes.

“It’s fine, Shiloh. We’re friends, right?”

“Right,” I say, turning quickly, inches from the edge of the open door. Jackson turns me into a klutz, and there’s no way he thinks anything about me is attractive.

“Watch it, I’m not taking you to the urgent care again,” he says. I glare at him, and he says, “Okay, I would, but I would make fun of you.”

“Fair enough,” I say, as we walk to the kitchen. He sits down with the towel over his shoulders. At least I won’t be distracted by his shoulders anymore.

I comb out his hair, flicks of water touching my arms. Nerves make my hands shake. Between the closeness to his naked torso and the pressure to cut this man’s hair well, I’m a mess.

“I trust you, Shiloh,” he says. He must sense my anxiety.

“Okay.” I brought my clippers since I do Papa’s hair now and splurged on a set, so I open my kit, with my scissors, clippers, and all the different blade extensions. I first take a comb to separate out the top, which I want to be longer and take a hair tie so he looks like a genie. He’s directly in front of a mirror, and I can’t help but giggle.

“What?” he asks as he looks in the mirror, and he immediately busts up in laughter. “Did I always look this ridiculous with long hair?”

“No, just right now.”

“It’s definitely for the best it’s coming off.”

“I agree.” I take my scissors and wonder how to troubleshoot. I’ve only given haircuts to men who need a clean-up, not a whole different haircut, so I decide I’ll just get the lower bits shorter first so I can use the clippers.

“I’m going to remove some of the length first, so it will look goofy.” I take huge chunks and cut them with my scissors, five or so inches of hair fluttering to the ground.

“I can do goofy, as long as you fix it.”

“I will. This is so fun. It’s like a hair jungle,” I say as I continue to bushwhack all his hair, going around the crown of his head, making it shorter. It’s choppy and uneven, and it’s a “trust the process” moment.

Jackson looks down. “That’s so much hair.”

“How are you doing?”

“Great. I feel lighter already.”

I press my hands onto his shoulders, and my laughter won’t stop. Jackson is a sight, with his choppy lower hair and his top ponytail. He laughs too, full and bright. His hand lands on mine and stays. My throat closes and the laughter goes with it. I pull my hand away and turn to the table.

Catching my breath, I chose the two-inch attachment and attach it to the clippers, turning them on. I buzz the sides first, and once that is sheared, I go around the back of the head. He keeps his head still as I take more and more hair off, until all that’s left is some stubble where his longer hair used to be. Our hand touch is in the past, a fleeting moment.

“Looks like you have some gray coming in, Wally,” I say, touching his sideburns with my finger.

“You gave some to me,” he jokes. Our jokes sound like an old married couple’s, and I love it. This time, I don’t respond. I just keep going, until the entire back is even, and I switch the attachment to a more generous length, making sure the shaved part faded into the longer hair I want on the crown of the head.

Instead of picking a different clipper, I think a more old-fashioned style would work, the type of haircut my grandfather likes. Jackson has a classic, handsome face—strong jaw, defined nose, soulful green eyes. I comb his hair out and take strand after strand, cutting it straight over his head until it’s all even. Then, I comb it a different way to check. When I shear it sideways to take some of the volume out, Jackson lets out a sound of surprise.

“Okay,” I say when I’m all done, brushing some rogue hairs off his shoulders.

Jackson stands up and walks to the mirror. He runs his hand through his hair and turns his head to the side. A long strand of hair falls over his brow, and I curse myself.

The haircut is good. A little too good. I just made this situation a thousand percent harder for me.

“I do have gray coming in. What business did I have to have such long hair?”

“You’re not balding, so at least there’s that.”

“No kidding. It’s so weird.” He turns and points to his neck that’s three shades paler than the rest of his body because his hair covered it. “I have to work on my tan. I didn’t know it was this bad.”

I laugh as I start to clean up. After he puts a shirt on, he basically pries the broom out of my hands so he can sweep up his own hair.

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