He smiled at me as the tall woman in a long black and white dress cut his hair. He smiled again, silently laughing as the senior stylist, in her husky voice, chatted about her anti-social neighbour and how she kept calling the police because they wouldn’t stop their midnight raves. When she paused, the man with a mop of dark hair, a brilliant set of teeth, and a cute little freckle near his dimply cheek nodded in complete agreement until she continued with her rant.

I smiled back, my cheeks still bright red because there he was, this charming man, getting his already charming hair trimmed, smiling at a stranger who had a million foils in her hair and was wearing hot pink joggers because she hadn’t done her laundry in time and because who dresses up to go to the salon? I hadn’t even known they cut men’s hair before today.

We’d been sitting opposite each other for only five minutes, staring into these tall floor-standing bronze antique mirrors, glancing at one another occasionally, something between us growing stronger by the minute. It felt too good to be true. I thought he was staring at the woman behind me at first but realised she was his sister waiting to get her hair cut. I’d been sitting here for a good hour already.

The diamante chandelier that hung above his head gave him even more of a glow, and those thoughtful eyes were accentuated by the dark evergreen accent wall behind him.

The junior stylist popped back to check on my foils, grinning as though she’d just downed a cup of strong coffee. ‘Looking amazing, looking gorgeous. Right then, if you follow me to get shampooed, we’ll pop them out.’ She grinned with a double chin. She had rosy cheeks, thick eyelashes, and hair clips attached to her black sleeves.

‘Okay,’ I replied, anxious to miss this fine specimen in front of me and never see him again. I stood up and held my breath as I brushed past him, my heart galloping a million miles an hour. I lay down, with my head against the hard sink and stared at the ceiling as the junior stylist washed my hair and calmly massaged my head. Except, I didn’t want a massage. I wanted to get back to my seat and stare at the man. I meant, smile.

‘Amazing! All done. If you follow me.’

I leapt up, my hair dripping down my neck as my towel dropped to the floor mid-leap. He was gone. Gone. No one in the chair. How had the senior stylist finished his hair so quickly? I’d never see him ever again. That beautiful mop, the beautiful dimply cheek, the eyes…

Oh.

I smiled sheepishly as he smiled from the chair his sister had been sitting in. Behind me. He was waiting for his sister, who was chatting away about what new style she wanted. That would take a nice long time. I sat down, trying to calm my beating heart. I could do with a cup of tea. As I glanced in the mirror, I saw him biting his lip in amusement. As if he could see everything written all over my face. I checked my reflection and turned the colour of beetroot.

‘Can I get you anything?’ the junior stylist with a double chin asked.

‘Tea, please.’

‘Okay. Amazing.’

Mine and the man’s eyes met again. Amidst the whirring of hairdryers, the flow of conversations, and the infectious laughter echoing through the room, there was a serene stillness just for us as we shared, in that moment, something that felt real, something that held promise. But as the bell on the door pinged and a woman entered with her daughter, our moment dissolved into the bustling rhythm of the salon once more.

‘Eliza!’ All the hairdressers seemed to know the pair, welcoming the girl with open arms. 

‘Here you go.’ The junior stylist reappeared with my tea, grinning. ‘Right then, you wanted a trim too? How much were you thinking?’ 

‘About an inch,’ I said.

‘Amazing,’ she replied, rummaging through her tray, presumably for a comb. She caught the attention of the Saturday girl in Crocs who was sweeping a mound of white hair. ‘Comb?’

Eliza skipped over to the chair where the man had sat and climbed up. The senior stylist with the husky voice placed a plush cushion there for her. She passed Eliza’s waterproof coat with an otter on the back to the mother and ran her fingers through the girl’s mousy brown hair.

‘So, what can we do for you today, Eliza?’

Her mother, who wore a fuchsia coat, gave a few instructions while Eliza shrugged her shoulders and wiggled around, admiring her reflection.

The Saturday girl handed the junior stylist a comb and brought a black gown for Eliza, who frowned, tilting her head. ‘I want the rainbow one, please!’

The Saturday girl laughed and cloaked Eliza in the kid’s rainbow gown.

‘I’m an angel!’ Eliza waved her arms, so the gown billowed.

I flicked my eyes at the man in the mirror, and he was laughing, finding the girl cute. He loved kids too! He was perfect.

‘I’m going to heaven soon,’ Eliza exclaimed, and the whirring hairdryers stopped.

The senior stylist’s laughter ceased as she turned towards the mother, whose face had drained of colour. The mother stared at her trainers, her mouth quivering as though she were trying to find the right words. 

‘I’m going where the other poorly kids go. They have all the food they could ever want. And you can fly! I have…’ Eliza looked at her mother. ‘Ookemee.’

‘Leukehemia,’ her mother whispered.

I peered at the man in the mirror. His gaze was fixed on his lap.

The room, a minute ago alive with hot air, loud chatter, spritzers, and clinking china cups, was deadly still.

‘Do you remember what we talked about, darling? You’re going to have the medicine to get better.’

‘But mummy, I might go,’ Eliza seemed nonchalant. ‘Daddy said…’

Her mother’s cheekbones tightened at his name. ‘Daddy isn’t always right, darling.’ She put on a smile for the hairdressers, and I averted my gaze to my shoes so she didn’t feel like just about everyone was staring at her. ‘We’re going through a list of the things Eliza has wanted to do for a while now.’ Her mother nodded, trying to replicate her daughter’s easy smile.

‘Getting my hair cut short is first!’ Eliza bounced on the cushion.

While she still has it, her mother’s expression read.

‘That’s right. And she wants her ears pierced.’

‘For real! Because I’m six years old!’

Six.

I blinked away the tears, letting my junior stylist comb the knots in my hair aggressively, slicing over my ear again and again. Her grin had disappeared along with everyone else’s.

The man still had his gaze fixed on his lap.

‘Well,’ the senior stylist paused, water welling in her eyes, ‘I will have to do the best job ever. A new look for a beautiful princess.’

‘Oooh, yeahhh!’ Eliza squealed in excitement.

The Saturday girl brought out a cup of tea to the mother. 

The bell on the door pinged. The man had just walked out. Gone. 

No.

‘Can I just…’ I stood up while the comb was furiously stuck in my hair and ran out the door. ‘Hey! Excuse me.’ 

The man turned around with a weary expression. What was I doing? He needed space. Not a stranger stalking him. He exhaled, blinking. ‘My niece,’ he said.

I nodded, the ache in my heart growing for all the children who had gone through it. For all the families. ‘Eliza might be okay you know. Her mum said…’

‘I know, I know,’ he replied. But we didn’t know.

A woman pushing a double pram stormed up the street, and we slipped onto the road to get out of her way. ‘This might seem a bit forward, but…I’ll be done in the salon soon. Do you want to go over the road for a coffee?’

His evergreen eyes met mine. ‘I’m not the best company. I can’t go back in there. My sister…’

‘Oh, was it her…?’ 

‘No, no. It was our brother’s girl.’

‘I’ll tell her you’re outside,’ I said.

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘No. Tell her I’ll be in the coffee shop over the road. With you. Tell her to join us after she’s done…’ His mouth turned downward. ‘If that’s not too weird? Sorry.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s not. It’s amazing,’ I quietly laughed, and he laughed too. 

I turned to go back into the salon when he reached for my hand and said, ‘Thank you.’ He smiled, and I smiled back.