My heart beganto race as the limo pulled up outside the studio and Stan got out the door. He thanked Daniel, then walked into the building.
I noticed immediately that something had changed. I gasped loudly and ran over to him.
"Your shoes!" I cried.
"Good morning to you too, Fabian," Stan said.
"Yes, yes, good morning, but—Stan, your shoes!"
The disgusting, disintegrating sneakers were gone. Instead Stan wore a pair of slightly less worn sneakers. They were an older style, over a decade old judging by the design, and still clearly worn, but at least they didn't make me want to claw my eyes out.
"They're not new," Stan said with a shrug.
"I can see that."
"I just dug them out of the back of my closet. They’re from high school, so glad they still fit."
This was amazing progress. I was so happy I wanted to cry. I couldn't help myself from hugging Stan. That in and of itself wasn't unusual. I hugged my clients plenty of times in a normal, platonic way. But this embrace lit a fire in my chest. My Phoenix soul cried out with joy, wanting to burst free from my human form and fly. I purposely tamped it down. Exploding into the shape of a fiery bird right in the middle of the studio would cause more problems than it was worth.
Instead I focused on how good Stan smelled, how warm he was. Now that I had wrapped my arms around him, I didn't want to let go.
But I had to be conscious of my actions. I let the hug go on for just a moment too long, as if grudgingly dragging myself out of bed in the morning, then pulled away. I noticed Stan's cheeks had flushed.
"Stan, I am so proud of you," I said.
"They're just shoes," he mumbled, but I saw the flicker of eagerness in his eyes. He liked being praised like this.
I sighed wistfully. "Shoes are never just shoes, my dear Stan. Shoes are a symbol. Shoes speak a thousand words."
"I thought that was pictures," he teased.
"Shoes, pictures, what's the difference? Now come along, we have a lot of ground to cover and I want to stay on schedule."
He followed me without hesitation. Again, I could have cried. He was noticeably opening up to me after our little breakthrough last night. Maybe if we continued on this path, I could admit my feelings sooner rather than later.
Stan sat obediently in the haircutting chair and let me drape the guard fabric across his body. I had to brush some of his long hair out of the way to clip the Velcro together at the nape of his neck. Stan shivered when I accidentally brushed his skin.
"So," I began, trying to distract myself from how nice it felt to touch, "have you finally decided on a hairstyle you can tolerate?"
The binder full of options was laid out in front of him. We'd gone over this yesterday, but didn't make any progress. I wondered if sleeping on it changed his mind.
Stan glanced over the pages, absentmindedly flipping through them. Then he shut the book. My heart dropped for a moment before he said, "you know what, Fabian? Just do whatever you want."
Certainly, I hadn't heard him correctly. "I'm sorry?"
He met my gaze in the mirror. "I don't need the pictures. Seeing haircuts on other people isn't my thing. So… I trust you. Do whatever you think is best."
I could've grabbed his face and kissed him right then and there. It was a monumental effort to refrain.
"Hey, are you crying?" Stan asked, furrowing his brow sympathetically.
"No." I sniffed and wiped the tears out of the corners of my eyes. "I mean, maybe a little, but they’re tears of joy. But don't make me cry anymore, all right? You're going to ruin my makeup."
Stan chuckled. "Me? What did I do?"
"Nothing. Now unless you like to stare at yourself while you're getting a haircut, I'm going to turn you around."
He shrugged. "I don't care. Let it be a surprise, I guess."
