by Shyla Colt
“You in the single digits for kids this time?”
He laughs. “Yes, one, and that’s plenty when you already have three at home.”
“I’ll leave that procreation to you,” I say.
“No kids in your future?”
“I already have five … Trisha, Maria, Jorge, Joseph and Eduardo.” I reply, laughing.
Chuckling, Houston shakes his head. “And what a handful they were.”
“Still are. It’s hard to believe, but Trisha just graduated nursing school. We’re getting old.”
“I remember when she was still following you everywhere and annoying the hell out of us,” Houston says.
“I know. She did her thing traveling for a few years before she decided to go back to school, and I can respect that. She paid her bills and kept her nose clean, so I had no complaints.”
We sit and reminiscence, killing the time.
“Here she is.”
I stand and follow Houston’s gaze to the black car parked in front of my shop. The door of the black sedan opens and long legs clad in a pair of faded, ripped blue jeans and white heels emerges. She stands and my jaw drops. The statuesque, ebony-skinned beauty with a round necked T-shirt that shows the swell of her breasts has my tongue all but hanging out of my mouth. The white head scarf she’s wrapped in an intricate style highlights her beautiful skin tone and puts the focus on her oval-shaped face, high cheekbones, and full lips.
She moves with a fluidity that speaks of confidence and poise. She doesn’t need a full head of hair to be sexy. Her attitude conveys that, and she hasn’t spoken a word. I hurry to the door to unlock it and see her almond-shaped eyes are a rich medium brown. I twist the lock.
“Hi.”
Her voice is a honeyed whiskey, sweet and soft with a huskiness that seduces the eardrums.
“Hi. Welcome to Gilborn’s,” I say.
“Thank you.”
I step by and she walks inside and waves at Houston. There’s a nervous energy that exudes from her as she shifts her weight from one leg to another.
“Edgar, this is Efia. Efia, this is Edgar, the owner of Gilborn’s and my friend since … hell, grade school?”
I hold my hand out and we shake. Her skin is soft and her handshake is firm.
“Thank you for opening up early for me.”
“My pleasure. I hear you want to be clean shaven today?”
She nods. “I’m ready. I’m sure Houston explained the situation.”
“He did. Are you sure you want to take it all off? I can think of a few different styles. There are some where the sides are shaved on the sides and in the back.”
She shakes her head. “I thought about that, but it feels like I’d just be delaying the inevitable.”
“Whatever you want to do. All the way down or just buzzed?”
“All the way. I … I want to know how it’s going to grow back in, if it does …” She trails off with a shrug.
“We can do that,” I say, quick to reassure her.
She gives me a shaky smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m here to make this as easy on you as possible. If you need to keep booking days where you come in early for your haircut, I’m open to that.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says with wide eyes that convey surprise.
That makes two of us. I’m a nice guy, but this need to be helpful is a bit extra.
“Do you want to go to my station?”
She swallows and nods. Tears glisten in her brown eyes and my heart aches for her. Courage is doing something despite being afraid. I guide her over to my station, and Houston follows us. I pump the bar that brings the chair to the right height and spin it to face her. She’s tall for a woman, at least five foot ten or eleven with nice curves. It’s refreshing to see. I like women of all shapes and sizes, but I’ve always been a sucker for a woman with an hour glass figure. She sits down and slowly unwinds her scarf.
A part of me experience sadness. Her curls are full, dark, and well-cared for. I go to touch them and stop.
“May I?” I meet her eyes in the mirrors.
“Yes.”
I bury my fingers in her coarse mane and decide on the best process.
“How about we cut this down with scissors, then I’ll buzz it with clippers, and we’ll move to a straight razor for a clean, polished look.”
“S-sounds good.” Her voice wavers. After giving her shoulder a brief squeeze, I move to my station to pick the appropriate scissors for her grade of hair. I set them on the black counter and walk away to grab her a black cape. Draping the fabric over her body, I close it around the neck and begin to cut. The spirals of hair fall to the floor. Her shoulders shake, but she holds it in. The more I cut, the more pronounced the patches become. Soon her hair is nothing more than three to four inches of coarse curls. I turn her to face the mirror, and she releases a shaky breath.
“Are you ready for stage two?” I ask after a few moments.
She nods. I pick up the clippers and slowly buzz away her hair. The room is silent, except for the sound of clippers as I slowly go over her head. I don’t think the loss of hair takes away from her beauty; it simply enhances what’s already there. Her eyes appear larger. The angles of her face seem sharper. She’s a Nubian princess, a comic book character in her prime. I want to say these things to her, but I have no right to. I watch the emotions roll across her eyes like a mood ring.
Brushing the hair off her shoulders, I allow her a moment with this new version of herself before we proceed. Hair is an important part of our identities. It helps us express the way we feel about ourselves, and dictates the first impression we want to make.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“As I’ll ever be.”
I coat her hair with shaving cream, remove my straight razor from its holder, and slowly begin to work my way over her head. It’s an intimate experience. Maybe because it’s such a poignant moment in her life. In the end, her head is gleaming like a brown sun, and she’s actually smiling.
“Do you like it?” I ask cautiously as I keep my tone neutral.
