by Andy Jones
‘God yes. But you know at the start, when she’s in college – we could go for a shorter, toned down, less Charlie’s Angels version of that. I’d bring it in here’ – he holds her hair in towards her cheeks – ‘show off those cheekbones.’
‘What’d you think, Zo?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘A bit of Albright. Definitely.’
‘I won’t take any more off tonight,’ says Henry.
‘Tease,’ says Rachel, smacking him on the arm, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was flirting with Henry.
Henry shakes his head as if it isn’t the first time he’s heard this, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s ever led anywhere. ‘We’ll keep it neat and healthy,’ he says, ‘but we could use a little more length—’
Rachel sniggers at the back of her sinuses. ‘That’s what I keep telling my fiancé.’
‘Okay,’ says Henry.
‘Sorry about Rachel,’ I say, ‘she’s an idiot trapped in an accountant’s body. They go a little crazy when you let them out in the evening.’
Henry laughs. ‘I’ve had worse,’ he says, brushing hair from her shoulders and carefully removing the gown from around her neck.
‘Give me five minutes to rinse my head and I’ll sort you out,’ Rachel says to Henry, popping her eyes at this last turn of phrase.
‘Take your time. I’m not in any rush.’
‘Zoe,’ says Rachel, ‘keep Henry company while I jump under the shower, this hair’s making me itch. Make him a coffee, yeah. There might even be some biscuits.’
I glance at Henry and he smiles awkwardly: Why not. ‘Milk and none, if that’s okay.’
When I come back into the living room with two cups of coffee, Henry is perched on the arm of the sofa, watching the movie. Harry and Sally are watching Casablanca together down the end of a phone line, each in their own beds.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘I’ve never watched that movie.’
Henry points at the TV. ‘Harry Met Whatsit?’
I laugh. ‘Casablanca.’
‘You should,’ he says. ‘It’s excellent. I used to watch it with my mum . . .’ Henry trails off at the end of the sentence, his eyes going to the scissors still in his hand. He looks at me, as if he’s about to say something, then smiles and looks back to the TV.
‘She does have amazing hair,’ I say. ‘Bit bouffy for me, but, hey.’ I blow my fringe out of my eyes and shrug. As well as economizing on groceries, clothes, travel and leisure, I haven’t had my hair cut since February and it’s beginning to look a little feral. Particularly now that my white streak has grown through.
Henry spins his scissors around his index finger, and points them at my hair. ‘Want me to . . .?’
‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’
‘Sure? I could just take the split ends off, if you like.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘You’ve got nice hair,’ he says, smiling. ‘Is this’ – he pulls at an invisible lock of hair, where my own has turned white – ‘natural?’
I nod, feeling myself flush slightly.
‘Sorry, professional . . . you know. Come on,’ he says, beckoning me towards the chair in the centre of the room. ‘Sit down.’
The word forceful forms on my tongue, but I keep it caged. ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘honestly. But I’m . . .’ I mime turning my pockets inside out, ‘skint.’
‘On the house,’ says Henry, pointing his scissors at the chair. ‘And I promise to do a lousy job.’
‘You better,’ I tell him. And I think to myself, no way is this guy gay. I don’t think he’s flirting with me, exactly, but . . . well, neither is he not flirting with me.
Rachel has taken the mirror down from above the fireplace and balanced it on the seat of another chair in front of this one. In the reflection, I watch as Henry lifts, bunches and weighs my hair, his fingers sliding through the neglected curls, making my scalp tingle. He piles the mess of hair onto the top of my head, then lets it drop like tangled wool. Beside the chair is a plastic spray bottle half filled with water, and without a word, Henry starts wetting and brushing my hair.
‘Any requests?’ he says.
‘I’m in your hands,’ I say, and for some reason Henry laughs.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Last time I said that to someone they . . .’ He runs his hand over his shaved head.
‘Suits you,’ I say.
Henry nods, not in agreement necessarily, but acknowledging the compliment. ‘You’d really suit a graduated bob,’ he says, using his hands to indicate hair slanting in towards my neck at a forty-five degree angle.
