Cheapskate in Love (16 page)

Vacillating again about entering the salon, he did what he
had done earlier in the car, this time on foot. He walked back and forth on the
sidewalk, stealing peaks inside the salon. He acted as if he were waiting for
someone, who would be coming down the block, but that pretended motive was
completely unconvincing. He loitered only around the salon and looked
frequently inside, with an obvious interest in what was happening there.

On that suburban street, as in American suburbs everywhere,
people were seldom seen outside of cars. As a result, drivers of vehicles
passing on the street stared at Bill, as if he was a space alien investigating
earth, who had yet to learn how to blend into human society. Pedestrians going
into businesses along the street—darting inside stores after parking as
close as possible—were surprised to see someone loitering on the sidewalk
and stared at Bill, too. He didn’t appear to be a homeless person begging, so they
couldn’t understand what he was doing.

Inside the salon, the women were joking about the return of
the stalker. One woman suggested that they should run out in a posse and
capture him, making a citizen’s arrest. Another woman said they should call the
police, who would haul the criminal into the salon and handcuff him to a chair,
so they could give the
perp
the treatment he needed
to look respectable again. Helen was laughing along with the rest, but she had
more sympathy for Bill’s situation. She knew he was not a daring person and
resisted doing new things, even if there was little cost involved. She imagined
how much he must
be
suffering at the moment, thinking
about the expense of a salon visit compared with what he usually paid at the
barbershop, and felt a little sorry for him.

After a short time strolling on the pavement, he perceived
that someone was about to exit the salon, although he couldn’t clearly see who
it was. He had a better vantage point on the sidewalk than he had had from his
car, but he saw even less than before, because he did not want to be seen
looking into the window. He only made quick glances in that direction. Since it
never occurred to him that the women inside would recognize him as the recent
driver whom they had stared at, he wasn’t nervous. He had forgotten the
self-consciousness he had felt in his car from their accusing stares, because
of his subsequent intense vexation at the other car and the text message from
Linda. But although he was largely unbothered being outside the salon, he
didn’t want others to see him peeking inside or suppose that he wanted to go
in. So when he saw someone about to leave the salon, he turned his back to the
door and looked across the street, as if he was trying to catch sight of the
person he was meeting or locate a dollar store.

It was Helen with her newly cut and highlighted hair,
who
walked out of the salon.

“Bill, what a surprise! What are you doing here?” All of the
laughing and excitement that morning had put her in a sassy mood. Although she
had felt sympathy for him in his predicament, her personality was not weak and
sensitive, and she knew his was even less so. She was not about to treat him
delicately.

Startled to hear someone calling him, Bill spun around in
genuine surprise.

“Hi...Helen...uh...I’m fine,” he stammered. His mind was on
other matters, so he didn’t hear the question she had asked.

She overlooked his lapse of attention. “Is your back
better?”

“Oh, that’s long gone,” he said. “I couldn’t feel better. I
feel fine, really great.” To show his excellent condition, he stood up a little
straighter and grimaced with pain, as he slightly strained his still sore back.
“Ouch,” he said. He reached his right hand around to rub the tender spot.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked, failing to conceal
a smile at his discomfort.

“Yes.”

“Linda?”

“No, not her. Someone else.”

“I hope you don’t wait long. It’s a beautiful day.” She
decided to turn the conversation to help him out, although she thought it would
be amusing to see whom he might invent as the person who would be arriving.
“Don’t you like my hair? I just had it done.”

“It’s nice.”

“I’ve been going to this salon for years. The stylists are
great, and men come here, too.”

“Oh, really.”

“And you don’t need an appointment. As good as they are,
they’re never completely booked. You can walk right in.”

“Maybe I could use a little trim.”

“They dye hair, too.”

“You don’t say.”

“There’s no head of hair that they can’t improve. They’re
almost miracle workers. Everyone comes out looking better than they went in.
You should try them.” It required a huge effort on Helen’s part not to look at
his hair while she spoke. Although she wanted to tell him he should get in
there immediately and have it fixed, she managed to restrain herself.

“Maybe I’ll take a look.”

She knew what was on his mind. “And their prices are very
reasonable.”

“That settles it,” he said. “I’m going in.” He walked to the
salon’s entrance. “Thanks for the advice.”

“I thought you were waiting for someone.” Helen couldn’t
resist making fun of him and his lie.

“I waited long enough,” he said, unaware that she was being
ironic and mocking him. Bill had a habit of playing dishonest games with women,
and he thought that they played such games with him, so he normally didn’t
think much about what they said. He was also a bit distracted by his desire to
go into the salon. The consequence of his lack of perception on this occasion
was that he entered the salon thinking that Helen was becoming too friendly, too
interested in him, and he needed to get away from her. She, on the other hand,
went to lunch with friends, thinking he was still acting too unfriendly, too
uninterested in her, and she needed to make more of an effort.

When Bill entered the salon, Donna was sitting behind the
front desk, looking at a computer printout with receipts for the week,
comparing how well her business had done in comparison with previous weeks. Her
head was down, and she was concentrating on the numbers. They were harder for
her to handle than hair, so she had to focus. She did not see Bill enter.

A hush settled over the salon. Most of the customers and
stylists behind Donna were looking at Bill. At last they had a chance to see
what the rumored stalker looked like up close. Some were whispering together.
Since Bill had never been in the salon before, he didn’t perceive any
difference in their behavior. He walked gingerly to the front desk. After
waiting a few moments without being acknowledged by Donna, he gently cleared
his throat. That inarticulate noise drew her attention, and she raised her
head. Immediately, Cupid shot a two-headed arrow straight into Bill’s eyes,
blinding him from appreciation of any other woman alive, and he froze,
completely conquered by Donna’s attractiveness.