“It feels like a new dawn, a new day.”
“A new life?” I ask, continuing the Nina Simone song she quoted. I’m warming to her swiftly. She’s got a chill vibe I’m drawn to like a magnet.
She laughs. The rich chuckle twists my insides. “You know your music.”
“Only the good kind,” I counter.
“I like that answer. Can I touch it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smooths her hands over her scalp. “Does it look awful?” She bites her full bottom lip and turns to Houston. The unconsciously sexy gesture makes me glance away.
“You look just as gorgeous as you always do,” Houston replies.
Taking a deep breath, she nods at her reflection.
“How much do I owe you?”
“First one’s on the house. You can get me next time.”
“Are you sure?” Her lips turn down at the corners.
“Positive.” I fix her with a stubborn glare and she yields with a quiet sigh.
“Okay. Thank you.” Reaching out, she grabs my hand and squeezes. “For everything.”
“It was my pleasure. Thank you for trusting me.” I grab a broom and begin to sweep up to allow her to have a moment to herself. I feel like I was a part of something bigger today. The woman sitting in my chair intrigues me, and I’m not sure what that means yet.
Chapter Two
Efia
I wanted the decision to shave my head to change things for the better. However, simply removing the remaining hair didn’t change my self-image issues … no matter how much I chant, ‘Its only hair,’ in the mirror. I’m in the grieving process for something I took for granted. When I look in the mirror, I see a stranger. Tears roll down my face, washing away the concealer and foundation that mask my pain on a daily basis. I grip the sink and bow my head.
It’s been a roller coaster ride the past few weeks.
I haven’t come out to anyone else, and every time I go to get my head shaved I feel like a fraud. What’s the point of going through the motions if I’m not living it? I never thought of myself as I coward, but I’m terrified of people’s reactions. Will they see the disease and not the person?
People are so superficial and fickle, and beauty is my business. What will I say when they ask me if I have cancer? My stomach churns. This process is soul damaging. Wiping away the tears, I straighten up. I have another appointment with Edgar today. It’s been a few weeks, and it’s time to see the progress and shave again. I reapply the concealer, a light bronzer, and deep red lip stain to add a pop of color to contrast with the black A-line dress with a heart-shaped bodice, and a black patent leather belt I’ve cinched around my waist. I find I’m more meticulous with my clothing now.
As if I can make up for lack of hair with being flawless everywhere else. It’s not healthy, but I’m coping the best way I can at the moment. I hurry out of the house and make the twenty-minute drive to Gilborn’s. I didn’t register just how damn cute the building was my first time here. The white brick structure has a vintage vibe outside and in. A red, white, and blue spinning barber pole is attached to the wall to the left of the doorway. A large circular sign with the word ‘Gilborn’s’ in blocky black letters is attached to the right side.
I pull into a parking space and climb out, grabbing my black Hobo bag as I admire the large glass window with bold black lettering that says Gilborn’s Barber Shop. It’s inviting and charming, much like its owner. I’ll never forget the kindness he extended toward me. He put me at ease, walked me through the haircut and made me laugh on a day where I felt a part of myself perish. My interested is piqued. I’m too much of a mess right now to do anything about it, but I’m not blind.
He’s incredibly handsome. His olive-toned skin is set off by dark eyes, ridiculously long eyelashes, and chocolate-brown colored hair he wears slicked back. He wears a short, neatly groomed beard that lends to his rugged, yet sensitive vibe. Any man who knows Nina Simone can’t have too much machismo. I like it. I reach the top stairs and the door swings open. It should be illegal for a man to make a white button down and a gray vest look that good. The sleeves of the button-down are rolled back, and I can see pops of ink.
“Good morning.” His voice is a dark roast coffee, earthy yet potent.
I can’t help but smile. “Good morning, Edgar, how are you doing today?”
“Better now that one of my favorite clients is here.”
“Oh, you are good.” I wave my finger at him.
He winks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” I say as I step inside after him.
“Do you want any coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot. It’s part of my morning ritual when I open.”
I admire the way the dark blue jeans hug his ass as he walks across the room and into the back.
“I’d love one, thanks,” I reply as I move to sit on his leather sofa. I sink onto the couch, and the cushion embraces my body. Funny how the man and his place set me at ease. Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s a barber and this is a place for hair maintenance. He’s seen all sorts of hair and scalps. Why would mine freak him out?
He returns with two white mugs with a mustache and red lips. I burst out laughing.
“Nice.”
“My sisters bought me a set when I opened the doors ten years ago.”
“You have sisters?”
“Two of them.” He sits across from me in the in the large black leather chair. “How did the new hairstyle work for you?”
“I saved a lot on conditioner,” I dead pan. He snorts. “It was … good? I don’t know. I’m still not used to being bald. I will say it’s growing on me though.” It’s true in a way. I don’t hate it as much as I did the first couple of days. Every time I caught my reflection in the mirror it’d been a shock to my system; now it’s just the way I look.
“It’ll take time to fully adjust to. Any scalp issues? Sometimes I know flaking can start up.”
“No, I’ve been careful to keep it moisturized. It sounds so odd saying that when I have no hair.”
