Disenchanted (2 page)

Gods, this needs to be nipped in the bud.

“Kira,”—so obviously not her real name—“are you sure you want to go this short?”

I hold out one of the bigger photos, the faery’s slender, elegant features framed by an extremely short—dare I say it?
Pixie cut
. Like the origins of the name weren’t answered with The Unveiling.

I can always use my Talents to regrow the hair, but let’s face facts. Who wants to lose time and money giving away a free service to fix something avoidable in the first place?

Kira nods enthusiastically, eyes becoming all the more vacant. The girl definitely has it bad. Enchants call it Faery Fever—since faeries and elves are usually the En of choice—the insatiable need to be around, to touch, and ultimately become an En.

I suppose this is preferable to some of Dara’s clients, who want fangs and eternal life. Or Rey’s, who think being furry is the answer to their problems.

Either I convince this child to let me do what will look best on her, or turn her away. Leaning a picture against the mirror, I move behind her and begin combing the hair away from her face, hoping she will see what I see. Features far too round to withstand such a drastic cut and curls that will revolt in Iowa’s humid summer air.

No such luck, she just stares in rapture at the picture, assuming she will end up looking like her idol. Clipping the shoulder length tresses tightly to her head, I reach for the picture.

“Kira, I want you to look at yourself.” I feel like I’m talking down a jumper.

“But it’s not all wispy.” The bottom lip begins to protrude as she struggles with her folder for yet another image.

As gently as possible, I move all the photos out of reach and toy with her hair until it simulates the cut. The lip now quivers and even an idiot can tell the waterworks are on the way.

“You’re not going to do it, are you?” Her voice rises with the high, squeaky pitch of a child about to throw a tantrum. Without even looking, I can tell all eyes are on us. Some in sympathy, others relishing a blowout.

“I didn’t say that.” Steeling myself against the possible floor show to come, I reach out and play with the curls already fighting what little I did. “It’s going to take a lot of work to get your hair as smooth as Leesie’s. See how your curls want their own way?”

“But if you cut it short enough...”

The whine is back, next will be the reassurance she can make it look like that, then the begging. All typical of the younger generation, thinking they can just make it so because society decreed they can do anything they want.

No one explains the forces that make them what they are don’t just bend to their will. That’s what we get to deal with now because the masses sugarcoat everything.
Everyone
gets a prize, just because they show up. Welcome to the age of entitlement.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t work that way, the only way to cut it short enough to get rid of the curl would be to shave your head.”

“I can use a flat iron and gel.” She clasps hands below her chin, praying to the gods of hair to transform her.

“It’s not just the curl. Your facial features are wrong for this cut. I’d be doing you a disservice by doing it.”

“But I want it.” Her voice is beginning to rise. “I want to look like Leesie!”

That’s it. The admission I need. “I can cut your hair like hers, but I can’t make you
look
like Leesie.” Pulling the picture back out I place my hand over the faery’s face and show it to her. ”Do you still want the cut?”

Kira’s shoulders droop as she studies the picture minus the famous face, then her own reflection. Sniffles commence and she shakes her head.

Carefully choosing my words as my fingers arrange her curls, I describe something that will work for, instead of against her. She nods, giving consent, still unhappy about not becoming a clone of her idol, but unwilling to leave without something done.

When I finish, staff and clients alike applaud and gush over the new Kira, whose
real
name is Tiffany. Leaving her in Jenny’s capable hands, I head back to my first client, glad that Lorelei’s hair takes forever to dry.

Curlers removed, I give her shoulder a touch and she flips her head forward so I can finger comb the curls. With another touch, she sits up flipping her head back, giving her that sensual come–take–me look. Turning the chair back to the mirror, I grab the hair spray and step behind her.

“You did wonders with that child.”

All I can do is shrug, not wanting a mouth full of spray as I lock the ‘do in place.

“You’re too modest.” Leaning toward the mirror as she stands, a red tipped finger coaxes a stray strand caught in her lashes back with the others. The usual Lorelei charm descends across her features as glossy red lips curl upward in appreciation of my work.

“Don’t forget my solstice party,” she says, wiggling her fingers before heading up front.

Lorelei’s solstice party is the event that kicks off summer. Since it’s on her houseboat it starts in swanky evening clothes and ends up in bathing suits. Optional, of course. Not something I participate in, but to each his own. Even with all the scary shit going on, I’m looking forward to going.

***

“Check this out.” Rey pulls me into the huddle around Jenny’s desk.

“The rich jewel–tone colors and warmth of the wood is comforting yet elegant, even under the harshness of the bright lights. Heavy, ornately–carved chairs and vanities give a unique historical twist to a modern salon. Ms. Fey and her expert staff cater to not only the Enchant community, but embrace Unchants as well. In a world obsessed with how we look, this salon shuns current trends, instead giving the client a look suited to their needs and features. No one leaves with a look they cannot reproduce on their own. You all know I do not give out five stars, feeling there is always room for improvement, but Fey Creations comes close. The scenic drive to The Meadows is well worth your time and I give it four and a half stars.” Jenny’s grin joins the others as she finishes reciting The Iowa Star’s review.

“Whoa.” It’s all I can muster. Sure, I’ve worked hard and I'm proud of what we’ve accomplished here, but I never expected a review like this. I was nervous when the reporter contacted me. Not being a complete moron, I knew there was more to it than a simple appointment. Word of mouth can make, or break a business and this woman held the power of the press. Lucky for me, she liked what she saw.

“This calls for a celebration. How about tomorrow night and maybe the gracious Ms. Fey can pay?” Rey wiggles his brow, clearly amused by the rhyme.

The others nod, all grinning ear to ear, even Dara.