“Can I help you?” she asked. She recognized him as the
person who had been driving by and walking in front, but she always thought the
safest way to deal with a strange man was to act as if she didn’t know him. She
also perceived the effect she had on Bill—other men had been affected in
the same way—and she didn’t want to give him any false hopes.

“I...I...I,” he stuttered. While men of other nations, for
example, France, can become eloquent under the influence of love, maybe too
wordy, an American is struck dumb.

She examined him clinically, as if he were a rat in a
scientific experiment. “You need a trim and that dye job fixed,” she said.

“Yes...Yes,” he answered. His voice burst out each time, as
if he had been stung with an electrode. Like a mechanical toy, he nodded his
head up and down repeatedly. “I do. I do.” He was ready to make his marriage
vows.

“Do you want anything else?”

“Yes,” he said eagerly, still nodding. “Yes. I do.”

“What?”

He was a little reluctant to say what he wanted. “Can
..
.
can
you...can I...get...”

“A facial?” She saw that she was dealing with a real salon
novice, a virgin in the beautician trade.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Of course,” she replied, a little irritated. “Anyone with a
face can have a facial.”

“I want that, too. I have a face.”

With some effort, Donna managed not to laugh at a grown man,
who had become a simpleton. Instead, she looked at the schedule and turned
around to see where the stylists were in their work. “Cathy,” she called
loudly. “Come and wash
Mr
.
..
”
She asked him, “What’s your name?”

“Bill.”

“Oh, you’re Helen’s neighbor,” she replied casually. She had
known his name all along.

Bill raised his eyebrows, surprised that she knew something
about him. Instead of becoming suspicious, however, he felt as if there was a
tie, a tender tie of new love between them. Her beauty had immediately
conquered his senses, and now he thought he was drawing her close to his heart.
For the first time, he was truly grateful to Helen for something—the good
she had done him by recommending this salon—but then he forgot about her
completely. All he could think about and wish for was Donna. Donna was the only
woman in his life now.

Catherine approached from the rear of the salon, where she
had gone to sit, relax, and look at a woman’s magazine. Donna told her, “Wash
Bill’s hair and give him a trim.”

To Bill, she said, “When Cathy’s finished cutting your hair,
I’ll color it and give you a facial.”

“So you’re the guy who was driving outside,” Catherine said
in greeting him. “We thought you were a stalker.”

Bill was speechless again, but not on account of love. He
could only look at Catherine with his mouth open. He was flabbergasted that
she, that
they
, knew he had been
driving by scoping out the salon. He was too surprised to be embarrassed or to
deny it. He stood like a statue, catching flies with his mouth. Since Catherine
was not Donna, he didn’t have any desire to speak to her.

After he remained immobile for a few moments without
emitting a sound, Catherine said, “You’re not a stalker, right?” She could see
he wished to ignore her. She could tell he was madly infatuated with Donna and
wanted her to vanish. But his attitude held little importance in her
estimation. She was going to talk to him, whether he liked it or not.

Chapter 18

All the time that Catherine spent with Bill, washing his
hair and giving him a trim, she liberally applied the tonic of her talk, but
Donna never left the forefront of his thoughts. He couldn’t stop hallucinating
about her.

“You shouldn’t dye your own hair,” Catherine remarked, while
he reclined in a chair at a sink, about to have his hair washed. She was
running one of her hands through his hair, mussing it up, while holding a hose
faucet in the other hand. “The front is way darker than the back.
Like a raccoon or a dead cat.
And you missed this spot where
your hair is thinning, so you look bald when you really aren’t...”

She ran her hand over the crown of his head. “Not
yet
,” she added.

Bill didn’t hear anything she said. His eyes were closed,
and visions of Donna danced in his head. In his delirium, he slightly smiled.
Catherine knew what possessed him, and on purpose to dislodge his thoughts, she
squirted him in the face with a blast of cold water. She quickly apologized,
pretending it was a great mistake, and dried his face, but her tactic failed.
His dreams were undisturbed. He didn’t mind if they were wet ones.

The train of happy scenes unraveling in his brain continued
when they moved to the cutting floor. With scissors and a comb in her hands,
Catherine stood behind Bill, who was seated in a chair. Both faced the mirror
ahead, but only Catherine looked into it with concentration. She was trying to
visualize the best style for Bill’s hair, while he was imagining Donna in various
stages of undressing. Even though Catherine’s reflection was visible in the
mirror, he didn’t see her. He only saw Donna.

“How much do you want to take off?” Catherine asked.

“I want you to take it
all
off,” he said, dreaming of Donna.

“What!” she cried. “Hey, wake up! I’m asking you a
question.” She shook him by his shoulder. “How much should I cut off?”

His vision momentarily cleared, and he made out Catherine’s
more rectangular outline. “Just a bit,” he said, before the brilliance of Donna
flared in his skull again, scattering his senses.

“An inch?” Again she had to jab him and repeat herself.

“Less,” he said, before slipping away to worship his shining
icon.

She combed through his hair, raising it up, critically
examining the current style. She was hurt by his disinterest in her, but she
was a talented professional and wanted to give him the most flattering look she
could. After a few moments, she smacked his head with the side of her comb
before asking, “How about a new cut?”