And just like that, the two of them start chatting away like old friends, rather than two people who only met for the first time at knitting club a couple of weeks ago. They seem to get on well, which is... interesting.
A swish of blue fabric barrels into view. “Isla!” Lily twirls for her with maximum drama. “I’m Elsa! See my braid? It’s got glitter.”
“Wow!” Isla’s eyes light up.
“How about Ruby gives you a wee up-do too?” I suggest.
“Yes, please!”
Struan glances at the clients on the bench. “You sure it’s okay to squeeze her in? Looks busy.”
“Of course. It’s the least I can do after everything yesterday.”
He waves it off. “Ach, that was nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.
“Ruby!” I call across the salon. “Can you fit in a braid for Isla?”
“Absolutely.” Ruby smiles at Isla. “Want some glitter in yours too?”
Isla nods eagerly, and Ruby leads her towards a chair. Lily goes with them, offering unsolicited advice about the best glitter colours.
Struan watches them, something soft in his expression, then turns back to me. “Great to see the place up and running. And you look happy. Suits you.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. So instead I say, “I’d better go get your mum started. Helen? If I can drag you away from my mum, do you want to come this way?”
Seating her for an initial consultation, I run my fingers through her hair—something I always do with new clients to feel the texture before washing. Like her son’s, Helen’s hair is a thick mix of curls and waves. Beautiful when cut right. A nightmare when it’s not.
“Gorgeous texture,” I tell her. “When was your last trim?”
“Oh, months ago. Maybe longer.” Helen grimaces. “I kept meaning to get it done, but you know how it is.”
I do know. I also know that whoever cut it last didn’t understand curl patterns because the shape’s all wrong—too blunt at the ends, no layering to let the spirals spring properly.
“Let’s get you washed first,” I say. “I’ll do a nourishing treatment to bring out the shine, then we’ll reshape these curls.”
At the basin, I wet Helen’s hair and work in the shampoo, massaging her scalp. She lets out a contented sigh.
“Oh, that’s lovely. Maggie never did head massages.”
I smile. “It’s the best part, isn’t it?”
As I rinse and apply the conditioner, a familiar deep burr carries over the noise of the salon. I glance up.
Struan’s leaning against the counter, casual as anything, chatting with two pensioners waiting for Sheila. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but whatever it is has them animated—leaning in, laughing, gossiping away.
Helen chuckles. “That lad could blether for Scotland, so he could.”
I squeeze the excess water from her hair. “I’ve noticed that about him.”
“He’s a people person,” Helen says fondly. “Always has been. Which is why it’s surprising he’s still single.”
Keeping my expression neutral, I wrap a towel around her head. “That’s you rinsed. Let’s get these curls trimmed.”
Back at the chair, I section Helen’s hair and begin the cut, working with the curl pattern rather than against it. She talksenough for both of us—small-town gossip, local events, stories about her daughter, Erin, in London. I can see where her son gets it from.
During a lull, Helen catches my eye in the mirror. “Do you do gents’ hair too?”
