Chapter Text
It’s fifteen minutes to closing when the bell over the door to Super Cuts jingles, and Carol looks up from the chunks of hair on the floor she’s sweeping around her chair at the back. She shakes herself out of her spiralling thoughts of failure and inadequacy (Maybe he was right - maybe it was her fault that their marriage didn’t work. Maybe she really can’t make a life for Sophia without him) and straightens up, plastering on a smile which she hopes appears semi-genuine.
It’s a man on his own, which is unusual due to the barber shop across the street. The only male clients she sees here are either under 15 or over 60, typically escorted by their mothers or wives. She’s about to start forward to speak to him when she sees that Lori has already greeted him from the desk by the front door, arms crossed - clearly annoyed that he interrupted her in the middle of cash out. She turns her head and calls out past the empty chairs.
“Carol, you have time for one more?”
She doesn’t really. Sophia will be waiting for her in their dingy, barely furnished apartment, all alone with nothing but her dolls and the two channels on their television for after-school company.
But clothes aren’t cheap for a growing girl, especially when she’s begging for name-brands to fit in with the other kids.
“Of course,” she says brightly. Then to the man; “Come on back and have a seat. I’ll be right there.”
She passes him quickly on her way to Lori, sighing internally when she sees the mop on his head close-up. This won’t be quick unless he wants a buzz. He doesn’t even look at her, just strides past with his head down, smelling like cigarettes.
Lori looks up at her apologetically from the desk, but Carol speaks to her in a low voice, mostly drowned out by the pop music radio station piped through the speakers around the shop.
“It’s okay. I know you need to meet Rick. I’ll close up.”
“That’s sweet of you to offer, but I can’t leave you alone in here…” Her eyes flit to the man now sitting stiffly in her chair, chewing the skin around his thumbnail.
Carol smiles. She’s grateful to have a friend looking out for her. Only eight months ago she was sitting in Lori’s chair, quietly breaking down while the woman cropped her greying hair close to the scalp, all in an effort to disguise the damage Ed had done with her fabric scissors the night before.
It was Lori who encouraged her to learn how to cut hair, and even offered her an apprenticeship, and then a real job in her salon. And it was Lori who stood guard in the driveway while she packed up her things in the house while Ed was at work. It was Lori who managed to be compassionate without making her feel pitied.
“It’s alright. I can take care of myself.”
She says it because she has to believe that it’s true now.
“Are you sure?” Lori says, but she’s already reaching for her purse and keys. “I can call Shane - get him to bring the patrol car over and just keep an eye?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Lori squeezes her arm on her way out the door, and smiles gratefully before hurrying towards her van at the back of the strip mall. Carol turns the deadbolt behind her, turns the radio down, schools her features, and walks to her client.
His arms are crossed, and he’s scowling.
Wonderful .
“You call the cops to ‘keep an eye’ on every guy who wants a haircut?” he huffs.
“Excuse me?” The smile falls from her face.
“I ain’t deaf,” he offers, jutting his chin slightly toward the desk.
He heard all that?
“It - it’s not what you think.” She stammers at first, but then lifts her gaze from the hole in his pants at the knee to look him calmly in the eye through the mirror (he has blue eyes - she can barely see them for the hair, but they are deep set. Narrow and intense). He glares back, but doesn’t move.
“My ex,” she says tiredly.
It’s bad enough when she thinks about him, now she has to talk about him too?
“He likes to come around here sometimes, especially when it’s quiet. He’s not welcome.”
Carol doesn’t want to get into it (certainly not with a grumpy stranger), so she waits until the man in her chair uncrosses his arms, and breaks eye contact with her first, before turning to grab a black cape from the shelf behind her.
Ed showed up two weeks ago during her shift. He made promises that turned into threats when she tried to ignore him, and spat insults at her with such vitriol that Lori called the police. There were tears - embarrassed ones, angry ones - a yellow rimmed bruise on her arm where he grabbed her, and eventually a restraining order. She wants to put it all behind her, but her daughter needs a father, even if she picked the wrong one - at least that’s what his lawyer says.
The man flinches when she lifts the hair off his neck to place a folded towel, and stills completely when her arms sweep over his head with the cape. Under her hands, standing over him in her chair, she feels in control once again. This is her domain.
“What’s your name?” she asks, not unkindly - eager to put their rocky start behind them and return to the shelter of false confidence and fake smiles.
“Daryl.”
She notices (with some relief) there’s no edge when it comes out. His voice is lower, mollified. Without the heat it’s more like a mumble.
“Well, what can I do for you today, Daryl?”
“Need a haircut.”
She resists the urge to roll her eyes.
“What’s the occasion?”
It comes out a bit more sarcastic than she intends, but he answers anyway.
“Got a job interview tomorrow.”
“So, it would be good idea if the boss could see your face,” she teases. To her surprise, the corner of his mouth quirks just a little.
“Funny.”