‘Really?’
‘You have a nice neck,’ he tells me.
‘What about my cheekbones?’ I ask.
Henry makes a fifty-fifty gesture with his scissor hand, but he’s smiling.
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Do your worst.’
On screen, the film breaks for one of those interludes with the cute old couples telling how they met all those years ago. The lady explains that her husband – a young man at the time – walked across the room at a dance, and introduced himself. She thought he was going to hit on her friend, people always did, but he introduced himself to her. Just walked up and told her his name. ‘And I knew,’ she says. ‘I knew the way you know about a good melon.’
‘Sweet,’ I say. ‘I always like these little clips.’
Henry hum-haws, not convinced. ‘I always thought Harry and Sally were one of the most . . . convincing couples, you know. I absolutely believe they’re meant for each other.’
He pushes his fingers downwards into my hair, then rotates his palms outward so that the tips of his fingers are pressed into my neck, pulling my hair tight so that there’s a not unpleasant tension at the roots. And then he cuts the hair up to his hand and repeats the process.
‘In Casablanca,’ he says, ‘it’s chemistry between Bogart and Bergman more than the characters they play. For me anyway.’
‘I really need to see it,’ I say, watching Henry in the mirror, his hands working through the layers of my hair with a smooth hypnotic rhythm.
‘But Sally and Harry,’ he says, ‘I don’t think there’s ever been a more convincing couple.’
I murmur my agreement as Henry walks around to the front of me, blocking my view of myself. He reaches his hands towards me, one on either side of my face, and gently touches my cheekbones, measuring their line and level, the way a painter might measure the horizon. There is a moment of eye contact matching the contact of his fingers against my face, and then he looks away and continues cutting.
Henry points his scissors at the TV. ‘These stories with the old couples, though, they’re all about . . .’ he doesn’t wink when he looks at me, but there’s a flutter of movement in his cheek that could be taken as a close relative of a wink, ‘. . . physical attraction.’
‘Like the melon?’ I say.
‘Exactly,’ says Henry, becoming worryingly animated with his scissors. ‘Their decades of marriage is founded on nothing deeper than instant physical appeal.’
‘They seem happy to me,’ I say.
‘You know they’re actors, right?’
‘Sure,’ I say, lying.
‘Real stories, apparently. But actors.’
‘Well, there you go. Real stories. And anyway, you’ve got to start somewhere. Physical attraction seems as good a place as any to me.’
Henry smiles, finds another layer of hair and continues cutting.
If forty years from now, a man with a camera were to ask Henry and me how we met, I’d say to the guy:
He was cutting my friend’s hair, and there was . . . there was just something about him. And then he offered to cut my hair.
For free! Henry adds. I cut it for free, remember?
I tap his hand, smile. I remember. It wasn’t quite so white then, either, I say, putting my hand to my perm. There was a film on the TV.
Casablanca, says Henry.
That’s righ
t, I say, our memories failing but adjusting to preserve a mutual truth. And as he cut my hair, I looked into those eyes – careful blue eyes – just inches from my own. And I thought, yes, there’s definitely something about that boy.
When Henry met Zoe, I think.
‘What?’ says Henry, and I realize I’ve laughed under my breath.
‘Nothing,’ I say, shaking my head. Because there won’t be any forty years from now. The reality is that four months from now I am getting on a plane to I don’t know where. But I do know I am going alone.
Henry
If I Liked Her Less
There is something about this girl.
Although exactly what, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m imagining it, but there seemed to be a chemistry between us for a moment. But now, for no reason I can detect, she has become suddenly awkward and quiet. Maybe it was all that dopey talk of physical attraction.
While I had been hoping Rachel would take her time, it’s a welcome relief when she comes downstairs, towelling her hair, and dispelling the tension.
‘My God, Zo,’ she says. ‘Your hair!’
Zoe grimaces. ‘What? Is it . . . what?’
‘It looks amazing. I love it!’
‘Almost done,’ I say, ‘hold still.’
