Rubbed Out by Barbara Block Page A

hand-lettered sign standing by them. A badly bleached blonde somewhere in her seventies was getting her hair cut when I walked in.
    â€œI’ll be with you in a minute,” the hairdresser said to me as he lifted a lock of her thinning hair and snipped at its ends.
    I sat down on one of the chairs and waited. The man trimmed and studied his cut. Hair rained down on the black plastic cape covering the woman’s shoulders. Occasionally she’d brush a piece off her nose.
    â€œChris, I think you’re going to like this,” he said to her, his face a picture of concentration.
    â€œYou’re sure?” the woman said. “I want to look nice for my niece’s wedding.”
    The hairdresser patted her shoulder. “You’ll look gorgeous, darling. I promise. You’ll be the belle of the ball”
    Somehow I doubted it. The woman had a receding chin and the eyes of a basset hound. But that was what she needed to hear because she beamed. The hairdresser put down his scissors and reached for a bottle of conditioner. He squirted a dab of it into the center of his hand, then proceeded to massage it into the woman’s scalp.
    â€œSo,” he said to me as he worked. “What can I do for you?”
    I told him.
    â€œJanet,” he said as he turned on his hair dryer and began fluffing out the woman’s hair. “Of course I know Janet. She’s a regular.”
    â€œSo you think you’ll be able to help me?”
    â€œPossibly.” He assessed my hair with a practiced eye. “You need to have your split ends trimmed.”
    I reached for my ponytail and studied the ends. “They’re fine.”
    â€œThey’re damaged.”
    â€œNo more than a quarter of an inch,” I conceded.
    Over the years I’ve noticed that people tend to be chattier when they’re comfortable, and they’re comfortable when they’re doing the things they’re used to doing. Usually I cut my hair myself, but if I needed to get my hair trimmed to get the information I wanted, so be it. I’ve done a lot worse in my time.
    â€œNo problem,” he said before turning back to his customer.
    I watched while he finished her up. He back-combed her hair, then brought it forward and sprayed each curl into place. It was like watching someone construct a building.
    â€œYou work it, girl,” he said as the woman reached in her purse to pay.
    She was still giggling as she walked out the door. He had made her feel good. Maybe that was why Janet Wilcox had come here each week. To get what she couldn’t get at home.
    â€œRemember,” I reminded him as I sat down in the chair. “Not more than a quarter of an inch.”
    He picked up my hair, weighed it in his hand, then undid the rubber band, fanned it out, and studied it some more. “Half. You should use a better conditioner. Your hair is really dry. I have one you might like.”
    â€œFine.” I’d take it out of my expense money along with the haircut. “Janet Wilcox.”
    â€œMy. Aren’t you the persistent one.” He sprayed water on my hair with a mister. I felt like a fern.
    I must have made a face because he said, “Just wetting it down, dear. By the way, my name is John, and yours is—?”
    â€œRobin.”
    â€œYou have a card?”
    When I gave it to him, he glanced at it and slipped it into his pocket. “A real private detective. The boys at the club are going to love this.”
    And him too, I’d wager. He had closely cropped hair that had been bleached white, a diamond stud in his left ear, and a tight ass his black pants showed off. His black T-shirt hugged his ribs. Very Manhattan. Just like Janet’s daughter Stephanie.
    â€œOkay John. How long have you’ve been doing Janet Wilcox’s hair?”
    He twisted the silver AIDS bracelet on his left wrist around. “You mean that Palm Beach crash helmet do she insists on