Golden Hair and the Salon Chair

Kelsey Messner

Zel caught her reflection in a storefront window as she walked downtown. Streams of honey hair flaunted in the breeze, oblivious to the infidelity she was planning to commit. 

Zel never imagined cheating on her stylist. Then again, did anyone ever decide to fall for somebody else? 

Three weeks prior, she serendipitously met Bobby at the grocery store.

She was perusing yogurts when The Spice Girls’ “Wannabee’’ started playing. Zel head-bobbed and harmonized when another voice echoed, “I really, really, really, wanna zigazig ah.”

Bobby. His dark eyes clamped on hers, a jaunty smile on his wide lips. A tendril of hair fell from his product-slathered coiffure. 

He shuffled to the beat, his slim-fit shirt exposing ripped forearms as he raised his hands in surrender. “I had four sisters.”

Zel cocked her head. “So that made you…Sporty Spice?”

His shoulders dipped as he laughed. “Guilty. And you were…Posh?”

“I played whoever nobody else wanted to be.”

They chatted about him growing up in a big Italian family and her being an only child. He tossed bags into his cart without looking and Zel pretended to check nutrition labels. 

When it became awkward to linger, Bobby pulled out his wallet and flicked a card across the aisle. 

“I own a salon. You probably have someone, but if not…” His lips tugged into a dimpled smile. “Or if you just want to jam to Spice Girls sometime, call me.”

Zel already knew his shop. It had opened across the street from her old salon six months ago. She’d watched happy customers skip out of the retro storefront with its curved windows, wondering what it would be like for a stylist to ask her what she wanted.

Also, what would it be like to have a haircut with a side of zigazig ah?

In the window of Bobby’s salon, her hair gleamed like gold in the sunlight and hung down her back just as heavy. 

Zel glanced across the street at her old salon with the pink scalloped awning.

Her monogamous tresses had visited one salon since infancy: Gretel’s Magic Manes. As a child, Zel thought Gretel was a witch with her wrinkly, orange-tan skin and too-black hair. Gretel would pet Zel’s head with wormy hands and dip her head close. Her deep voice, singed with spearmint and stale coffee, crooned hot in Zel’s ear, “Never cut your beautiful hair.” 

Never more than a trim. Was today the day?

Zel pressed forward.

Inside, sleek white and chrome chairs flanked the walkway over shiny checked tile. Modern jazz teased the air with a perfume of eucalyptus and espresso.

Bobby glanced up from the back counter, brown eyes gleaming. “It’s you!”

Zel curtsied. “Tada!”

Bobby gestured toward a station as his eyes trailed down her hair. “You were hiding this glorious hair under your jacket?”

Zel sunk into the chair. At least he’d seemed interested before he saw her hair. Now he could see nothing else. 

“It hardly looks like it’s been cut.” He played the swath of hair like a harp with his fingers. 

Zel scowled in the mirror. “It hasn’t. My stylist won’t cut it, she just ‘dusts the ends.’”

Bobby fanned her hair. The waves shimmied down near the floor.

“Why keep seeing her?”

Zel snapped the hair tie on her wrist. “Gretel sells ‘Mane Magic’ hair serum online and uses pictures of my hair to advertise. I get free keratin treatments.”

“How did that start?”

“My mom. Gretel saved her from the worst haircut of all time back in the eighties. I guess she was going for Audrey Hepburn and ended up with Pewee Herman. Anyway, she promised Gretel she could use her serum on me and the rest is history.” Zel tapped her toes on the footrest. “Gretel says it would be a crime to cut hair like mine.”

“A crime indeed.”

Zel’s breath hitched. Gretel loomed in the doorway, stenciled brows arched down and glossed lips grimacing.

“How could you? After all these years?” Gretel shuffled toward them. “I thought I saw you walking across the street, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

Bobby stepped toward Gretel. “May I help you?”

Gretel eyed him up and down, grinding a wad of gum. “Nah, you can’t help me, Al Pacino.”

“Then leave.”

“I’ll leave. But Zel comes with me.” She held out a bejeweled hand. “Your hair is your one true beauty. Let me take care of it.”

Bobby cut between them. “One true beauty?”

Bobby and Gretel’s banter buzzed in Zel’s ears. 

In the mirror, golden hair wreathed the chair, anchoring her down. Zel’s heart flapped wildly in her chest. The follicles on her scalp tingled as if they sensed the impulse jetting through her veins.

Zel stood, her hair pulling in protest. “My one true beauty?” Zel snatched shears from the counter. “Or yours, Gretel?”

Zel bunched a rope of hair in her fist and severed it just below her chin.

“No!” Gretel screeched, stumbling toward her. 

Bobby stepped between them.

Zel grabbed another cable of hair. The blade zipped through the strands. 

“How could you!” Gretel moaned.

Zel seized another fistful and another until the final rope fell to the ground. Her head felt like a balloon floating above her shoulders. She cheered at the sight of her shorn locks. She knelt and swept the hair into her arms and tossed it toward Gretel. “Your Magic Mane.”

The woman’s lips curled in a snarl. “You’re nothing without your hair. Nothing!” She waddled away then slammed the door.

Zel fell into the chair, tossing her short hair back and forth.

Bobby planted his hands on the chair’s back. Dimples punctuated his smile. “She’s wrong, you know.”

Zel met his gaze.

“Your eyes are so blue. They stand out now, like the night we met.”

Zel bit her lip. “Can you work with this?”

Bobby tousled her hair. “Absolutely.”

Zel tilted her head. “I’m thinking…Audrey Hepburn meets…”

“Posh Spice?”

Zel grinned. “You know what I really, really want.”

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