‘Honestly,’ Rachel says, handing me a fold of ten-pound notes, ‘you turn your back for ten minutes. Do I get commission?’ she asks.
‘Sure,’ I say, winking at Zoe, and I’m relieved to see her return it with a smile. ‘Fifty per cent.’
‘Deal,’ says Rachel. ‘I’m making tea. Anyone else?’
‘I’d love to,’ says Zoe, ‘but I’m flagging and I’ve still got to ride home.’
‘Henry?’
‘Riding too,’ I say.
‘Where to?’ Rachel asks. I tell her. ‘That’s near you, isn’t it, Zo?’
It’s an innocent enquiry, but Zoe seems discomfited by it. ‘Well, kind of,’ she says. ‘Not exactly.’
‘And you’re done.’ I lift the mirror so Zoe can better see her hair, watching her reaction as she inspects her reflection from various angles. Her hand goes to the white streak flowing from her temple, she pulls it through her fingers and smiles, but there’s something behind her expression that’s hard to read. ‘I’ve had better reactions,’ I tell her.
Zoe appears to come back to herself. ‘I love it,’ she says, and she turns from her reflection to me. ‘Thank you. I love it.’ And then, almost as if she doesn’t trust herself to speak, she mouths the words again: Thank you.
The sound of a boiling kettle echoes through from the kitchen. ‘You two sure you won’t join me?’ says Rachel’s disembodied voice.
I wait for Zoe, and when she answers in the negative, I do the same. I brush the hair from her shoulders and help her remove the gown.
‘Suit yourselves,’ says Rachel, walking into the room with a steaming mug of something herbal. ‘So, Henry, what are you doing in August?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Thursday the fifteenth of August.’
‘Nothing as far as I know.’
‘Good, because I’m getting married on the Saturday, and if I don’t look exactly like Meg Ryan, I’ll be holding you responsible.’
Weddings, even the mention of them makes my feet itch. The thought of being associated with one makes me feel vaguely bilious.
‘Right,’ says Zoe, bending at the waist and shaking her hair over the pile of clippings. ‘I had better be going.’
‘I’d ask you to come on the day,’ Rachel says, and I all but heave, ‘but it’s in France, so . . . no offence.’
‘None taken.’
It’s a cool spring evening, so despite it being a little out of my way, I offer to cycle Zoe home. We’re both heading south of the river, so she has little option but to accept.
I’m unsure of the proper etiquette when cycling with a lady for the first time, but the sun has set, and the traffic is easing off, so for the most part we are able to cycle two abreast. I try not to fall behind, because I don’t want Zoe to think I’m checking out her bum, although this is occasionally unavoidable, and whether it’s the cycling or not, she does look good out of the saddle. At the same time, I don’t want to forge on ahead, forcing the pace and intruding my own backside upon Zoe’s view. We cycle at a speed easy enough to allow conversation, but say little besides commenting on the occasional landmark, oddity or idiot driver. Whereas I’m inclined to hop up the curb, squeeze between cars and sneak through the lights, Zoe abides by the rules, signals correctly and stops on amber.
As we approach the river, Albert Bridge twinkles above the water as if it’s waiting for Christmas. Two months after I started working with Gus, I bought a bicycle so that I could follow up on recommendations beyond his small shop in the South West Triangle. I must have covered hundreds of miles, criss-crossing the river in the shortening nights, and there’s something magical about all of London’s bridges after sunset. But this one, like something out of a fairytale, is my favourite. My clients live on both sides of the dirty water, east and west, but whenever I can, I cross here, riding slowly and imagining the air isn’t thick with fumes. The bridge inclines deceptively, and tonight, as we crest the centre, the light thrown from its constellation of strung bulbs bounces up to meet us, reflected back from a loose mass of glass and polished metal. Parked on the opposite side of the road are maybe a dozen or two dozen motorcycles, all chrome cylinders and fat gas tanks. Without discussing it, we slow to a roll as we approach this gathering of ostentatious hogs. The riders are standing around, talking, comparing gaskets and drinking coffee from a nearby burger van that I have never seen here before.