“You want a buzz cut? A trim? Help me out here.”
She runs her fingers through the strands, measuring the length while she speaks, all business, Lori’s voice coaching in her head; watch the way it falls, the thickness, the curl. Though somewhat greasy, Daryl’s hair is dark and soft, and at least six inches long.
“I don’t know, lady. Ain’t you the expert?”
She tugs a long tangled piece covering his ear a little harder than necessary, and smiles to herself when he winces slightly.
“It’s Carol. And before I cut anything, you need a wash.”
If she thought Daryl was stiff and uneasy in her chair, he’s ten times worse sitting at the sink; shoulders wider than the basin itself, hands peeking out from the cape, gripping the armrests like a lifeline, work boots planted firmly on the floor. She tries to coax him back to rest on the extra towel she made into a cushion, but he holds the weight of his head stubbornly, the muscles in his neck straining with the effort.
“Relax. I’m not going to waterboard you.”
“Pfft,” he says, but he lowers his head further into her hands.
With the noise and the warmth of the water the need for small talk vanishes. She can feel Daryl eyeing her suspiciously for a minute or two while she pulls out the sprayer, but when it’s clear that she’ll be gentle, that he can trust her, he closes his eyes.
The furrow in his brow slackens when she brushes the hair away from his forehead. He has an interesting face, distinct cheekbones, full lips, scruffy jaw. For the first time she notices how handsome he is, even upside-down - how boyish looking despite the bags under his eyes and the crow's feet. Attractive, though she can’t figure out why exactly.
There’s no ring on his finger. He probably has no trouble finding company on a Friday night.
Carol sighs and reaches for the shampoo pump thinking of the blind date Jacqui set up for her the week prior; Something to take your mind off of things, she’d said. Have a little fun, Carol.
She wasn't sure what part of the date was supposed to have been fun - when she couldn’t find anything in her closet even remotely suitable to wear that wasn’t ruined with bleach spots? When she met Axel at the bar (what kind of a name was that? And the moustache?) and had to persuade him that she was indeed his date, short hair and all? When she spent the evening feeling guilty about leaving Sophia down the hall with Maggie’s sister? No, it was probably when she had to awkwardly excuse herself from a second date. Look, you seem like a nice guy…
When it was over Carol stood in front of her bathroom mirror under florescent lights, wiping away her mascara, and taking stock. The lines on her face, the grey in her hair, the exhaustion she felt deep in her bones, all saying the same thing; You’re a 43 year-old single mother. What did you expect?
It will be a long while before she ever puts herself through that again, if ever.
Carol loses track of time with Daryl’s head in her hands, scrubbing and rinsing. His hands have loosened their grip, and his knees have fallen open slightly. One of his feet turns on its side. He lets out a long breath that signals his surrender. Even though she’s got places to be, she can’t help but want to draw the whole thing out, he’s enjoying it so much. And strangely, she’s enjoying it too. This is her favourite part of the job - no need for small talk, just the smell of grapefruit conditioner, warm silky hair between her fingers, and the knowledge that she’s making someone else feel cared for.
Carol digs the tips of her fingers into the base of Daryl’s skull and rubs in circles, her thumbs pressing behind his earlobes (she knows how good it feels - Lori demonstrated on her). She can feel the remaining tension in his neck give, his head going heavy and lax with her ministrations, and wonders if anyone has ever done this for him before.
It feels natural, touching him like this. Almost tipping into intimate.
“This alright?” she asks, bringing her face closer so he can hear.
His only reply is a deep hum that comes out like a current, vibrating through his head into her hands, sending a jolt right through her. When did her lips get so close to the white line of a scar on his temple?
Her heart beats a little faster, and she jerks her hands away without warning at the precise moment that his eyes fly open.
“All done,” she declares, too loudly. With all the mirrors around them it’s hard to tell who’s blushing more.
Carol practically tosses a dry towel over his head before retreating to her chair, somehow out of breath and flustered from walking five feet.
What was that?
By the time he gets back into her chair the silence between them is charged. He felt it too, whatever it was.
“So, what’s the job?” She blurts out, desperate for something to say while she searches her station for scissors and a comb, and Daryl rubs his head with the towel, hiding his face.
He clears his throat before answering.
“Drywalling.”
She doesn’t know much about it apart from Ed drunkenly claiming that he could do it himself after he accidentally kicked a hole in the dining room wall.
“That’s… nice.”
She remembers Lori explaining the importance of small talk; turning the conversation back to the client. Just get them started on something. People love to talk about themselves, trust me . In the early days of her apprenticeship it was difficult, even with the most chipper clients - she was so unaccustomed to throwing out questions without having to think about how they would be interpreted. In her experience, asking the wrong questions could lead to harmful consequences.
She takes the now bunched up towel from his hands and starts to work a comb through his hair.
“What do you do now? For work I mean.”
“I get by.”
