Two days later, I got a text from an unknown number with a Chicago area code.
It was 5pm on a Thursday, which was Friday for me. I still had a couple hours of work, and I was exhausted after a long week, but I felt suddenly reenergized when the text came in.
Unknown number: "My name is Isaac Charles. I got this number from Courtney. I'm trying to reach Shelby in regards to a haircut."
I put my phone away after I read it, forcing myself to wait a minute before responding.
Finally, I typed a response.
Me: "Hey, this is Shelby. And yeah, I can work you in for a trim. It would be at my house. Nothing glamorous. If this works for you, let me know, and we'll figure out a time."
I heard back within seconds.
Isaac: "Non-glamor is preferable. When can you fit me in?"
Me: "Starting tomorrow, I've got three days off work. I can do anytime before 6pm tomorrow, or we can look at doing it another day."
Isaac: "Tomorrow works. I can do 8am or 2pm."
I laughed out loud when I read his text. On my days off, I liked to stay in bed until at least 9:30.
Me: "Definitely not 8. (insert winky-face emoji) 2 o'clock sounds good, though."
I included my address, and Isaac responded by saying 'thanks' and that he would see me the following afternoon.
I was far more nervous than I should have been. There was no reason for me to be this wound-up over a silly little haircut, but I couldn't help it—my body was inexplicably amped about it. I spent the whole morning cleaning my house from top to bottom and getting onto Patrick the whole time about how much he shed even though I had never really noticed it before. He just followed me around staring at me like I was a crazy person for cleaning so much.
Isaac pulled into my driveway at 2 o'clock on the dot. A cold front had come in, and Patrick and I were sitting on the front porch enjoying the crisp fall weather when Isaac arrived. He was driving a black truck and he stepped out of it, stashing his keys in his pocket. He had on jeans and a long-sleeve thermal shirt with a fleece vest that made him look like a commercial for North Face clothing. I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew how to ride a motorcycle.
He smiled at me and gave me a little wave but his expression fell quickly and comically when Patrick gave two loud barks and began running down the steps toward him. I had been holding Patrick's collar when Isaac drove up, but he was excited to check Isaac out and was pulling relentlessly, so I let him go. It wasn't until I saw Isaac's shift in expression and watched him brace himself that I realized maybe that was a mistake.
"Are you scared of dogs?" I yelled regretfully.
"Should I be?" Isaac asked as he stiffened as if waiting for the worst.
"Patrick!" I yelled. "Come here, boy!"
Patrick cowered, hesitating near Isaac and looking up at him and wagging his tail in his new hunched-over position as if asking Isaac to assure me it was okay for him to stay.
"Patrick!" I repeated as I made my way off of the porch in their direction.
"It's fine," Isaac said, offering Patrick the back of his hand to smell.
Isaac saw that Patrick didn't mean him any harm, and he stooped and began rubbing him behind the ears before smiling at me.
"You didn't tell me you had a Great Dane," he said. "You mentioned that your dog had spots, and I pictured a Pointer or a Dalmatian."
He stood and continued rubbing Patrick's back with long confident strokes that assured me he wasn't scared.
"Oh, I see the clover," he said, inspecting his back. "I'm sorry I called you Patrick Swayze," he added, talking directly to my dog.
"He liked it," I said. "It made him feel cool."
"He is cool. My Aunt had one of these when I was growing up, but I didn't get to see it that much, and I don't think it was this big."
Patrick sat on his haunches and lifted his paw, showing off for Isaac. I started to tell him not to be such a ham, but Isaac stooped and shook his paw. "It's nice to meet you, too, Patrick," he said, looking impressed.
He stood again, smiling at me and gesturing to my house. "Nice place you have here."
"Thank you. I love it. Though it may be kind of plain for someone who makes Dr. Seuss buildings."
He let out a little chuckle as we began to make our way across the yard to my front porch. "I'm sure I do take inspiration from Dr. Seuss," he said. "Not intentionally, but I did love his books and drawings when I was growing up, and I bet that comes out in my work."
