Chapter 1

I love hair. I always have. Since I was a ten year old playing with that creepy giant Barbie head, I’ve loved styling hair. The colors, the textures – even the way it falls to the floor under my scissors makes me smile. Laugh if you want, but I get to spend my days doing something I love. Can you say the same?

Now that that’s out of the way, let me introduce myself. Hi. I’m Diana, and I’m a hair-o-holic. Ha ha. I run a salon called “Style”. It’s an old-fashioned, full service salon, offering (in addition to the best hair care around) waxing, tanning, manicures, and a hot lather shave for the men. They love it. It’s my gimmick; my stamp on this place. The salon is tucked in between a DQ and a bank in an older strip-mall in Brooklyn, but it’s mine, and I love it. I’ve worked at this place for 15 years, and have owned it for the last five. I’m 35, if you’re trying to figure out the math. 35 and fabulous, if I do say so myself.

Today is Thursday, my late day. I have a few regulars who come in after work, but for the most part it’s quiet with a few walk-ins, and I can get my paperwork and ordering done, Today, though, I have someone coming in for my last slot of the night. Monica, my receptionist, noted it was a man called Mr. Kidd, who wanted a wash, cut, and shave. I smiled to myself. There’s nothing quite like giving a guy a hot-lather shave. Alright, let me qualify that – a young guy. OK, you got me there. He doesn’t have to be young, just hot.

This Mr. Kidd was due in half an hour, which gave me plenty of time to get my hair wrapped up, and to make myself presentable. Why do I have to wrap my hair, you ask? Well, there’s a lot of it. It’s thick, curly, and luxurious, falling to just below my waist. My natural chocolate-brown has been enhanced with strands of caramel that shine like gold in the right light. My hair is my one vanity. I don’t spend a lot of time or money on clothes or shoes, but I do on my hair. Hey, would you go to a salon where the stylist had crappy hair? I didn’t think so. I look at it as an investment in my business – as money well spent.

In any event, I’m by myself tonight, so I’ll be doing the wash. So, I’ve got to get this riot of curls up and back so it doesn’t get in the way at the sink. I grabbed some clips and used them to secure the knot I wound into my hair. A few curls escaped, making me look about 15 years old, but it couldn’t be helped.

I have a young face to begin with, which usually means I get carded when I go out. I’m not complaining about that. I do, however, complain about not getting taken seriously because of the way I look. In addition to the long hair and young face, I have moss green eyes, am 5’6” and am quite frankly built like a stripper. It’s hard to get people to look past the 38-26-28 to the valedictorian underneath. Yep, I'm a smartie. I can’t do too much about my face, so I do my best to downplay my figure.

Today was no exception. I knew I had someone new coming in, and didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Don’t get me wrong; when I go out on the town, I play up my – um – assets to the hilt. At work, though, I try to contain myself (ha, ha). Tonight, I’m slumming in skin tight jeans (alright, maybe I’m vain about my ass too – shoot me, why don’t you) and a loose man’s shirt; palest pink with a gray pinstripe.

I was in the back, just switching over another of the seemingly endless loads of towels when the door opened. “Hello,” I called.

“Hey,” a breathless, and annoyingly familiar voice answered. “I’m a little early for my 7:30.”

“No worries, darlin’,” I answered. “Have a seat at my station; first chair on the left. I’ll be right out.” It bugged me that I couldn’t place the voice; I’m usually quite good at that. The voice was smooth as aged whiskey and a low enough rumble to bring to mind a large, well-muscled youngish guy. Yum. Some days I just love my job.