He smirks and take a sip of coffee. “Sounds like you’re doing excellent.”
The caffeine hits my tongue and I moan. “You make a mean cup of coffee.”
“Thank you. I take my java seriously. I have a French press back there.”
I giggle. Why does that not surprise me? I like his blend of modern and old-fashioned.
“What? A man has to have his hobbies, too.”
“I didn’t say word.” I hide my grin behind my mug. We finish our coffee, and he takes the dirty dishes to the back. I hear the water run. And he cleans up after himself, too. Why is this man not married? I didn’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean he’s single. The thought dampens my mood. Just as I take a seat in his chair and unwind my head scarf, he returns with a black cape he wraps around my neck.
“Are we shaving it again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s growing back in,” he observes.
“I know. Does it look normal to you?”
“Except for the patches, yes.”
“The doctors believe I’m a good candidate for injections.”
“How do they work?” he asks.
“They inject my scalp with a needle that holds a certain compound that can stimulate hair growth.”
“You sound hesitant.”
I sigh. “I am. I don’t like the thought of the discomfort, or the ups and downs that’ll go along with waiting to see if the treatments take.”
“So don’t do it.” He makes it sound so easy.
“You don’t think it’s like giving up prematurely?” I peer at him in the mirror.
Our gazes connect, and he rests his warm hands on my shoulders. “I think handling this on you own terms is important. I know this will sound ridiculous coming from me given my profession, but hair isn’t everything.”
His words make me smile.
“Thank you, I think I needed to hear that.” He gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze and begins to gather his equipment. “How’ve you been?” I ask, feeling like our conversation has been mostly about me.
“Good, keeping busy. My sister just graduated from nursing school, so we had a huge party at my mom’s house to celebrate. It’s always a bit chaotic, but a good time. I have three brothers and two sisters, and most of them are married. It’s a lot of people in one place.”
“Umm, yes. I imagine it would be.”
He chuckles.
“You sound close.” I can hear the affection for them in his voice.
“We are. My dad died when I was nineteen, and I moved back in to help Mom raise the others. I don’t regret my decisions, but it’s the reason why I don’t want children. I’ve already gone through the motions of raising them. Now it’s my time to do everything I had to put off.”
His words spark excitement inside of me. He understands in a way most of my friends who want kids don’t. “Join the club. I love the little buggers, but they’re not for me. I want to do and see too much. Perhaps I’m selfish in that sense. I’m all for being a kick ass aunt, though.”
He chuckles. “No. I totally feel you. I can’t tell you how many relationships ended because I don’t want kids of my own. They always think they can change my mind.” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want and what you don’t.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His words have conviction to them. I sense an untold story behind his emotion-filled words.
“It’s okay. I’ve been doing the solo thing for a while, and I’m happy with it. What do you want to do with your time?”
“Travel.”
“Oh yeah, where?” he asks.
“Everywhere.”
He chuckles as he turns on the clippers. “I hear that. I’ve been promising myself a trip out of the country for years. It can be hard to step away from
the business and trust that it’ll run solo properly.”
“I can imagine. Being your own boss is a lot of work and sacrifice. I don’t think most people realize how much.”
“Ain’t that the truth? How does your gig work?”
“I’m freelance for the most part, so I travel to sites, work with regular customers, and sometimes sign up for projects. It’s a lot of time management and carefully constructed scheduling and budgeting.”
“Do you stick strictly to the beauty side of things?”
“Oh no, I do prosthetic and horror stuff, too. Halloween is a busy time for me. I’ve even done a few indie movies.”
“Dude, that’s awesome. Do you like horror movies?” he asks.
“I love them … especially the cheesy, eighties horror movies. Those are classic.”
“Really? ’Cause I have tickets to the Alamo Drafthouse for a viewing of an eighties horror movie with the cast.”
“Oh my God, that’s going to be a blast.”
The tickle of the clippers is something I’m still getting used to as it passes over my scalp.
“Yeah, I thought so, too. My buddy ended up being scheduled to go out of town for work, so I have an extra ticket if you’re interested.”
“I’m totally on board. When is it?”
“Friday night from eight until ten.”
“Which Alamo?”
“The one on South Mason.”
“We’ll meet there say seven forty-five?” I ask.
“Sounds good to me. Thanks for accompanying me.”
“My pleasure. It feels like ages since I got to do anything fun. All work and no play.”
“Make Jill a dull girl?”
I laugh as he begins to place shaving cream on my head. He pulls out the straight razor, and I watch the flex of the muscles in his forearm as he slowly runs the sharp blade over my flesh. It’s my therapy session. I sit in the chair, forget my problems, and connect with someone who makes me feel completely embraced. He never knew the old Efia. He doesn’t see what I’m lacking because he has nothing to compare it to. The fact that he’s intriguing eye candy only adds to the experience.
I close my eyes and relax as he takes away the stubbly hair. I look forward to the horror movie extravaganza to come in a few days. Dealing with everything, I’ve neglected my fun to work ratio. It’s the quickest way to burn out, and dip into depression and chaos. I learned that early on in my career. I was so hungry for success I pushed myself into exhaustion. Every dime I made that wasn’t taking care of bills went back into the business.