Patrick walked between us, and I rested my hand on his neck.
"I probably shouldn't have said that," I said. "But I meant it as a compliment."
"I took it as a compliment," Isaac said, glancing at me.
My brother was right, Isaac did resemble Nick Carson—only his features were more pronounced, making him, in my mind, even more handsome than Nick. The fall breeze shifted in just the right way, and I caught a whiff of his masculine cologne, which only made matters worse.
Isaac reached down to touch Patrick's back before we climbed the steps to the porch, and our hands touched. It was insignificant, and I was fairly sure he didn't even notice, but it caused some unknown sensation to happen inside me, which made me pull my hand away and begin climbing the steps in a hurry. I made a kissing noise, calling Patrick to follow me, but he was already in the process of doing it.
I loved my house. It was modest, but it was comfortable, cozy, and had lots of charm. Plus, it was situated in an older, quiet neighborhood. It was a three-bedroom craftsman style home—gray with white trim. The front porch was about eight feet wide, and we crossed it before I opened the door and held it open for Isaac.
It smelled good inside. (It better after all of my labor that morning.) I had a diffuser going with eucalyptus and peppermint essential oils. I had a warm, eclectic style with lots of comfortable furniture and colorful art that I had collected over the years.
Patrick bounded in ahead of us but turned around once he got into the living room. He stared at Isaac is if waiting to see what he thought of the place.
"It's normally a take off your shoes house," I said, motioning to the coat rack by the door. "But those rules don't apply since you're just here for a haircut."
I gestured for him to follow me and began walking down the hallway toward the bedroom that I had repurposed for my salon space. It shared a wall with a bathroom, so when I moved in, my family helped me install a shampoo bowl by tying into the existing plumbing. Patrick tried to follow us, but I closed the door before he could come in, knowing he'd just walk around the whole time and ultimately end up with hair all over his paws.
Other than my family and a very few select friends, I didn't do much hair in my little home salon. I had done a lot of work on the space, though, and had it all fixed up just the way I liked it. There was a lot of light in the room, and the walls were painted a dark gray that worked well with the wood tones of the dresser and mirror that served as my station. Pictures and posters were framed and hung on the walls, making it feel trendy and inviting. I loved music, and I had a nice speaker system in my house. Two of the speakers were in this room, and I had a folk-rock playlist selected. I felt like the ambiance of room represented me, and this put me somewhat at ease.
I smiled at him once we came inside. "Come sit in the chair and we'll talk about your haircut before we shampoo or do anything else."
Isaac followed me to the salon chair and sat in it without saying a word. He moved slowly, looking all around and grinning at the room. I could tell he wanted to say something but was hesitant to do so. I couldn't tell if he wanted to mention the room, or the fact that I knew Courtney and didn't tell him, or that he saw me through the window at the restaurant the other night. I knew he was contemplating saying something, but he remained quiet and thoughtful.
I patted the chair, and he sat in it before I swiveled it so that we could regard each other through the reflection in the mirror. I draped him with a cape—one that was larger than the one I used on him at the station—one that would fully prevent his hair from falling onto his clothes.
I wasn't normally nervous for haircuts, but I was for this one. I told myself it was because Isaac was an important person who was in the public eye, but that was a flat out lie.
The fact was I liked him.
I was attracted to him.
Just looking at him gave me an ooey-gooey feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I let out a sigh and smiled, trying to seem unaffected as I glanced at him in the mirror. I didn't hesitate to put my hands in his hair because that's what I did for all of my clients.
"How long has it been since your last haircut?" I asked. "And what do you normally ask for when you go in?"
He didn't have 'long' hair by any means, but he had enough hair for me to run my fingers through and take a hold of. It was anywhere from 2 to 4 inches long—shorter over his ears and in the back, and longer on top—definitely not a clipper cut, I thought, (unless it had been months since the last time he went to a salon).
"Just a trim, I guess," he said with a little shrug. He ran a hand through his hair, and I watched as a lock of it gloriously fell onto his forehead. "It's been a month or so, but sometimes I go six months. I'm not real picky."
