I laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself a yogi, but I do enjoy it. I do it three times a week… it’s good for me because I’ve never been into strenuous workouts. I’ve never been much of an athlete. I was the one in middle school who was always picked last…” my words trail off. Seriously, am I going to tell him my whole life story? Why don’t I regale him with the story of my first period next.
He smiles kindly. “Can’t say I relate. I was a baller in high school… basketball. Almost got a scholarship too, but tore my ACL something fierce in my senior year.”
Of course he was. He’s easily six foot-two, and has the lean strong body of an athlete. “Sorry to hear that.” Actually, not sorry at all. If he were playing for the Bulls, he wouldn’t be doing my hair right now.
Star basketball player turned hairdresser — this guy is certainly interesting.
He spiders his long fingers over my head and shakes my hair up. “My dad was devastated. I was his only shot. I’m his only boy, you see. I have three older sisters.”
My eyes grow wide. “Three sisters!”
He grins. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
I laugh. “It does.” I really like this guy.
That explains the photo in front of me, the one with the three women. “Which one owns the yoga studio?”
“The last one on the left.” His fingers dance around my face as he sets the strands of my wet hair just so. “So what do we think? You like the length?”
“I do.”
“Great,” he says, seemingly pleased. “Seriously though, you should check out my sister’s studio,” he says. “I’m there all the time.”
I’m thrilled to be invited, and I get giddy at the idea.
“I just might.”
He pulls out a blow dryer, and as he works his magic, I’m amazed by the transformation, something akin to a wet rat morphs into Jackie Kennedy’s doppelganger right before my eyes. This guy really is a magician.
He turns off the dryer and settles it back in its place. He reaches for some product. As he works his fingers through my hair, he stares at my reflection. Of course he does — it’s his job. He studies women’s reflections all day long. I wonder how many of them fantasize about him at night when they’re in bed.
“You have amazing hair,” he tells me. “Thick and smooth… a rare combination.”
“Thank you,” I say, bashful. “It’s so dark though. Sometimes I wish it were lighter, a few highlights maybe.”
“You don’t need them,” he tells me. “The color suits you.”
I smile, at a loss for words. I’m not great with compliments.
“My daughter has amazing dark hair like you,” he says. “That’s her… in the pictures.”
“She’s beautiful.”
He smiles. “Yes, she is, just like her mom. But I don’t know where she gets the dark hair. Renee and I are both blond. Her little sister, Madison, looks more like us.”
I stare at the photo, and as I study it carefully, everything else disappears; the people next to us, the chatter and buzz of the salon, the music in the background. I stare at the graduation photo, and I finally know what’s so familiar about it… the eyes, the dark hair etched in a widow’s peak, the chin dimple, and that smile; coy and playful.
She is the spitting image of Brian at that age.
There are two photos of us, up high on a shelf in our office — our high school graduating photos. My hair was long and my smile was forced. He looked more natural, happier, smiling that same coy playful grin.
He looked exactly like Ava does in this photo.
My pulse races. My body suddenly feels stiff, my breathing shallow. I want to escape this chair. I don’t want to see that photo anymore. I want out of this story. It can’t be. I suddenly feel nauseated… too hot.
I’ve been so focused on Brian possibly having an extra-marital affair, so consumed with images of him and her, tangled in each other’s arms, I never even took a second to consider other possibilities.
To consider this possibility.
