"Ignore him," Emily chirps. "We're getting rid of the curtain and showing off his face."
She studies me thoughtfully, head tilted. "May I?" she asks, reaching toward my hair.
Nodding stiffly, as she gently pushes my hair back from my face, her touch is professional but kind. "Oh," she says softly. "Emily wasn't exaggerating. You have gorgeous bone structure."
Heat rises across my cheeks. "Thanks."
"Come on back," she says, leading us to a styling chair. "Let's talk about what we're doing today."
As she drapes a cape around my shoulders, my anxiety intensifies. The last time I got a real haircut was six months ago, when my mother insisted on taking me to her stylist before a family function. "Nothing too flamboyant," she had instructed the stylist. "Please make him presentable." The memory makes my stomach clench.
"Everything okay?" Sandy asks, noticing my tension as she combs through my hair.
"Fine." The word comes out on autopilot.
Emily settles into a nearby chair with a knowing look. "Bad haircut experiences?"
I hesitate, then nod slightly. "My mother used to take me. She has definite ideas about what constitutes 'appropriate' hair for public appearances."
Understanding dawns in Sandy's eyes. "Let me guess, the perfect 'respectable son' haircut that wouldn't embarrass the family?"
The accuracy of her assessment startles a laugh out of me. "Exactly that."
"Well, this is your haircut," she says firmly. "Not your mother's, not Emily's, not mine. So tell me what you want."
Note to self: prepare for that next time. What do I want?
I've spent so long using my hair as a shield that I haven't taken the time to consider how I'd actually like it to look.
" I-I don't really know."
Emily leans forward. "Something that frames his face but isn't too fussy. He's not going to style it every day."
"Low maintenance but stylish," Sandy nods. "I'm thinking we keep some length on top, but clean up the sides and back. Show off those cheekbones and eyes without making him look like a K-pop star."
The mention of my eyes makes me self-conscious again. I've always felt they were too large, too expressive. My father once told me I needed to learn to control my face better in public because my eyes gave away everything I was thinking.
I tug my hair over my forehead. I hate being exposed. “Can I still..."
Sandy understands immediately. "Push it forward a bit if you need to? Absolutely. But it won't be a full curtain anymore."
Her simple kindness feels strange and good at the same time. "Okay. I guess I trust you."
As she leads me to the washing station, Emily gives me an encouraging thumbs-up. The warm water and gentle pressure of Sandy's fingers against my scalp are surprisingly soothing, and I find myself relaxing for the first time since Emily kidnapped me.
Back in the styling chair, Sandy works efficiently, her scissors snipping away months of growth. She maintains a light conversation with Emily, not forcing me to participate, but occasionally asking for my opinion. It's comfortable in a way I didn't expect.
"So how are you liking the fraternity?" Emily asks as Sandy blow-dries my hair.
"It's fine.”That’s a safe answer, noncommittal.
"Just fine?" She raises an eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"
A sigh escapes me. "It's not... what I expected."
"Better or worse?"
"Different. Some of the guys are actually decent. Gavin's like an overgrown puppy, but he's genuinely nice. Tyler's too wrapped up in Ethan to bother with anyone else. Drew's..." A pause. Choosing words carefully matters here.
