Not in the Heart by Chris Fabry

designer shampoo, conditioner, and hair coloring stacked in glass cases behind them. A thirtyish, jowly woman sat at the front desk and didn’t look up when I approached. Her short hair was colored several hues of yellow.
    â€œName?” she said.
    â€œTruman.”
    She wrote it on a pink slip under a row of names that had been crossed out. “Haircut?”
    I looked at the prices and gulped. It had been a long time since I cared what it cost to cut my hair. With my dwindling funds, I was a little protective.
    â€œYeah, just a cut today. I do my nails on Thursdays.”
    â€œFifteen minutes,” she said.
    I leaned on the counter and took off my sunglasses, waiting until she glanced up to speak. “Are you the owner?”
    â€œIs there a problem?” she said, staring at the bandage on my cheek. In the mirror behind her I could see what a hideous sight my face had become.
    â€œI’m just looking for who’s been here the longest. Would that be you?”
    â€œI’ve been here a few years.”
    â€œDo you remember Diana?”
    A cloud came over her and she cocked her head. “You here for a haircut or something else?”
    â€œA little of both,” I said.
    â€œA few more days and all of this will be over. We’ll finally have it behind us.”
    I nodded. “You were the witness at the trial, weren’t you? You saw the whole thing.”
    â€œNo, that was Wanda. But we don’t talk about it. She gets upset.”
    She went back to whatever she was doing and the ladies held their magazines. I smiled, though it hurt a lot more to smile than frown, disproving that saying about the muscles in your face.
    A tall man was led to the front by the male hairdresser and they exchanged pleasantries. Either the sitting women were having their nails done or they were waiting on the female stylists because the man came toward me. He seemed not to notice my injury.
    â€œI’m Dexter. Is this your first visit to Mane Street?”
    â€œIt is. How long have you worked here?”
    â€œGoing on four years,” Dexter said. He was a small man with a slight build and a pleasant face. He buttoned the cape around my neck and looked in the mirror, lifting his hands to my head as if preparing to sculpt a work of art. “So what are we doing today?”
    I love it when stylists talk in the first-person plural. “Let’s just do a three on the side and a five on top and call it good.”
    He frowned. “Really? That drastic? Are you sure? A man with all your hair should show it off.”
    â€œShorter means less gray,” I said. “Plus, it’ll take the attention away from my face.”
    He laughed. “I’m not sure any haircut could do that, my friend. All right, five on top, three on the sides, and I’ll blend a bit.”
    He began the small talk dance of hairdressers and I wondered if they took Chitchat 101 in beauty school. Make a connection. Form a verbal bond.
    â€œYou have the day off today?” he said.
    â€œI’m actually working right now. On a project about the lady who used to work here. Diana.”
    He turned off the clippers and stared at me in the mirror. “I thought I recognized you. Didn’t you use to work for—oh, what’s that news network . . . ?”
    I told him and he snapped his fingers. “Yes, Truman. The reporter. It fits.” He turned and looked at his coworkers. “Wow, we have someone famous in the shop today.” He giggled and his eyes twinkled. “Weren’t you the guy who got caught in that melee in San Francisco between all the protesters?”
    I nodded. “You have a good memory.”
    He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “No, I was there. What a night.” He told me much more than I wanted to know, but it was clear he really had been there.
    â€œHow did you wind up in Tallahassee?” I said.
    â€œSeries of life