Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
I propped my heavy, wrought-iron umbrella holder stand in front of the door so it wouldn’t close and dropped my food off in the kitchen before rushing back outside to help.
Patrick bent down to grip one side of the box while I awkwardly gripped the other. It was too heavy for me to lift off the ground, so I slid my end inside, stopping at the carpeted living area.
“Where do you want it?” he asked.
I moved around Patrick and the box and closed the door. “Second bedroom. Let’s break it down here, though. I don’t think the box is going to fit through the doorway.” I glanced toward my tiny kitchen and squinted between the counter and the cabinet space, trying to see the knife holder beside the toaster. “Scissors…”
“Like a Boy Scout.” Patrick pulled a switchblade out of his jean pocket and flicked it open, then proceeded to cut down the tape holding the seams of the box together.
I watched with excitement quickening my breaths as my beautiful black leather styling chair was removed from the box and cut out of the plastic surrounding it.
Never before in my life had I ever been this excited over a piece of furniture. But this thing had a flared back, cushioned arms, a footrest, and a fancy hydraulic pump.
You’d have to be mental not to get excited over something this stunning.
Under my direction, Patrick carried the chair into the second bedroom for me and sat it in front of the large, rectangular mirror and floating shelves I had already set up, displaying an array of products waiting to be used.
“This place is starting to look legit,” he said, hands on his hips as he glanced around the small room.
I looked away from the chair and gorgeous styling area to take in the space. My second bedroom didn’t look anything like a second bedroom anymore.
The futon I’d originally been using as a living room sofa before I purchased a legit living room sofa was the perfect waiting area for clients. If, no…when I had back-to-back appointments, they would need a comfy place to sit.
In the corner next to the futon was my sleek black leather dryer chair I had saved up for. And on the walls, just like any salon, were framed beauty-inspired art pieces I’d found on Etsy.
The closet, had it been used as a closet, could’ve kept this place looking like a bedroom, but I had popped the doors off and stored roll-away carts in there that held my brushes, clips, bobby pins, and combs.
Even without my styling chair, this room looked pretty legit. But now? I couldn’t have agreed more with Patrick.
Hair by Shay (or Shayla) was officially open for business.
“Hey, you don’t mind if I go around and stick flyers under people’s doors offering one free haircut, do you?” I asked him.
I needed to get the word out somehow, and I knew the term FREE had major draw. I was hoping if I had twenty takers, ten of them would return for another service. And maybe five out of those ten would mention me to a friend. Or even three out of the ten. That would still be amazing. Plus, there was also the appeal of doing a good deed by offering this. Maybe someone living at Pebble Dune was up for a job interview or had some big, important event they needed to look presentable for. That free haircut could be my first random act of kindness.
Patrick pushed his hair out of his face and turned away from the mirror. “Go for it,” he said. “And if Angela takes the bite, let me know, and I’ll stop over when she’s here to fix your thermostat or whatever else we can pretend is broken.”
I smirked. “Why don’t you just ask her out already?”
“I’m getting there. I’m just waiting for the perfect moment.”
“Create the perfect moment yourself and just do it,” I said, stepping forward and poking him in the chest. “Man up, dude.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “That guy, Scar or Needle or whatever the fuck you named him, did he man up yet?”
I scowled and turned away, folded my arms underneath my chest, and admired my new chair again.
I didn’t want to talk about Sean. Talking about him led to thinking about him, and I did that enough without talking about him.
Working with someone you were trying to get over was basically the equivalent to having a room stocked with fabulous hair dye, at your convenience at all hours of the day, and not using any on yourself.
Currently, I was sporting a pretty shade of pink on the bottom half of my head, which looked amazing with the short, choppy bob I kept, loving this cut for its edginess and versatility. Even when I didn’t bother styling my hair, like today, it still looked perfect with messy waves. And having a bright color underneath really popped against the deep brown framing my face.