I love thee more with each passing day.
My heart yearns, as we first met;
When we learned of each other.
How you felt behind me,
Beneath me.
Beside me.
How your voice filled my lungs at a kiss,
How your touch raised my skin for more.
How your words became my wisdom.
I love thee more with each day.
I am your husband, forever.
Knight closed the newspaper where he had scribbled the poem while sitting in Central Park. It was unseasonably warm, as joggers and homeless passed by, while he sat with a pen, writing in the white parts within a full-page ad for Apple. He tucked the newspaper in his jacket pocket and headed over to make sure Kitty was safe before walking the two blocks to the hair salon.
He was nervous. He’d never had his hair touched up or styled – just cut a bit off the length so it would grow faster. He didn’t want to end up with a half a ton of hair spray and his hair frozen so that it snapped off in the wind.
He took a breath, and didn’t want to be late for the appointment, so he strode the two blocks to the salon. He found himself among a gathering of people, some with cameras, some without – was that Jennifer Lopez? He did a double-take.
“What do you want?” demanded a security guard – an actual policeman on detail.
“I got an appointment.”
“Sure, ya do.”
Knight took out the notice that Mal had given him for Christmas. The cop studied it, and stepped aside for him. He went into the pristine salon, where people he knew out of magazines sat waiting, not patiently, either. Rachel Ray of all people. Beyonce. Models and supermodels of all sorts.
He was the only man.
He wanted to die, but he promised, so he went up to the counter, past where all the women and their hangers-on were waiting, who didn’t even look twice at him. The woman at the counter looked him up and down and scoffed, “I don’t know how you got in here –”
“I got an appointment with Jean-Michel.”
“Sure you do.”
“Why does everybody say that?” He took out his notice and handed it to the girl. She sniffed, plucked it from his hand as if she were holding a dirty rag, and read his name. She looked at the computer. Her face went white.
“He…he will be a moment, sir,” she said, and carefully handed him back the paper.
“I think I’m owed an apology?”
“Sorry,” said the girl quietly, red and embarrassed. “He’s finishing up with his latest now.”
“Finishing up” meant a half-hour wait, while Knight entertained himself with Angry Birds, not caring about the dirty looks from the supermodel sitting next to him. Then a stunningly beautiful woman holding an iPad came up to him. His jaw dropped.
“Please come with me,” she said, a small smile on her face. He scrambled up and followed her like a dutiful puppy. He followed her through the salon, a center of bustle and noise. People turned to see him go by – he sighed, when he saw a couple of men in the chairs – Holy shit, was that Robert DeNiro? But he kept walking. He followed her up a spiral staircase to a second floor, where it was empty and much more quiet. The woman showed him into a room. “You may remove your shirt and use the robe there, or you can keep your shirt off.” She smiled. He smiled. He’d oblige.
He got out of his jacket and t-shirt and stepped out of the room in his jeans, belt and boots. The woman wasn’t there, but another one was, almost as stunningly beautiful as the first one. She wore what looked like a towel for a shirt. She looked him over. “Please follow me,” she said, he did, without question.
She brought him to a sink with a leather couch. She took out a warm towel and spread it on the edge between the couch and the sink. “Please lie down,” she said, and he did, though he was broader on the couch than most people. His neck fit perfectly in the rim.
Then she washed his hair, but also massaged his scalp, relaxing him to the point when he almost started to involuntarily purr. The shampoo was relaxing, not too smelly. When the water stopped, he asked, “Wha’ kinda shampoo’s tha?”
“Jean-Micael’s formula,” she said.
“Does he sell it?”
“Not commercially.” She wrapped his head loosely with a towel and helped him sit up. When he did, he was looking directly at a tall, thin man, with wispy salt-and-pepper hair and piercing blue eyes. “You are Leonard King, oui? Husband of Malcolm King?”
“Yeah,” Knight said. “Call me Knight.” He held out his hand.
The man instead leaned in and kissed him on both wet cheeks. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. King. Or Mr. Knight.”
Knight laughed. Knight King just didn’t sound right. “Mr. King. I’ll get used t’ it.”
“Come, follow me.”
He brought Knight to a room that overlooked the street. He proceeded to pull down the blinds. “You would like your privacy?”
“Yeah, I ‘preciate tha’.”
He motioned to his chair. “Please, Mr. King, tell me what you do?”
Knight told him that he worked in O’Keefe’s pub on the north side of Millennium City, that he sometimes went out and did heroic things to help out his friend Scott, that he just got married, and “I don’ wanna look like a girl.”
Jean-Micael laughed. “Oh, because you saw the women outside and downstairs, you thought I only take care of women? No, no, no, monsieur, I began with hair styling for men. It is what I enjoy, to make a man.” Then he smiled. “Do you know what your husband wants?”
“‘Something different,’ he said.”
“And so we will do, something different, but will not compromise you. Now shhh…and let me work.”
He started humming as he cut, using scissors and a comb, snipping a bit here, and a lot there, taking his time. Studying things. The hair dried as he worked, and he cut some more or left some alone. He combed and frowned and cut, or combed and smiled and looked somewhere else. Knight started getting antsy, especially when he wasn’t able to see what was going on.
“Your hair is like most men’s, and will need conditioning. May I put some in your hair now? It will help.”
“As long as it doesn’t freeze my hair and snap it off.”
“No, no.”
“Go ahead.”
Jean-Michel put some clear glop in his hair, rubbing it in and using it to guide the hair to what he wanted. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he said, “It is finished. Oh!” He left the room.
Knight craned his head to try and see where he went, and at the same time he thought he saw the glimpse of a mirror. He got up from the chair, and was just going to look when Jean-Michel entered the room, carrying a pair of sunglasses. “The crowning touch,” he said, reaching up to put the sunglasses on Knight.
Knight looked up and saw the full-length mirror on the back of the door. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His hair was wavy, still down to his shoulders, but thicker, and with a curl and lift to it. He put his hand up to it – it was soft. His bangs didn’t show, but a wave of hair off to the side gave his hair more volume. He took the glasses off and stared.
“The glasses will look good with your jacket. Let me get it.”
Jean-Michel called for Knight’s jacket, and when he got it, he helped Knight slip into it. Barechested, sunglasses, long, wavy hair – he looked like a romance novel cover. “Oh, my God.”
“Do you like it?”
Knight smiled. “He’s gonna love this.”
The girl brought in the newspaper he had written the poem on and handed it to Jean-Michel, who glanced at it and then read the poem. “You wrote this?”
“Yeah, I know, it’s kinda stupid.”
Jean-Michel smiled, handing it to him. “It is a beautiful poem. It comes from your heart.”
Knight smiled. “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”
“Your husband will get the bill. No, do not tip me. I am the owner.” Again, Jean-Michel kissed Knight on both cheeks and sent him on his way.
Knight didn’t realize he forgot his shirt until he got to Kitty. He grinned. That was all right. “Wait’ll Mal sees this…”