Kathryn Springer - The Prince Charming List

“Hi.” Why aren’t there any streetlights around here?

God must have heard my pitiful question because suddenly the moon rolled out from behind a cloud and lit up the area like a spotlight. It gave me courage to know He was keeping a watchful eye on us.

“You almost scared the horses to death,” I said bravely, buying some time now so I could give the police a full description later. I started at the storm trooper helmet and memorized my way down the black leather jacket to the slashed blue jeans and heavy boots.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Just before he reached me, he yanked off the helmet, releasing a ponytail that swung against his shoulder. But he didn’t look threatening anymore. Maybe it’s because he looked…well, drop-dead gorgeous. I heard Bree suck in a breath.

He smiled at us and shrugged helplessly. “I think I’m lost.”

“Who are you looking for?”

He hesitated for a second. “A cow named Junebug?”

When Marissa Maribeau stumbled into the salon the next day, I almost performed a pirouette. Bernice had told me she’d been trying to coax Marissa into her chair for years but apparently she was a hairstylist’s ultimate challenge—a self-trimmer. She had thick, waist-length hair, but the ends reminded me of frayed wire and the humidity was definitely not her friend. She must have come right from her pottery studio because she was wearing baggy khaki pants and a white T-shirt smeared with dried clay.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t made an appointment. Bernice had warned me about the customers she referred to as Wild Cards. The ones who impulsively decided to get their hair colored, cut or styled and they wanted it done now.

I snapped a fresh cape open and held it up. Marissa skidded to a stop in front of me. I shook the cape and she took a wary step backward.

“My four-thirty canceled, so you can be my last customer of the day.” I gave the chair a cheerful, game show hostess spin.

“I’m not here…” Marissa glanced in the mirror and her eyes widened. She reached up and pressed on her hair. Which promptly sprang back into place like a chocolate cake just out of the oven.

She groped for the arm of the chair and sat down. Hard.

Bernice wasn’t going to believe this! The elusive Marissa Maribeau was now a Cut and Curl customer.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” I told her. “There’s just way too much of it. Especially when you’re fine boned. You want people to see your face, not your hair.”

“I don’t like to fuss.”

“You’d have to fuss a lot less if it’s shorter.”

“How much shorter?”

Using my fingers as scissors, I made a pretend cut at her shoulder and ignored her low moan. “It’ll still be long enough for you to put in a ponytail or tie in a scarf, but this will get rid of the split ends.” All ten inches of them.

“I guess it would be all right.”

That was good enough for me. I hustled her over to the shampoo sink and grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength conditioner.

She blinked up at me. Natural brunettes like Marissa usually had brown eyes, but hers were a striking bluish-gray. Tiny pleats marked the corners, indicating she wasn’t as young as I thought she was when I’d met her at the wedding. Her skin was smooth and well moisturized, but some oil-free powder wouldn’t be a bad idea for her T-zone…

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“I know that look and you can forget about it.”

“There was no look.” I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.

“I’m an artist, remember? I throw a pot and I can see exactly what I need to do to finish it. What kind of glaze. Whether to etch it with leaves or flowers or just leave it alone.” Marissa settled back comfortably in the chair. “I suppose it’s the same for you when you’ve got someone’s face in front of you.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way before. Didn’t everyone pay attention to the shape of someone’s face, the color of their eyes and whether or not their hairstyle flattered their features?

“You can’t compare the two,” I murmured, remembering the few pieces of Marissa’s work I’d seen. She’d given Alex and Bernice a beautiful set of handmade dessert plates as a wedding gift. Each one had a delicate dandelion puff blowing across the center. I remembered wishing at the time that God had gifted me with an ability to create something like that.

“I’m not so sure. I walked in the door and right away you saw I had twice the amount of hair as a normal person. I’ve been looking at my face in a mirror for the past thirty-two years and missed it.” Marissa crossed her arms under the cape and gave me a knowing smile.

That was because she was busy creating something beautiful outside herself. I didn’t argue, though, because the customer is always right. My summer working at the Fun Fruit Factory had taught me that.

I picked up the scissors and clicked them above her head.

“Ready?”

Marissa closed her eyes. “Surprise me.”

Half an hour later, I turned the chair around to face the mirror. “All done.”

Marissa stared at her reflection. Instant panic washed over me when I saw her expression. I’d talked her into this and she hated it.

“What did you do?” Her eyes were wide with shock as they met mine in the mirror.

“I just…cut it.” How was I supposed to explain this to Bernice? I definitely wasn’t ready to go out on my own yet! “Your hair is naturally curly, but the length and the weight of it pulled most of the curl out. When you take that away, the curls find their original shape.”

I’d also used enough anti-frizz gel to straighten the hair of an eighties’ girl band, but no need to mention that. The overall effect was that Marissa’s hair didn’t dominate her face anymore. And I’d guessed that her curls, given the proper attention, were the beautiful corkscrew kind. And I was right. Normally I would have taken satisfaction in the final results, but not at the moment. Right now my stomach was tying itself into knots because I’d ruined one of Bernice’s friends.

“I can see my face.” Marissa touched her cheeks lightly with her fingertips.

“That was the plan,” I said cautiously. “Look how big your eyes look now that you aren’t hiding behind all that hair.”

Marissa’s mouth opened but nothing came out. She tried again. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

At least she didn’t pretend she loved it, like the first woman I’d practiced on at cosmetology school. She’d smiled and thanked me and then I’d heard her in the hall, frantically calling her usual stylist for an emergency appointment. The only reason I’d scraped up the courage to go back the next day was because my parents had already paid the tuition. Things had gotten better after that. Until now!

“No charge.” Taking money would only add to my guilt.

“Why not?”

“You don’t like it.”

“I just said it would take some getting used to,” Marissa corrected. She fingered the much shorter ends of her hair. “You did a great job, Heather, I’m just not sure I was ready to come out of hiding yet.”

What did that mean? I saw her glance at her reflection again, but this time she smiled slightly. “Help me out here. I don’t venture out into the real world very often. I’m supposed to give you a tip, right?”

“Make it a practical one instead. Please.”

“That’s easy. Don’t let anyone talk you into joining a committee.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got a temperamental art student named Jared Ward in my studio at this very moment who’s insisting that Denise—one of the PAC committee members—promised him housing for the summer. That’s why I stopped in, to see if you had a number I could call to get in touch with Bernice.”