Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

woman seated in front of him, but on some thought process that had to do with scissoring, or styling, or setting a trim.
    The sad fact of the matter was, as far as Terry was concerned, I might as well have been an ungroomed Poodle.
    “I’m thinking it’s time for a change,” he said.
    “Easy for you to say.”
    I liked my hair long. I’d been wearing it down around my shoulders for years. Or, to be honest, forever. On previous occasions, Terry had added shape, and layers, and wispy bangs. And I’d learned to give him free rein because when it came to hair, he had good instincts.
    But now it sounded like Terry was talking something momentous. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
    “Have you ever thought about going blond?”
    I reared back in my seat. “You must be joking!”
    “Why?”
    “Because . . .” I sputtered automatically. Then I stopped and thought. “Brown is a good color, a fine color. Maybe not exciting, but certainly perfectly decent. It matches my eyes.”
    “Your eyes are hazel. Hazel goes with blond.”
    I shook my head as my thoughts on the subject began to define themselves. “Blond isn’t me, it’s somebody else. Someone who wants to be noticed, someone with bigger boobs, someone who has a whole lot more time than I do to spend worrying about how they look.”
    “I see,” Terry said thoughtfully. “So it’s a maintenance issue.” Notice how he ignored the whole bigger boobs part.
    “Mostly, I guess.”
    “Then I have another idea.”
    The fingers were back, lifting, parting, rearranging. Terry could see what he was doing; all I could do was feel. The touch of his fingers brushing through the strands of my hair was hypnotic. I had to keep reminding myself that the man caressing my scalp had an ulterior motive.
    “Short and shaggy,” he said, his fingertips pressing gently now and moving in a circular motion. “I’m picturing a Meg Ryan look.”
    “Meg Ryan is a blonde,” I said suspiciously.
    “Ignore that part and focus on the cut. All wisps and layers, kind of a gamin thing. It’ll be fabulous on you. And just think how easy it will be to take care of. Just wash your hair, shake your head, and go.”
    “The blond thing was a ruse, wasn’t it?” I grumbled. “You were setting me up.”
    “So sue me. It doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
    “I like my long hair.”
    “It’s boring. It never changes.”
    Unlike Terry’s hair, which shifted shades and styles regularly. No doubt he was the darling of whichever hair salon he frequented. At the moment Terry was blond again, his hair long enough to curl down over his ears. He looked like a charming cherub. One who was itching to get a pair of scissors into my hair.
    “Sam likes my hair long,” I said. It was beginning to feel like I might lose this battle.
    “Sam likes you .” Terry was digging around in drawers and cabinets. He laid out a towel on the countertop and began setting out the tools of his trade. “He wouldn’t care if you wore a bag over your head.”
    Terry might be right. I hoped he was. Because I was beginning to imagine what it might feel like not to have to blow my hair dry after I showered. Not to have anything clinging to the back of my neck in the heat of summer.
    “You’re not thinking too short,” I said cautiously.
    “Here.” His fingers brushed my chin, then the lobe of my ear. “And along here. Maybe a bit longer in the back. But it will have body, and swing. It’ll move when you move. It will give Sam a good excuse to buy you a new pair of diamond earrings.”
    “I don’t need new earrings.”
    I was arguing for the sake of arguing now. The decision had already been made and I suspected we both knew it. Certainly Terry, who now had a spray bottle of water in his left hand and a comb in his right, looked ready to rock and roll. Trust a man who showed Poodles for a living to be ready to start snipping at a moment’s notice.
    “Last chance to say no,” he said, spritzing away.
    I shook my head, letting my hair slap back and forth across my shoulders for the last time. “I trust you.”
    Terry leaned toward me, his voice lowering intimately. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, doll.”
    “Haven’t you heard? Danger is my middle name.”
    Terry laughed. Then he picked up his scissors and went to work.

22
    T he first cut sent a long skein of hair slithering down my shoulder. I shifted on the stool and hoped my trust hadn’t been misplaced. There was no turning back