I’m not a guy who likes things getting complicated. Complicated is not for people like me who are either white or black, yes or no, left or right, up or… well you get the picture.
I’m a hair stylist and I’m good at it. That’s why I landed the job in this swanky, upmarket salon. I love it here. Hate the pay though. But this is only a stepping stone. So I’m cool with that… for a few years.
I pride myself at reading our species well. That’s part of the reason why I am in this line. I give people what they want, not what they think they want. Most go out of the salon loving what I do to them. Some call me names and refuse to pay up, but that’s an exception, not the norm.
Which is why my boss hands me all the complicated ones. Remember, I don’t like complicated? He’ll tell me, ‘Fix them up’ as if a haircut or a perm or a blow-dry will fix things up for them. See, complicated people never come to a salon just for a hair cut or a trim. They have different expectations. They want to look different, feel different. They want an outward appearance that will deflect attention from the inner tumult that eats at them. They want to be somebody else. It’s like, “I wanna make sense of my stupid life. Let’s just start with the hair. Let’s get that sorted out first.”
Or, “I just had a break-up and I want to show him/her what he/she lost. Let’s start with the hair.”
Or, “I hate my job, I hate my wife, I hate my life. Lemme get a haircut. It’ll make everything alright.”
And when the haircut doesn’t make it better for them, they go ape-shit. Those are the kind of people who hate what I do to their hair. Those are the one’s who never leave a tip. Because they themselves don’t know what they want. And they won’t blame themselves! So blame the poor bloke with the shears who tonsured you the wrong way.
I fucking hate complicated!
That’s why when you walked into the salon and slumped into that chair I didn’t know what to do. You were hard to read. You were like a 1 million pieces puzzle. And I don’t like puzzles! But damn! You were cute. I was sucked in from the get go, fooled by the doe eyes and the cherry lip gloss you wore with aplomb that would make other girls look trashy. Too much makeup on the eyes though, as if you wanted attention. They were already beautiful, almond-y and the right shade of brown. Why ruin them with mascara, and kohl and eyeshadow? And yet you were demure in your choice of ensemble, as if trying to shirk attention from your slight frame. A simple plaid shirt that covered every bit of skin on your torso, and slim-fitting cropped jeans. But wait a minute, you sat up in the chair to retrieve that buzzing phone from the pocket of your jeans, and as you fumbled to get that screaming monster out (what a sad ringtone – some song that sounded like a dirge), I spotted a tattoo on your waist, something with a bird with barbed wire or thorns, I couldn’t make out. It was only a glimpse. But it made you different from what you were trying to be. It made you intriguing, not complicated.
And I was a fool because I LOVE intriguing.
And I shouldn’t have eyed you for those extra 5 seconds that I did, when our eyes met and you were still on the phone but not into the conversation anymore. Those 5 seconds told you I was interested. Those 5 seconds told me you had noticed me. Those 5 seconds told us we were onto something.
Those 5 seconds screwed my life… Made it complicated.
And I fucking hate complicated….
To be continued…
This is the first part of my next novella. As you may have noticed, its about a boy who doesn’t like to complicate things and a girl who complicates his life. Find out why in the next part. Stay tuned!
©Pradita Kapahi, 2017
Photo Credits: http://hairstyle-men.com/