Salon story

 The bell above the door chimed softly as Robert stepped into the salon on the corner of Fifth and Maple. He adjusted his collar, scanning the room with a cool confidence he didn’t quite feel. This place was swanky, the kind of place where celebrities came to pamper themselves. And today, Kira Kosarin was here—her presence confirmed by the whispers of excitement among the staff.

He had no business being here. Not really. But he couldn't help himself. Kira’s hair—those long, dark waves—was the stuff of dreams. The thought of running his fingers through it, of tending to it with care, had gnawed at him for weeks since he first saw her post about this salon online.

He wasn’t sure what his plan was when he walked in, but somehow, the pieces fell into place. The receptionist was preoccupied, the stylists busy with clients. Nobody questioned him as he grabbed an apron hanging on a hook and slipped it over his shirt. He spotted Kira sitting near the front, scrolling on her phone, her hair cascading over her shoulders. His heart thudded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm.

“Hi, I’m Robert,” he said with a professional smile. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Kira glanced up, her warm brown eyes meeting his. “Oh, great. Nice to meet you, Robert.”

The sound of her voice bolstered his confidence. He gestured toward the washing station, leading her to the chair. She followed without question, settling in as he adjusted the recline. This was it.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Perfect,” she replied, closing her eyes.

He turned on the faucet, letting warm water flow over her scalp. His hands worked gently, almost reverently, as he lathered the shampoo into her hair. Her strands were like silk between his fingers, and he took his time, massaging her scalp with careful, circular motions. The lavender scent of the shampoo filled the air, but all he could focus on was the way her hair responded to his touch, the way it shimmered even when wet.

“Your hair is amazing,” he murmured, unable to stop himself.

“Thank you,” she said with a small laugh. “It’s a lot to manage sometimes.”

He smiled, rinsing out the shampoo and working in the conditioner. His fingers combed through her hair, and for a moment, the world outside the salon ceased to exist. It was just him, her hair, and the rhythmic motions of his hands.

After rinsing and wrapping her hair in a towel, he guided her to the styling chair. He reached for a brush, marveling at how easily it slid through her hair. Every stroke revealed more of its natural sheen, more of its perfection.

“So, how would you like it styled?” he asked.

“Just a simple blowout,” she said.

Simple? Perhaps. But for him, this was an art. He worked meticulously, section by section, drying her hair with a round brush and coaxing it into soft waves. The whole time, his fingers occasionally brushed her scalp, lingering just a little longer than they should. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.

When he finished, her hair was perfection itself—soft, voluminous, and gleaming in the light. He stepped back, taking in his work. She turned to the mirror and gasped softly. “Wow, this is amazing, Robert. Thank you so much!”

For a brief moment, he felt a swell of pride. But reality came crashing down. He didn’t work here. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The longer he stayed, the more likely someone would figure it out.

He smiled, nodded politely, and walked out. Not toward the back or to the break room, but straight out the front door. His pulse raced as he turned the corner and disappeared down the street, the apron still hanging loosely around his neck.

By the time the salon owner would realize what had happened, he’d be long gone. But he didn’t care. He’d done what he came to do, and the memory of Kira’s hair—the way it felt in his hands—was enough to keep him smiling for weeks.