The Hairdresser
"Cheap haircuts, fit hairdresser. He keeps coming back even though she's not that good. Eventually she offers a cut after hours."
The salon's called "Snip & Style" but everyone calls it "that place behind the kebab shop."
Cash only, no appointments. Walk in, wait your turn, get a haircut that's either decent or disaster depending on who's free.
First time I go, I get Marie.
She's not what I expected.
Late twenties, curvy in a way that her black apron emphasises. Tattoos peeking out from her sleeves—flowers, I think, or maybe thorns. Dyed red hair, thick eyeliner, nose ring.
"What you after, love?"
"Just a trim."
"Just a trim." She rolls her eyes. "Everyone says that. Sit down, I'll sort you out."
She's not great.
The haircut is uneven. I notice in the mirror when I get home.
But there was something about sitting in her chair—her hands in my hair, her body close, the way she talked without pause about nothing and everything—that makes me want to go back.
So I do. Two weeks later.
"You again?"
"Needed a tidy up."
"You needed a tidy up two weeks after your last cut?" She's smiling. "Alright then. Same chair."
She fixes the unevenness without acknowledging it. We talk about her weekend—night out in town, some drama with her mate's boyfriend. Normal stuff.
"You should come out sometime," she says. "Always need more blokes in the group."
"Maybe."
"Maybe means no." She finishes, spins me to face the mirror. "But you'll keep coming back anyway, won't you?"
"What makes you say that?"
She leans down, whispers in my ear. "Because you've got that look."
Month Two
I'm her regular now.
Every two weeks, even though no one needs a haircut that often. She doesn't question it anymore—just waves me to her chair when I walk in.
"The usual?"
"The usual."
The usual includes chat about her life, her dreams, her tattoos. She shows me the flowers on her arm—roses, for her nan who passed. The thorns are for the ex who fucked her over.
"Still working on the sleeve," she says. "Expensive, though. Salon money doesn't stretch far."
"You're good at what you do."
"Nah." She laughs. "I'm okay. But I've got a good bedside manner, haven't I?"
"Something like that."
Month Three
She's different today.
Quieter. Less chatty. When I sit down, she starts cutting without the usual banter.
"Everything alright?"
"Fine."
"Marie."
She sighs. "Had a shit day. Landlord's putting rent up. Might have to move back in with my mum."
"That's rough."
"It's life, innit." She shrugs, but I can see the strain. "Always something."
I let her work in silence. When she's done, I pay double.
"What's this?"
"Tip. For being good at what you do."
She looks at the money. At me. Something shifts in her expression.
"You free Saturday? After hours?"
"I can be."
"Come by at seven. I'll give you a proper cut."
Saturday night, the salon's dark.
She lets me in the back door, locks it behind us.
"Just us?"
"Just us." She leads me to her chair. "I wanted to say thank you. Properly."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." She turns on the lights over her station. "But I want to."
She takes her time with the cut.
More careful than usual, more precise. Her fingers work through my hair with something like tenderness.
"There," she says finally. "That's better."
She spins me to face the mirror. It's the best cut I've ever had.
"Marie—"
"Shh." She leans down, kisses me.
She tastes like mint and something sweeter.
Her body presses against me in the chair, curves and warmth, and I pull her into my lap. The salon chair creaks but holds.
"Been wanting this," she breathes. "Since you first walked in."
"Why didn't you say?"
"You're a customer. Can't be mixing business with..." She trails off as I kiss her neck. "Fuck it. Mix away."
We fuck in the salon chair.
Then against the mirrors. Then on the little sofa in the back room where she takes breaks.
Her body is soft and marked—more tattoos than I'd seen, covering her thighs, her ribs, her shoulders. Each one has a story. I don't ask. I just kiss them all.
"You're different," she says after. "Most blokes who come in here just want a cut and a chat. You actually see me."
"Hard not to."
"Smooth." She laughs, kisses me. "You can keep coming for haircuts. But now you'll get the VIP treatment."
The VIP treatment means Saturday nights.
Every week, after hours. Haircut, then whatever comes after.
Eventually she moves into my flat—saved on rent, she jokes, but we both know it's more.
"Best customer I ever had," she tells people.
"Best haircut I ever got," I reply.
She still can't cut hair for shit.
But she cuts everything else away—the loneliness, the boredom, the feeling of just passing through life.
Worth every uneven trim.