He smiled casually at me in the mirror. He honestly didn't even seem like he was primarily there for the haircut, which made all sorts of thoughts cross my mind.
"I don't really care what you do," he said, confirming my thoughts. "I've worn it really short before, and I've had it long enough to go into a ponytail. Just do whatever you think looks good."
That sort of freedom was almost intimidating.
"I'll probably just give you a trim, then," I said with a shrug.
He smiled. "Sounds perfect."
I patted his shoulder. "Follow me right this way, and I'll shampoo you before we get started."
"The whole nine yards."
"Well, I'm going to cut it wet, so it's either that or a spray bottle."
"I'm certainly not complaining."
On the wall behind the shampoo bowl, hung a vintage, framed poster of my grandmother. It was a promotional poster from the 1960's advertising her band playing at a Chicago venue called The Cellar. It featured a picture of her sitting at the piano with her eyes closed as she passionately played.
"Courtney told me Ivy Bishop was your grandmother," Isaac said, pointing at the poster.
"She is," I said. "Have you heard of her?"
"Of course I have," he said. "You can't grow up in Chicago and not know a thing or two about the blues." He pointed at the poster. "See? It says it right there."
I smiled as I glanced at the poster noticing that the word 'Chicago' was written right on it.
"Do you sing?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I mean, I do, but not for anybody to listen to. My mom does, and I sound like her a little, but I never worked at it or anything. I was always too shy to try it. What about you?"
I motioned for him to sit in the shampoo chair, and he did. I wrapped a towel around his neck before guiding him into position with his head in the bowl.
"No," he said, answering my question. "No singing for me. I love music, and I took piano lessons when I was a kid, but I don’t sing."
"Comfortable?" I asked, looking down at him once I had his head in the bowl.
He nodded, staring up at me.
I had shampooed lots of people in this bowl, but I had never been aware of any of them in quite the same way that I was aware of Isaac. At that moment, I was worried about things I would have never normally worried about, like how I looked from his angle and whether or not I had put on enough deodorant that morning.
I turned on the water and gave it time to get warm before letting it touch his scalp.
"Are you any good at the piano?" I asked, getting back to his previous statement.
"Not really," he said. "I'm not terrible, and I can read music, but I haven't practiced in years."
"Because I have one in my living room," I said. "A little upright."
"You do? I didn't notice it. Do you play?"
"Some. Not as well as my mom or grandma. The piano was Shug's. She gave it to me when she got a new one."
"Who's Shug?"
"My grandma. Ivy." I gestured with a flick of my head to the poster.
He smiled.
"I have a cousin named Ivy, too, after my grandma. We just call the original Ivy 'Shug'."
"I told Courtney I was a fan of your grandma's music, and she said she'd introduce me. I tried to make it happen the other night, but I had to catch up on some work."
"You'll really like her," I said. "And I'm not just saying that because she's my grandma. She's just a really great woman."
Isaac's hair was sufficiently wet, so I turned off the water and squirted some shampoo into my hand. I massaged the suds into his scalp and hair just like I did with everyone else. I had a brother and cousins, and I had shampooed them all countless times. I tried to remind myself that Isaac was just like anyone else. I stared at the back of the bowl as I ran my fingertips over his scalp. I was thankful that I could do this procedure on autopilot because I was extremely distracted.
I realized I should've never gotten myself into this. I should've never told Courtney I would give this guy a haircut. I made quick work of rinsing out the shampoo and applying a little conditioner.
"I was talking to Courtney, and it dawned on me that you would have known the people at the barbecue she invited me to the other night. It's crazy that you would have known specifically the gathering I was referring to when I mentioned it to you the other day."
I let out a little laugh. "Not only would I have known about it, I would have been there."
"You were at Ivy Bishop's house the other night eating barbecue when Courtney tried to get me to go?"
"Yes," I said nodding as I wrapped a towel around his head and urged him to sit upward. "It's a small world, isn't it?"
"I guess it is," he said looking a little taken aback as he stood and headed toward the chair.