Silence descends on them once more. It’s obvious Daryl is not one to talk about himself. The only sound is the snip of the scissors and the distant radio music (she decides on a trim, enough to reveal his ears and eyes). She’s resolved to cut his hair as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here, but then he speaks.
“That your kid?”
He’s looking at the school photo of Sophia taped to the corner of her mirror. She stops what she’s doing to look at it - fake criss-crossing lasers in the blue background. Sophia smiles widely, showing off her newly formed adult teeth. Her copper coloured hair is parted just a little crookedly, a few strands sticking out near her ears.
“Yeah, that’s my Sophia. Just turned eleven last month.”
It was a very modest birthday party; pizza and cake and giggles. Just the two of them.
“She looks like you,” he says.
Carol nods, smiles at him for saying so even though everyone who's ever seen Ed says that Sophia looks like a Peletier. Her brown eyes and heart-shaped face sure don’t come from Carol.
“You have kids?”
“Hell no,” he scoffs when he says it.
“A girlfriend?”
He shakes his head. He must have someone - a good looking man like him.
“A boyfriend?”
She nearly nicks Daryl’s ear, he turns his head to her so quickly, glaring and blushing at the same time. She feels the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.
“What is this, twenty questions?”
It’s hard to take the irritation in his voice seriously with his pink ears sticking out from under a curtain of hair that’s still dripping onto his shoulders. She puts her hands on either side of his face and angles his head back to face forward.
“Family then?”
“Just my brother, but he ain’t around much.”
Finally, something to go on.
“He live out of town or something?”
“He’s in prison.”
She can tell from his slight grimace that he didn’t mean to let that particular bit of personal information slip.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing she can think to say. Daryl shrugs.
“Don’t be. He did it to himself. Simple-minded piece of shit,” but there’s no real anger there, just weariness.
For a second she wants to ask what he’s in for, but thinks better of it and keeps cutting, moving slowly from the back of his head to the front. The cape is gradually covered with locks of hair that slide to the floor every time he fidgets. His shoulders are dry before he speaks again.
“Truth is, he was askin’ for it. Got mixed up with some bad people, did some stupid shit. I tried to warn him, but he’s a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.”
Daryl seems to have forgotten that she’s there at all; he’s staring at the curling iron, but not looking at it. He lifts one shoulder slightly - a half shrug.
“Least now I know where he is. For once.”
Without really thinking, she frees one of her hands and places it gently on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch when she touches him this time. Their eyes meet in the mirror. He’s still guarded, but she recognizes guilt and loneliness when she sees it.
Carol knows what it’s like to hope you’re enough to change a person, and the hurt when you realize you’re not.
“Close your eyes, and hold still,” she murmurs, turning him in the chair to face her. He complies and she steps closer, her thighs pressing lightly against his knee, warm and solid. Her fingers brush against the scar on his forehead, and with a few deft snips, she can see his eyes, calm and still closed. He lets out a deep breath and she can feel it on her wrists, and just about everywhere else.
And because she knows she’ll probably never get to touch him again, she takes a little longer than necessary to inspect her handiwork - running her fingers through his hair, across the shell of his ears - before spinning him back to face the mirror again.
“Much better,” she says softly, crossing her arms. There’s nothing for him to hide behind. The length is still there, but his face is clearly visible, and very striking. It’s easily the best haircut she’s given a man.
“Yeah,” he says, but when he opens his eyes, he’s only looking at her.
“Definitely employee material,” she says, and cringes at how awkward she sounds.
Carol doesn’t wait for him to respond before she rips the velcro fastener off the cape. He tries to help her remove it, but somehow she ends up dropping one end when her hands come in contact with the smooth, bare skin of his arms. How had she not noticed his sleeveless shirt when he came in?
Now there are bits of hair stuck to his chest and neck - a rookie mistake she hasn’t made in months. She can almost hear Lori tutting; you don’t want your customers itching on the way out the door. Leaves a bad impression.
“Oh, shit. Sorry. Just - let me…”
Daryl sits completely still while she brushes the hair off his collar and shoulders with her hands. His breath hitches when she moves behind him, leans over, and blows at the bits stuck to the nape of his neck. She's so close, she can feel the wamth of his skin on her face.
He smells good.
Carol blushes when she remembers that there are neck brushes drying by the sink in the storage room that are meant for this exact purpose. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
The air feels cooler when she rounds the corner to the back room, and she can take a deep breath. She’s grateful for the momentary solitude - just her and the thumping dryer. It gives her enough time to cool down and try to reassume her professional demeanor instead of acting like some clutzy novice. Carol stays in the back long enough to throw another load of dirty towels into the washer - long enough for her heart to stop pounding in her ears.
When she comes back out with the brush, he’s gone.
There’s a trail of hair all the way to the door where the bell is still slightly swinging overhead. She hadn’t heard it in the back over the sound of the dryer.
At her station, there’s a crumpled fifty-dollar bill sticking out from behind the picture of Sophia.