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NORTHERN ATTITUDE
NOAH KAHAN AND HOZIER
BROOKE
There’s something uniquely intimate about cutting someone’s hair. A commitment—a marriage of sorts—between two souls who vow exclusivity in a kismet, electrical current of understanding. With honesty and confidence built for longevity.
It’s a forever thing.
Not unlike the bond between a woman and her gynecologist or most revered wax technician, or my mama and her Mary Kay representative, the trust between stylist and client is forged in the fires of quarterly therapy sessions, devastating breakups, questionable bangs, and monumental life events—proms, weddings, postnatal hair chops—all in the dense but comforting fog of hair products, soft rock playing over the speakers, and the hum of hot blow dryers filling that oh-so-sacred space.
It’s why I’ve seen the same customers on a regular basis since starting my stylist journey as a preteen in my mama’s kitchen—learning the ins and outs of the trade, the people, and the good-natured chattering our small town is always eager to share with one another.
It’s why, in those ten long years, though I’d love nothing more than to escape this freakishly tight-knit community—as if I possessed the funds to do so—I haven’t been brave enough to move on. Too afraid to leave the only clientele I’ve ever had, who’ve placed their trust solely in my mortal but capable hands, and who faithfully came along with me when I got a job last year at Bless Your Hair, the only salon in Honey Hill. Effectively, pressing a giant pause button on any dreams of leaving this small town behind.
That profound intimacy is also, most notably, the reason I refuse to cut my best friend’s hair, no matter how many times he’s asked or how achingly tempting the prospect is.
“You’re just being stubborn,” Owen says as my mom drapes the salon cape over his broad shoulders, chuckling to herself when he pouts in her chair and picks up one of the fifty or so diecast collectible cars littering her station. “You’ve cut my hair before, Brooke.”
One time. At eighteen. Just before Owen went off to college. And never again.
We both know exactly why.
“Mama loves cutting your hair, and she does it way better than I ever could. Taught me everything I know. Really, you should be grateful.”
Owen huffs, and mom chuckles under her breath, eyeing the toy car in his hands before tapping his shoulders. “Don’t have too much fun without me. I’ll be back with you in a minute, handsome.”
Then she leaves Owen alone, making him the perfect bait in a well-stocked pond. All the stylists currently occupied with other clients audibly groan. Owen is a hot commodity around here, but he’s my mom’s client. And her client only.
Thank you very much.
Cindy saunters over in her typical, tight, black ensemble, biting her injected lower lip like it's a chewy piece of prime rib she’s not quite ready to rip apart yet. I’m only annoyed because she looks insanely beautiful doing it. Nothing more.
She runs a hand along the back of his chair, and I’d bet my bottom dollar she’d just love to get her manicured fingers in that mane. Cindy’s blonde highlights mystically shimmer under the harsh fluorescent lighting, while my dark hair is piled high in a bees’ nest at the top of my head and wrapped tight with one of my favorite scarves. It’s absurdly unfair. “I’d be happy to give you a trim, Owen… since Brooke can’t fit ya into her busy schedule.”
“No need, Cindy. He’s just waitin’ on my mama,” I clip, without looking up again and ignoring the fact that this is the equivalent of me marking my territory.
I’ve essentially just peed on my best friend’s leg. Rubbed my body on his… body. Ya know, scent stuff. Nothing weird.
Owen’s polite “Thanks anyways, Cindy” has my hackles lowering slightly.
His dark, curly hair is way past due for a trim, but rather than looking like a bum, Owen’s grow-out only makes him look more approachable. He’s somehow got even morefriends-with-everyone, boy-next-door, golden retrieverenergy than usual. It’s ridiculous how perfectly soft those wavy strands are, only accentuated by his—and there’s only one way to put this—beautifully long, full eyelashes. A feature I try, and fail, not to pay much notice to daily.
“Come on, Brookey. You know you want to,” he goads.
“I don’t. I’m very busy.”
I do. But he’s simply too pretty.
Owen knows all about my intimacy theory—to some degree—and though he likes to give me a hard time, I also happen to know he loves my mom’s haircuts. The little green goblin,I like to pretend doesn’t rule my heart when it comes to my best friend, holsters her blazing curling iron and settles at the knowledge that no one but Mom—back off, Cindy—will ever scratch their claws through Owen’s hair.
Including me.
Owen doesn’t fully grasp that I can’t ever touch that head of hair. If I ran my fingers against his scalp again, there’d be no turning back. And that’s just a trim. If we did a rinse and got water involved? Forget about it.
We’d be bonded in a supernatural way… from which I’d never recover.
