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“Are you ready to go yet?” Santos appears in the doorway of her and Whitaker’s bathroom.
“Give me a second I’m doing my hair,” he tells her.
“You’ve been doing your hair for,” she looks down at her watch, “give or take three years.”
He looks at her behind him in the mirror, “very funny.”
She enters the bathroom. “The problem my sweet Huckleberry is there is no way of making that haircut look good,” she says scratching the top of his head making him jump back.
“Hey! I was making progress!”
He inspects the current state of his hair in the mirror, ”well I don’t really know what you want me to do about a haircut unless you’re suggesting we hit a barbershop on the way to the club.”
“Barbershop?” Santo says genuinely surprised.
“Yeah? Is it not cool to call them barbershops anymore?” He’s going through a mental checklist of what she could be insulting him about.
“No I just assumed a country boy would cut his own hair.”
“Oh,” he’s safe, ”I never cut it myself. My mom usually did it. I tried it once in med school.”
“And do we have pictures of this terrible haircut?”
“It wasn’t terrible. I just didn’t like it. But I wouldn’t mind saving the $30.”
“Well then,” Santos leans across to open up the medicine cabinet and pulls out a pair of scissors.
She hits a spot on the ledge of the bathtub, “take a seat doctor.”
“You’re going cut my hair?”
“Yeah,” she says with her ‘no shit Sherlock inflection.’
“Do you even know how to cut hair?” it comes out a bit sarcastic, but he’s genuinely asking.
“Whitaker, do you know how homophobic it is to doubt the haircutting skills of a lesbian?”
One time Santos told Whitaker it was homophobic to not let her choose the music on their morning carpool.
“Because I’m such a kind and forgiving person,” she says, and he gives her a look that says ‘according to you,’ “ I won’t report you to HR for saying that. But now you have to let me cut your.”
He gives, “alright fine,” he takes a seat on the ledge and opens his phone, “I’ll look for some reference pictures.”
“Whitaker, I need you to trust me with my craft,” she says.
Santos grabs a bath towel and wraps it around him then grabs a spray bottle and starts misting his hair.
“Why do we have that?”
“For when I trim my hair.”
“Growing out the fuck ass bob?”
Santos stops in tracks, “what did you just say?”
Stand your ground, Whitaker. “I said you’re growing out your fuck ass bob.”
“My hair was too long to be a fuck ass bob,” she says in defense.
“When we watched Mockingjay last week, you said coin had a fuck ass bob,” she wasn’t expecting Whitaker to bring up evidence.
“Coin’s hair had the essence of a fuck ass bob,” she says back.
“Well then you have the essence of a fuck ass bob,” he fires back.
“You are being so bold to a woman who has a pair of sharp blades so close to your face,” she says waving the scissors in front of his face.
“Oh come one you would never, Dana would give you hell.”
“Damn, okay Whitaker,” she goes back to cutting his hair.
Whitakers eyes follow the first few strands of hair as they fall from his head.
“Sorry, I said you had a fuck ass bob.”
“It’s all right it’s fine. It was funny. I like the new you. He’s more confident. Robby has certainly noticed it too,” she says.
“Thank you, I guess some of the trademark Santos cockiness is wearing off on me.”
“I’m not cocky.”
“You’re a little cocky,” he squeezes out.
“Huckleberry I need you to be on my side before Robby fucks off to Canada in a few months. And, according to Dana, give himself brain damage.”
Santos isn’t stupid. Santos knows she’s abrasive and overly confident. Santos also knows she’s not the only doctor there who could be described as such. Santos knows she has a proclivity to taking risk. Santos also knows she’s not the only doctor to do so. Robby pointed out to her that the difference between her and those doctors is years of experience and not to confuse resourcefulness for recklessness.
Santos remembers the day it happened. She told Whitaker about it over dinner.
She said, “that’s exactly how he said. Do you naturally start to speak in bumper stickers and coffee mugs after you’ve worked there long enough?”
“I think it’s just a gen x thing,” Whitaker said too absorbed in his plate of spaghetti.
“Last time I was at TJ Max I took a pictures of some of the signs there so I can use them on Dana,” Santos pulled out her phone to read off a few, “what do you think of ‘I could use an espresso and then in all caps martini.”
“She’ll love it.”
She thinks Robby and Dana are close enough that Dana will have her back once Robby’s gone. She tells herself Robby sees a young version of himself in her. She keeps that thought to herself.
“Okay then some of your trademark Santos confidence has rubbed off on me.”
Santos takes a long exhale. “Once he leaves I’m not ‘resourceful’ I’m ‘the intern who outed the golden boy.’”
Santos doesn’t like bringing it. Whitaker doesn’t participate in the rumor mill at work but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t heard what people are saying.
“You did the right thing,” Whitaker wants to look her in the eyes when he says that but doesn’t want to risk Santos accidentally cutting off his ear.
Robby told her the same thing. He said she has “a strong, moral compass.”
“Thank you but not everyone else knows that,” she goes serious for a moment, “I really should not have told you that. Do not repeat it.”
Santos told Whitaker about it not too long after he moved in what was, at the time, a genuine slip rather than a secret shared to someone she trusts.
“I promise.”
“Can we change topics? This isn’t really my ideal pre-game conversation.”
“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
“How about why were you spending so much time on your hair? Are you trying to get some tonight?”
“Trinity we’re going to a gay bar.”
“Okay, and? Maybe I’m rubbing off on you in all different ways.”
“I’ll keep you updated.”
“I’m kidding I know you’d never abandon your little house on the prairie,” she says with a laugh.
“I told you nothing is going on there.”
“Why not?” She puts on a southern accent, “are you waiting for her daddy’s permission. Is she asking you for you for three cows in exchange for her hand in marriage?”
“First of all: I’m from the Midwest and south-“
She interrupts him, “ you know I can’t do a Midwest accent. You have to be from the south I’m sorry.”
He ignores her, “and second: neither of those places exchange brides for cows.”
“Sorry, sorry. So then are you keeping it casual farm friends with benefits?”
“It’s not like that. I’m just helping her on the farm,” he says.
“Every single weekend?”
“It’s some kind of instinct I don’t know. I can’t look at someone who needs help and not do something.”
Santos picks up the southern accent, “well I think that’s mighty kind of you but-“ Whitaker groans and Santos drops the accent.
“Sorry, but I don’t want you to wear yourself thin huckleberry. Or give that woman the wrong idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s in a vulnerable state. Don’t make her think this is something that’s it’s not.”
Whitaker would make a comment about her projecting Santos is almost done with a haircut and he’s not risking it. She won’t cut off his ears but she could make him look really stupid if she wants.
“Okay,” she says slowly as she takes off the towel, “tell me what you think.”
Whitaker wipes off some of the hair from his shirt before taking a look in the mirror and-it’s actually not bad.
“C’mon give me a 360,” Santos says egging him on.
“I’m sorry I ever doubted your haircutting skills,” he adds, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She shakes out the fowl over the bathtub, “we’ll take care of this when we get home,” Whitaker knows that means tomorrow morning as they will be much too tired. “Are you ready to go?”
“Should be,” Whitaker says, “Oh! Before we go did you wanna add four more rings or are the eight enough?”
“Proud of yourself for that one?”
“Yes.”
“Me too, Huckleberry.”
“One day I’m going to come up with a really good nickname for you and you’re going to hate it.”
“I believe it.”