“Sounds great, and I think the salon can pick up the tab for dinner,” I look directly at Rey, “within reason. Now, I’ve got a four and a half star salon to run, so back to work with all of you.”

I check my watch, fifteen minutes until my next appointment. Plenty of time for a little fizzy caffeine and taking the weight off my three–inch heels is an added benefit. I don’t know what makes me think wearing heels—when I’m on my feet for at least eight hours—will get any easier.

Sinking into one of the break room chairs, I crack open a soda and take a long swallow. The delightful fizz burns its way down my throat. I think that’s the only reason I drink soda. The carbonation. Love the bubbles. My bubble high recedes into a blissful moment of relaxation, erased by the tingle of curiosity and fear. I should have checked to see if I was the only one booked with new clients. They’re crawling out of the woodwork tonight. Wonder why. The review? No, that only came out today. Word of mouth? Best possible answer. It’s not like we’re a chain salon and we are a bit off the beaten path.

Low voices outside the door snap me back to reality. Unlike two of my co–workers, I don’t have super hearing, but from the timbre, one is obviously Rey. One point for the home team, behind door number one we find Rey and Dara.

“Keely, your next appointment is early.” A healthy dose of curiosity tempered with concern lurks in his eyes, where his companion’s hold contempt.

Well, isn’t this interesting? Makes me want to know who, or what my next appointment is.

“Do you guys know if he’s a request, or was I just open?”

A simple question that deserves more than a shrug and a raised eyebrow, but that’s all they are able, or willing to give. Irritation rises, but asking for more isn’t worth the effort. Easier to find out myself.

CHAPTER THREE

Nyssa is giggling like a schoolgirl, every movement exaggerated as she towel dries a freshly shampooed client at my station. It dawns on me why everyone is acting a little off when I catch his reflection. Summer personified, a liosâlfar. If the darkly sun–kissed complexion and fair hair aren’t enough of a clue, then the patrician features are a dead giveaway.

Liosâlfar and their cousins the döckâlfar are often confused. Most think dark would lead to darker skin and light to fair complexions. Not so. The döckâlfar’s pale skin—as pale as I am, minus the strange greyish tint—is due to lack of sun exposure. They live underground for the most part and don’t tolerate the sun well. The liosâlfar on the other hand, are sun worshippers, their realm existing in the sky, or so I’m told.

It’s no big revelation that the âlfar would make Iowa their home. We have a sizable Germanic population. Dwarves dominate Madrid—not matadors, or flamenco dancers and yes, we know that according to Spain we pronounce it wrong—even with the coal mines closed down.

Then there’s Lorelei, who claims the waterways here remind her of home. I don’t see the comparison between the Rheine and the Des Moines River, but she says it calls to her.

Âlfar rarely fraternize with other Enchants, holding positions in politics and the upper echelons of society with all the arrogance of royalty. In other words, the majority are snots. Yours truly an exception, but that’s probably due to my supposed half–breed heritage.

Approaching the chair I hold out my hands, palms up, in greeting. “Hello, Mr. Brand. I’m Keely Fey and I’ll be cutting your hair.”

There is a clear look of surprise as he looks from my extended hands to the belt containing sharp implements around my hips. Okay, faux pas number one, I’ve given a greeting of no weapons while wearing things that can be considered such. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

I slowly lower my hands, clear my throat and force a smile before moving behind the chair. Usually, when greeting a new client I place my hands on their shoulders, probably not the wisest action now.

“How would you like your hair cut?” Some of my nervousness abates with the excitement of getting to work with such beautiful hair. Even wet the color is incredible, every shade of blond imaginable, all on one head. I can’t wait to see it dry. Women pay big bucks for poorly done imitations and even more for decent attempts, none coming even close. Problem being, the short military style, doesn’t look like it needs cut. Maybe he just wants it cleaned up around his ears and neckline.

He just sits there studying me, possibly deciding if I’m qualified for the job. Like 2100 hours of training, passing the state board, continuing education every other year, holding a license for over twenty years and oh yeah, owning a well–reviewed salon doesn’t qualify me.

That haughty attitude may intimidate others, but I’m Queen here and in control of the shears, or so I tell myself. Pulling a comb from the drawer, I step behind the chair and wait.

“Just a trim.” His tone matches his coloring, smooth and sweet, with a hint of German accent.

I feel a warming deep within that begs to hear him speak again. With that amber gaze of his, it’s tough to lift the comb. I lower my head for a moment, pretending to study the work before me.

Just breathe. He’s just a cut like any other.

Centering myself, I pull a pair of shears from my belt. Sectioning his hair, I feel my Talents rise. An annoying little itch that you can’t reach.

Not since adolescence, when my Talents first became apparent, has my control slipped like this. There’s nothing like short hair in first period and waist length by third, or hitting two keys in typing class because you envied the prom queen’s nails.

Making the mistake of looking at him in the mirror, I see the crease between his brows. He feels it too. My control doesn’t just slip, it fails.

The ends of his hair curl around my fingers, gripping them without any coaxing until it brushes his shoulders. I struggle to regain some sort of control, but everything goes all slow-mo on me. The comb slips from my fingers, the sound horrendously loud as it hits the ground.

Dropping the section of hair I back away, but not fast enough, the chair spins and my wrist is in his grasp. The growing pain in my wrist, his only show of emotion.

“How?” He asks a question, but his eyes hold an answer. One he’s not sharing.

I just stand there, trapped, mouth moving, but nothing coming out.

A hand grips his wrist. “Let her go.” The softness of Dara’s tone can’t hide the menace lacing her words.

Slowly his fingers pry themselves from my wrist, leaving behind perfect red imprints against my ultra-pale skin. That’s going to leave a mark. Dara stands a step away from us watching through narrowed eyes and nods, as if a question is answered. When is someone going to fill me in on what’s going on?