HAIR CUTS AND PAINS IN THE ASS
Knox
I was in a shit mood after a shit night’s sleep.
Both of which I blamed on Naomi “Flowers in her Fucking Hair” Witt. After spending half the night tossing and turning, I’d woken up for Waylon’s first a.m. bathroom break with a raging hard-on thanks to a dream featuring my new next-door neighbor’s smart mouth sliding down my cock. The kind of noises that men fantasize about coming out of her throat.
It was the second night of sleep she’d ruined for me, and if I didn’t get my head out of my ass, it wouldn’t be the last.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Waylon expressed his own exhaustion with a loud yawn.
“You and me both, bud,” I said, pulling into a parking space and staring at the storefront.
The color scheme—navy with maroon trim—shouldn’t have worked. It had sounded stupid when Jeremiah suggested it. But somehow it classed up the brick and made Whiskey Clipper stand out on the block.
It was wedged between a tattoo parlor that changed hands more often than poker chips and the neon orange awning of Dino’s Pizza and Subs. They didn’t open until eleven, but I could already smell the garlic and pizza sauce.
Until a few years ago, the barbershop had been a crumbling institution in Knockemout. With a little vision from my partner, Jeremiah, and a lot of capital—from me—we’d managed to drag Whiskey Clipper into the twenty-first century and turn it into a small-town goldmine. Now a trendy salon, the shop didn’t just serve old men born and raised here. It attracted a clientele that was willing to brave the NOVA traffic from as far away as downtown D.C. for the service and the vibe.
On a yawn of my own, I helped my dog out of the truck, and we headed for the front door.
The inside was as eye-catching as the outside. The bones of the space were exposed brick, tin ceiling, and stained concrete. We’d added leather and wood and denim. Next to the industrial-looking reception desk was a bar with glass shelves housing nearly a dozen whiskey bottles. We also served coffee and wine. The walls were decorated with framed black-and-white prints, most highlighting Knockemout’s storied history.
Beyond the leather couches in the reception area, there were four hair stations with large round mirrors. Along the back wall were the restroom, the shampoo sinks, and the dryers.
“Mornin’, boss. You’re here early.” Stasia, short for Anastasia, had Browder Klein’s head in one of the sinks.
I grunted and went straight for the coffee pot next to the whiskey. Waylon climbed up on the couch next to a woman enjoying a coffee and Bailey’s.
Stasia’s teenage son, Ricky, swiveled back and forth rhythmically in the reception chair. Between booking appointments and cashing out clients, he played a stupid-looking game on his phone.
Jeremiah, my business partner and long-time friend, looked up from the temple fade he was doing on a client in a suit and $400 shoes.
“You look like shit,” he observed.
Jeremiah wore his thick, dark hair rebelliously long but kept his face clean-shaven. He had a sleeve tattoo and a Rolex. He got a manicure every two weeks and spent his days off tinkering with the dirt bikes he occasionally raced. He dated both men and women—a fact that his parents were fine with, but which his Lebanese grandmother still prayed over every Sunday at mass.
“Thanks, asshole. Nice to see you too.”
“Sit,” he said, pointing with the clippers at the empty station next to him.
“I don’t have time for your judgmental grooming.” I had shit to do. Paperwork to be inconvenienced by. Women to not think about.
“And I don’t have time for you to bring down our vibe looking like you couldn’t even be bothered to run a comb and some balm through that beard.”
Defensively, I stroked a hand over my beard. “No one cares what I look like.”
“We care,” the woman with the Bailey’s and coffee called.
“Amen, Louise,” Stasia called back, shooting me one of her Mom Looks.
Browder got to his feet and clapped a hand on my back. “You look tired. Got some bags under those eyes. Woman trouble?”
“Heard you went a few rounds with Not Tina,” Stasia said innocently as she ushered Browder to her chair. The one thing Stasia and Jeremiah loved more than good hair was good gossip.
Not Tina. Great.
“Name’s Naomi.”