“Who needs boardrooms and corner offices when you can spend your days doing good?” Shirley said, shaking my hand and then Waylay’s.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said.
“Likewise. Especially if you’ve got two working hands and don’t mind stocking shelves and packing boxes.”
“Ready and able,” I said, elbowing Waylay, who was looking a little morose.
“Put ’em where you want ’em,” Knox said. “I’ll set up shop, and we can get started.”
Waylay and I followed Shirley as she led the way inside.
“I’d rather be shopping,” Waylay whispered to me.
“Maybe we can find a mall afterwards,” I said, giving her shoulders a squeeze.
One thing was for sure—Knox Morgan was full of surprises.
“I guess it’s kinda cool they do this,” Waylay said as we watched Knox and Jeremiah run their makeshift outdoor salon through the tall windows.
While we had spent two hours sorting food and clothing donations with other volunteers, Knox and Jeremiah had entertained an endless stream of shelter residents in their chairs under the awning on the sidewalk.
It was a beautiful day edging toward fall, and the mood was festive.
The staff, volunteers, and residents had formed a kind of large, unruly family making something as bleak as homelessness feel like a challenge to be conquered. Not a stigma to be reinforced.
Together, Knox and Jeremiah transformed ignored, unruly, disheveled hair into sleek, stylish looks. And in doing so, I realized they were also changing the way each client saw themselves.
Currently, Jeremiah was working a hand razor over a little boy’s dark hair keeping him in an almost constant state of giggles. The man in Knox’s chair had sat down with a long, scraggly beard and wispy gray hair. His tan face was deeply lined, his thin shoulders stooped. He wore clean sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, both a few sizes too big.
His eyes were closed in what looked like a moment of unguarded bliss as Knox draped a hot towel over his face and readied his shaving supplies.
“Yeah. Kinda cool,” I agreed, stroking a hand over Waylay’s hair.
“Those two have been doing this once a month for years,” Shirley said, appearing next to me. “Our residents get a kick out of having $200 haircuts, and it sure changes the way other people see them. We consider ourselves pretty dang lucky to have caught Knox Morgan’s attention with our work here.”
I wondered if he had his name on this building too. And if he did, did it bother him less than the police station?
I watched him remove the towel with a flourish, making the man in his chair grin.
“Grabbed you a coffee.”
A huge to-go cup materialized before my eyes as I straightened from the table where I was folding t-shirts.
Knox stood there, holding a second, smaller cup with the kind of look in his eyes that made my heart somersault in my chest.
The man had played hero to two dozen people today—not counting me—and then he’d run out to grab me a cauldron of coffee.
It hit me like a warm, glowing wave that swept my feet out from under me.
“Thanks,” I said, going misty-eyed.
“The fuck, Daze?”
Of course he noticed I was about to cry over caffeine. Because he noticed everything.
“Baby, what’s wrong? Someone say something to you?” He was glaring through the window as if looking for someone to blame.
“No!” I assured him. “I’m just… This is…amazing, Knox. You know that, right?”