‘Buy you a coffee?’
‘You think it’s safe?’ says Zoe, laughing.
‘We’re bikers, ain’t we?’
‘Sure,’ says Zoe, steering her bike across the road. ‘Let’s do it.’
And this is no mean measure of burnt instant in a Styrofoam cup. To our mutual amazement, this small snack van on the Albert Bridge offers five varieties of beans and three kinds of milk, covering everything from a flat white to a decaf soya mocha. We order two white Americanos and take them to the railings so we can look at the lights reflected in the water.
Zoe unclips her helmet and runs her fingers through her bob. ‘Is it ruined?’ she asks.
‘Nothing a wash won’t fix. You look . . . it looks good. Really good.’
Zoe smiles, looks away. ‘On the road again tomorrow?’ she asks.
Tomorrow I am swapping my scissors for a drill; I have appointments from 9 until 6.30 including three root canals and a tricky filling. But I’m not about to admit it; it’s too complicated. Too weird. ‘I only do the mobile stuff in the evenings.’
‘You work in a salon, too?’
I nod.
‘What are you, a workaholic or something?’
‘Hah! No, not really, but I do need to pay the rent.’
‘Tell me about it,’ says Zoe. ‘Does it have a’ – air quotes – ‘funny name? The hairdressers.’
‘The Hairy Krishna.’
‘That’s just weird. Is it a Buddhist thing?’
‘It’s a Gus thing. He’s the owner.’
And all of a sudden I experience a nudging impulse to tell Zoe about my mother’s salon, the mix up with the name, the way she taught me to cut a graduated bob. It might endear me to her; it might even make her laugh. Her mouth has a natural pout, and there is something both cartoonish and seductive about the way she smiles while she’s waiting for an answer. Full in the middle, her lips taper towards the corners, where they curve gently upwards, giving her an air of wry amusement. But there’s something else; something held back, and it’s magnetic and . . . something more, sad perhaps. But if I tell Zoe about Love & Die, what then? What if she laughs and asks where I’m from, what if she asks what it’s like and why did I leave? How do I answer that line of enquiry? If I liked her less, perhaps I’d risk it.
‘What about you?’ I ask.
‘What do you do?’
Zoe shrugs. ‘Kids’ books.’
‘You write them?’
‘No, no, publishing. I’m an editor. But . . . I did have an idea for one once.’
‘Tell?’
Zoe appears to think about this for a moment, leaning over the railings and staring through the black water. A light breeze ruffles her hair and she shivers back to herself. Zoe takes off her backpack and removes the camera. ‘One for the album?’
‘I thought there was no film,’ I say.
Zoe shrugs, grimaces apologetically. ‘Well, it’s only black and white,’ she says, aiming the lens at me.
‘Make sure to get my good side,’ I say, and I cringe a little at the obviousness of it.
‘Which one would that be?’
‘Anything that hides my nose.’
‘In which case,’ says Zoe from behind her camera, ‘I guess you’re all out of luck. Anyway . . . gives you character.’
‘Fine. How do you want me?’ I ask, hoping she’ll miss the inadvertent double entendre.
‘Just try and look cool,’ she says, laughing. ‘Just drink your coffee and look at the river.’
I do as I’m told and listen to the solid click of Zoe’s camera as she moves around me, finding her angle.
‘What happened to your eye?’ she asks.
‘A plumber hit me.’
‘Seriously?’
‘He does it every week,’ I say, still staring out over the Thames. ‘Boxing.’
‘Tough guy, huh?’ Zoe says, trying out what is probably meant to be a New York accent.
‘Yeah, that’s me.’
‘Show me your tough guy face,’ she says, closing in with the camera.
And when I laugh, I hear the shutter click.
Zoe packs away her camera, fastens her helmet and climbs onto her bike. I follow her over the hump of the bridge, and then she surprises me by popping up the pavement and veering left into Battersea Park.
‘I thought you were straight on.’
‘Detour,’ she says, following the path east along the line of the river.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Japan.’
‘Isn’t that a little out of our way?’
