Bo, watching a moth buzz around a light fixture, nods. When Scotland Road clears of people, he ducks through the door.
I hold my breath, not sure if I’m more worried that the door will open again and he’ll be tossed out, or that it won’t and I’ll have to go through with this bloody haircut after all. But when nothing happens after two minutes of pacing, I follow.
I try to walk as naturally as possible through the well-lit corridor. Jamie was right. The halls are empty.
Finding the barbershop, I slip inside and shut the door behind me. The bracing scent of musk and pine fills my nose. I feign an air of indifference, though my pulse clamors in my neck.
Bo leans against one of two patent-leather swivel chairs, his arms crossed, gazing up at an assortment of souvenirs hanging from the ceiling: pennants with the White Star logo, dolls, caps, toy boats. Against the wall, a display cabinet holds wallets, cups, and playing cards, tuppence a deck.
“Olly needs a new deck. And Wink could use one of those.” I tap my finger at a bright orange kerchief, also tuppence.
Bo gestures grandly to a chair. “Have a seat. What can I do for you today?” He holds a hand toward a poster displaying a dozen hairstyles and a menu of services: sixpence for a basic trim, thruppence extra for a shampoo or sea foam, whatever that is.
“Curly top, please, with extra foam.” I point to a picture featuring rows of waved hair that reminds me of a poodle.
The seat gives a stuffy sigh when I settle into it, and I place my feet on the rest. A dizzying array of tonics, combs, and brushes crowd the counter.
The thought of Bo’s fingers in my hair sends zings of nerves through me. He approaches with a drape, and I’m seized with the incomprehensible urge to spin around in my chair.
Setting my cap onto the counter, I reach for the drape. “I’ll do it.” My traitorous fingers fumble the ties, as if I’m tying my own noose.
Bo selects a pair of scissors with all the care of a man choosing a dueling pistol.
“Don’t take off too much. I’m hoping I don’t have to be a boy for much longer.” I never considered myself a vain girl, though Mrs. Sloane certainly has been wearing down her mirrors. But I miss my lion’s mane. It’ll take a decade to grow it all back.
Bo combs his fingers through my hair, and I nearly swoon.
Get ahold of yourself, you mooncalf. Those little tugs of his fingers are purely professional, and not intended to launch spikes of heat. Talk about something. Anything.
“So what do you think those are?” I jerk my chin toward a row of mini lifesavers the size of bracelets. “They must have some use. Pincushions?”
He turns me around to face him and holds my chin, his eyes moving from one side of my head to the other. A freckle and a tiny scar bedeck his upper lip, marks of imperfection that make his face even more interesting. He catches me looking at his mouth.
I’m certain he can feel the beads of sweat that break out over my scalp as he begins to cut. Who knew getting a haircut was so risky?
I retract the last thing I said, discarding it as blather, and throw out another miniature lifesaver. “Where did you learn how to cut hair?”
“My brother. He cut ours with a fishing knife. He did all the Johnnies, until . . .”
When he doesn’t finish his sentence, I gently probe, “What happened?” I watch his face for signs that I have overstepped, but he keeps his focus squarely on my hair.
“A man drew a knife on our friend, who owed the man a gambling debt. An tried to help, but the man stabbed him.”
“How tragic. I bet the friend felt awful.”
A frown presses into his face. “Never apologized. But that is okay, because now, every time he sees me, he remembers what he did. Maybe one day, I will see him fall.”
“Fong.”
His scissors pause. “Yes.”
I grip the glossy arms of the chair, feeling a little sick. So it isn’t my imagination. Bo and Fong don’t get along, and with good reason. I doubt I could forgive anyone whose actions harmed Jamie.
Then the only sound is the snip of the scissors, set against the dull noise of the engine.
Bo brushes his fingertips along my neck, and the sensation throws a wrench into my thoughts, preventing the wheels from advancing. Somehow, I’ve lost feeling in my feet, and all my nerves have rushed to the back of my neck.
Bo hands me a mirror, unties the drape, and dusts it off. The sides are evenly trimmed above my ears, and he left most of the length on the top.
“I look like a boy,” I announce.
“You’d never fool me,” murmurs his reflection.
His eyes appraise his work, but I can’t help feeling that he’s seeing something deeper in me. The first day I met him on the poop deck, when he heard me speak Cantonese, I bet he knew who I was and why I was there even before I lifted my veil. Can he recognize what’s on my mind now?
I blush. “You didn’t like me.”
“I did not like the situation.” He shrugs. “I knew how close you were, and I was not ready to lose another brother.”
“Well, I guess you won’t be losing him.”
“I know you think I am a wagtail. But one thing I know about wagtails is that they must make their own lives. They need to wander to turn into men.”
The words cut me. Jamie said he needed space. But we are a dragon-phoenix pair, two halves of a whole that functions best when we are together. Plus, I just missed him.
“I upset you. I am sorry. Haircuts are supposed to relax.”
His eyes, dark as charcoal, catch me studying him in the mirror. I quickly return to my own guilty reflection, like a cove caught with his hand in the biscuit barrel.
I push up from the chair. The boat sways, and Bo grabs my arm to steady me. My feet don’t seem to work well around him. I begin to pull away, but he holds on.
“Wait.” Gently steering me around, he blows the clipped hair from my neck, setting off a rash of goose bumps.
I almost don’t hear the click of the door as it opens.
24
Bo quickly steps away from me.
A man with a dressing robe over his suit appears in the doorway. “Hello? I was hoping for a service. Tried to stop by earlier, but there was such a rush.” He puts on his glasses and peers at us. I wonder if he can see me trembling, or if he notices the flush on my cheeks.
I clear my throat. “Er, sorry, guv’nor.” Mum’s accent slips out. “We’re just tidyin’ up here.” I grab the drape and shake it out. Bo, catching on, clutches a broom. “The barber’ll be back tomorrow, and he’ll clean you up right as rain.”