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“Like a wound festering in the eighteenth century before antibiotics were discovered?”
“That’s very specific. But yes.”
Gretchen smiled wide. She was in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, the beige sneakers that, he’d noticed lately, she wore most days. Dave felt his face flush and hoped she’d get called up to get her haircut soon, so she wouldn’t have time to memorize what he looked like. He didn’t know what to say, but was saved from a comment by a blow-dryer that went off nearby. Dave tried to seem casual as he looked around the Supercuts—two other guys waiting for their turn were on their phones, a woman sat with tinfoil in her hair reading a magazine, an old lady had one of those silver dome things over her head—but his eyes kept flicking back toward Gretchen. She kept her book on her lap, picked at a split end, smiled at him whenever their eyes would meet, looked away as shyly as he did.
“Sorry I haven’t talked to you in class this week,” Dave said once the hair dryer stopped. “I kept wanting to. But the more I thought about it, the more the other night at the Kapoors’ felt like a dream and I wasn’t really sure it happened. It did happen, right?”
Gretchen brought her book up to her face like she was smelling it, but Dave had the notion that she was just trying to hide a smile. He could see it in her eyes. “It happened,” she said.
“Okay.” Dave watched as a woman came in with her baby stroller and argued about the wait for an appointment. “I’m gonna talk to you in class, is what I’m trying to say,” Dave said, feeling strange that he had the urge to tell her such a thing. “If you’re okay with that.”
“Good. You can help me improve my prank skills.”
“You really feel strongly about keeping a straight face, huh?”
Gretchen shrugged and crossed her feet at her ankles. “I’ve got two older brothers. I was the butt of too many jokes when I was younger, and now I’m basically bitter at life and seeking revenge.”
“You sound really bitter.”
“Good, that’s the whole shtick I’m going for.” She motioned the length of her body, as if she was clearly exuding bitterness, as if she was dripping with anything other than sweetness.
Whoa. Where did that thought come from?
“It’s working,” Dave said, and the two of them smiled at each other for a second until Gretchen was called up by one of the stylists. He watched her lean her head back into the shampooing faucet and close her eyes as the water washed over her blond locks. She played with the book in her hands, flipping the cover over. Her nails were flecked with baby-blue polish.
Dave waited for his turn, trying not to get caught looking in Gretchen’s direction as she got a trim. The two guys waiting next to him were still on their phones, occasionally glancing up at his hair. Dave was pretty sure one of them took a photo while pretending to search for a signal. But the embarrassment he’d felt only a few moments ago had faded some.
When it was his turn, the only open spot was once again right next to Gretchen. She was reading and this time she didn’t notice him right away. The hair stylist—tall, black, wearing a tight shirt that showed off his sleek muscles—draped one of those protective sheets over Dave and then Velcroed it at the back. “What are we doing with this?” He asked, bravely running a hand through Dave’s hair.
“For the love of God, take it all off.”
“Wise choice,” the stylist said. He grabbed an electric razor from his tools on the counter. “You kids never learn to let a professional do it.”
Gretchen stopped reading and smiled at Dave through the mirror. Dave had never understood why people associated cheekbones with beauty, but now that he noticed Gretchen’s, he got it. “You should save all of the hair in a bag,” Gretchen said. “I don’t know exactly what you’d do with it, but there’s a prank in there somewhere.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to be the guy that collects hair in a bag.”
Gretchen laughed in a way he hadn’t seen before, this goofy laugh that showed off her front teeth and sounded like it came from a cartoon character.
“When I hit rock bottom, that’s when I start collecting hair.”
“What do you think people who collect hair do with it?”
“I don’t know if those people actually exist. I think that’s just something TV shows and movies made up for the creepiness factor and to get some laughs.”
“Oh, they exist. I’m sure of it.”
“You think?” Dave said. Just then, the redheaded hipster girl who’d been cutting Gretchen’s hair brushed off the clippings from Gretchen’s shoulder and said they were all done. Dave found himself thinking, Don’t go.
Then his stylist turned on the razor and kept his head still, and Gretchen disappeared from Dave’s sight. It was an abrupt and disappointing good-bye. Still, it was a little thrilling having a good conversation with someone who wasn’t Julia. It was a little liberating, truth be told, to think of someone else for a while. When Dave stood up to pay, now sporting a completely shaved head, he saw that it hadn’t been a good-bye at all; Gretchen was waiting for him at the front.
“I don’t know if you drove here,” Gretchen said, “but I can give you a ride home, if you want. Since we live so close.” Without waiting for an answer, she reached up and ran a hand over his shaved head. “This feels nice.”
“Thanks,” he said, wondering if she could spot the goose bumps she’d given him. “I’d love a ride.”
“Good.” She smiled, then motioned with her head. “It’s this way.”
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