“Poem,” she groans.
“Yes?” I ask, halo nice and shiny above my head.
“First of all, Idon’tgive men’s cuts to anyone outside of my family.”
“You don’t?” I gasp. “Color me surprised!”
“And secondly,” she continues, “even if Ididgive men’s cuts, I most definitely wouldn’t be giving a discount because he’s a ‘friend of the family.’ In a town this size,everyoneis a friend of the family. I’d go out of business.”
Mm. Yes. But. See. “I only said that would be the reason to him. You and I both know the reason you’d give him a discount is because you loooooooo–”
“All right!” she interrupts, squeak squeak squeaky. “No discounts! No men’s cuts! Icannot.”
“You totally can,” I disagree. “You’re the most talented hairdresser this state has ever seen. You can do anything.” And I mean it. Almondrocksat her job as October’s most popular hair girl. She’s kind, skilled, and just straight up naturally talented. Her eye for color is unmatched, and her ability to seeexactlywhat sort of cut would best suit a person means that more often than not she gets to spend her days doing whatever she wants to people’s hair because they pass over full trust to her. As theyshould, too, because she’s never done a single client wrong—not even in her beginner days. She is, in a word, amazing.
“Okay,” my amazing friend replies. “Icando it. On a fundamental skill level. However, emotionally? I can’t even be alone in the same room as that man. He’s so… he’s so…”
“Absolutely perfect for you?” I offer.
“Yes,” she agrees. “Absolutely, incandescently, unattainably perfect. He’s kind. He’s sweet. He’s strong. He takes care of his family, and his friends, and his neighbors, and his random stranger he just met five minutes ago. He holds doors for people. He tips thirty percent every time, regardless of if the service was good or not. He donates to charity, but he doesn’t just give them his money and say good enough. No, the saint goes out and volunteers his time and his talents as well. He’s good with old people. He’s good with kids. He’s good witheveryone.”
“Plus,” I add, nodding, “He’s totally dreamy.”
Her breath shudders, and I bite down on a smile. My bestie’s in looove.
“So. Totally. Dreamy. He’s huge, and he’sstrong, and he throws around construction materials like it’s nothing. And his hair—my goodness,his hair. It’s gorgeous. I have no clue who he goes to for his cuts, but the way they get it to frame his face is award-worthy work. And his eyes! His beautiful brown eyes.” She exhales, the sound coasting through my earbud on a wave of love-sick pining. “He’s the perfect man,” she concludes. “Which is why I absolutely cannot cut his hair. To even have that hair in my hands is beyond what I could take. My nervous system objects.”
“Tell your nervous system thatIobject to the way that it tortures you so,” I reply. “You deserve your hot hunk of dreamy man, and your nerves are getting in the way.”
“Someone is going to have to tell him I cannot, under any circumstances, cut his hair,” she says. “And that someone is you. Text him and tell him you take it back.”
I scoff, swapping my frosting bag for one filled with green. “Not likely. I’m proyou guys falling in love and having a hoard of little cousins for Amia.” I double check that the piping tip is one for making leaves, then get to work dotting small bits of ivy around the peonies. “Do you think your kids will like tulips?” I ask. “I like making frosting tulips.”
“Poem,” she says.
“Almond,” I say back.
“Poem.”
“Almond.”
She grunts a begrudging laugh. “Is this what having a sister is like, really?” she asks.
I smile fondly, glancing at a photo of Muse, Sonnet, and me that I keep propped on top of my microwave. It was taken not long after Sonnet and I moved here, and I remember feeling so relieved that things with Muse were as normal as they ever were. All the way down to poking at each other’s embarrassments, much like I’m doing to Almond now.
I place my eyes back on my task, switching green frosting for white as I tackle writing “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMIA!” on the flat top of Almond’s niece’s cake.
“Yes,” I answer her. “This is exactly what having a sister is like.”
She doesn’t reply for long enough that I think she might not say anything at all. Then, right as I’m placing the dot on the exclamation mark, she speaks, unexpectedly tearing straight through my heartstrings. “It’s nice,” she whispers. “Having a sister. Havingyou.”
I put the frosting down, take a step back, and stare through blurry eyes at the perfect purple cake I’ve created.
“It is nice,” I agree, sniffling. “I’ve always wanted a sister like you.”
Her laugh comes out a little on the watery side. “Ridiculous?” she asks. “And a little bit annoying?”
“No,” I retort. “Unique, kind, and freely giving of your love without expectation or obligation.”
