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Bill’s gonna die alone.
He doesn’t go out; he watches all the newest movies in his home theater, and he’s fine with it.
The only time he sees anybody, or specifically a singular body, is when his hair grows out.
He sits down and lets you drape the cape over him. He lets you do your thing.
Bill doesn’t speak.
He's above entertaining a conversation with you, his hairstylist of 3 years.
The only pattern you catch is the small sigh he does when you graze his neck or scratch his scalp.
When it’s done, he doesn’t even tip.
He rises, pays you, then leaves.
Little do you know that he always looks forward to the next appointment.