This brings my word count to 6385.
The last Friday of the month at three o'clock was becoming Harvey's favourite time of day.
It wasn't just because the weekend was starting. There was a definite appeal to two days without the constraints of the office and the court room staring him down, that was obvious. That much was the same every week. But Harvey had an appointment at three on the last Friday of every month that made that particular Friday a little more interesting.
On the last Friday of the month, Harvey got his haircut.
Harvey was, by and large, not a very vain man. He could wear the same suit for years before replacing it, usually prompted by fraying cuffs or torn hems. His shoes were highly polished because a shine was far easier than trying to locate a new pair of comfortable shoes to replace ones already broken in.That haircut, though, was one thing that Harvey never missed. You could set calendars to the length of his hair, and trends by the latest style that he wore.
This particular habit had been started one day last summer. Harvey had to represent a very famous criminal in court (if he could talk about it, you'd immediately remember which one it was) and it had been quite some time since he'd had a haircut. Wanting to make sure his firm wasn't embarassed by his overgrown hairdo (there were hints this might be the case if something wasn't done pronto to change it), Harvey grabbed a phone book and called the first hairdresser on the list.
By pure chance, the salon was a mere five minute walk from the office. Harvey was pleased when he realised this, as it meant it wouldn't take his entire afternoon just to look presentable. He'd warned his boss he'd be clocking out at 2:50 (he'd already put in sixty hours that week, so he felt it was an acceptable risk) and started walking north on Fisher Street.
The front of the salon was almost enough to make Harvey turn around and head back to work. The name blazed in tall, neon letters on the outside of an old brick building, the glass of the window all that was between the outside observer and shelves piled high with various hair styling products and gadgets. One window near the door held a display case full of wigs (obviously for young women) in various shades of blue, green, and hot pink.
Harvey hesistated. This was obviously not a place for a (middle aged, slightly portly, mustachioed) lawyer. On the other hand, he had a court apeparance at nine on Monday that could be carried by almost every major network in the country. The chances of him finding another appointment (in the city, in the core) at this hour were virtually non-existent.
This would have to be the place. It wasn't as if these people would know him (at least not until Monday, if they watched the news), and they wouldn't be offended if they never saw him again. So he stood up straight (and sucked in his gut), set his shoulders back, and headed in with all the confidence he could muster.
There weren't many people in the salon. Harvey would have expected it to be teeming with young people getting ready for a big night on the town. Perhaps it was too early for that. Harvey couldn't remember anymore what time a night on the town began.
The desk was being watched by a young man (Harvey was surprised) with bright green spikey hair who sat non-chalantly staring at a computer screen. The (receptionist? maitre d'? host?) didn't even look up as Harvey approached.
"Do you have an appointment?" was said in a dead monotone, as the mouse moved to the left, and several clicks sounded in the waiting area.
"Yes," Harvey said, trying (and failing) to not sound nervous. "Harvey Earman. Three o'clock."
There were several more clicks, and the eyes still didn't move from the monitor. "Your hairdresser will be Tracey, please have a seat, she's just finishing up."
Harvey sat in the first chair he came to. He leaned back (not wanting to look like he was going to run) and set his hands carefully on his lap (not wishing to appear as uncomfortable as he looked). He stared straight ahead (Hair straighteners, three for $45) and tried to breathe normally. He ran over the briefs for his case, a habit that helped him prepare for many a case (usually while stuck in traffic).
His reverie was interupted by a gentle clearing of the throat. "Harvey?" asked a soft, female voice? He looked up, startled. The speaker was a pale young woman with curly, shoulder length brown hair. She was holding a clipboard and staring at Harvey quizzically. Harvey stood, with a little nervous smile forming on his lips. She nodded, set the clipboard down, and walked towards the back of the salon.
The windows were blocked by the goods for sale, but Harvey still felt conspicuous. Photos on the walls were all of young men and women in modern hairstyles (many with brightly coloured streaks in their hair). This wasn't a place that often saw older clientele and several of the (very bored looking) employees stared as Harvey followed his guide to her station.
Indicating that Harvey should sit (with a smile now and a friendly face, after the shock of seeing him in the waiting area), the woman wrapped a cape around his shoulders. "My name is Vanessa," she said quietly, fastening the Velcro of the cape with one hand and moving the curls off her shoulder with the other. "What are we looking at doing today?"
Harvey hesitated. He didn't know what was expected; his usual barber (an old man, named Richard, who had died inconveniently six months ago) had never asked what he wanted. Richard just started cutting, and Harvey always walked away looking exactly the same as he came in (only with slightly less hair). He wasn't sure what to say in this temple of youth, and wasn't sure that Vanessa would know what he meant if he tried.
Before he could speak, Vanessa smiled kindly and started to run a comb through his hair. "Perhaps," she said, sounding a bit more confident now (or was that Harvey's imagination?). "Perhaps we could start with something simple. A trim, and maybe a bit of an updated style?"
Harvey nodded, not knowing what else to say (was his hair really dated?). He sat still, his eyes mesmerised as Vanessa combed his hair this way and that, looking for something that he couldn't fathom (was his hair clean enough for this?). Finally she looked satisfied that she'd found what she wanted, and reached over for a spray bottle and scissors.
The rest of the appointment was a blur (like her hands) as Vanessa cut and trimmed, and walked around Harvey trying to determine what else was needed. Harvey sat frozen in place, terrified to move, responding slowly to instructions on how to move and where to look.
It felt like hours (or maybe days) before Vanessa was done, setting the scissors down at her desk with a satisfied nod. She reached for a small jar from a shelf nearby, unscrewing the lid and setting it down quickly in front of Harvey.
"This," she said with a tone that sounded like she would take no argument, "is a pomade. It will give your hair a little texture. Nothing dramatic," she said as if sensing his hesitation. "You're not going to end up looking like Victor." She jerked her head in the direction of the front door.
A quick rub of her fingers through Harvey's hair (he stared resolutely ahead), and then set the jar down in front of Harvey. "There," she said triumphantly. "What do you think?"
Harvey stared at himself in the mirror, barely recognising the man who looked back. Sure he still looked like he was too old to be sitting here (haircuts weren't magic). But he looked like a slightly more professional, more stylish middle aged man. He looked, dare he say it, good.
"Yes," he said, nodding and smiling (like an idiot, he was sure). "Yes, I like it very much."
Vanessa smiled back, starting to remove the cape and brush loose hair off his neck. "Great! Let's get you a jar of this, and go up front and get you on your way!" (Did he really look like a man with no pomade? Oh dear.)
At the desk, Vanessa pushed Victor (who actually pouted) off of his chair and entered in the billing information into the computer. She gave him the price (this pomade must be made with gold!), and then said "So, same time next month?"
Next month? Harvey blinked, and swallowed, and, (finding his mouth too dry to speak) nodded silently in response. Vanessa printed out a receipt, showed him where his apopintment date was listed, and handed him a small (pink, oh my) bag with his product.
"It was great meeting you," she said, as he headed for the door. "See you in a few weeks!" And she waved, smiling.
On the train home, Harvey kept touching his hair, and found himself smiling. He felt like a new man, a slightly younger man even. He found himself thinking about court on Monday, and how he really needed a new suit (his good suit was old, and definitely needed replacing now).
Harvey was brilliant on Monday ( you would remember, if he could tell you, but the publication ban makes this difficult). His boss was impressed with the change in his looks (had it really been that bad?), and Harvey found himself taking on more high profile cases.
Someday he'd work up the nerve to tell this to Vanessa, the effect she'd had on his career and his confidence. In the meantime, he looked forward to three o'clock on the last Friday of every month.
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