Cut & Blow: Book 1

by Giannoccaro, Ashleigh

  Cut & Blow

  Book 1

  Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  Contents

  1. Trim

  2. Shave

  3. Snip

  4. Shear

  5. Curl

  6. Dye

  7. Shampoo

  8. Highlight

  9. Bleach

  10. Set

  11. Braid

  12. Pull

  13. Tangle

  14. Straighten

  15. Brush

  16. Condition

  17. Cut

  18. Tint

  19. Perm

  20. Gel

  21. Spritz

  22. Tease

  23. Foil

  24. Lowlight

  25. Layer

  26. Blow

  27. Extensions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  All rights reserved.

  Editing by Poppet

  Cover Design by Southern Stiles Design

  Cover Photography by Depositphoto

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the written permission of the authors or publishers constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the authors’ intellectual property.

  If you would like to use the material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written consent must be obtained from the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination and are all used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  For Poppet x

  One

  Trim

  AILEE

  It’s my anniversary today. I am twenty and married to a man I never see. Happy anniversary to me.

  We met on our wedding day. Well, a week or two before, when I was fifteen and he was twenty-eight, in a big church with all our family present. We were joined in holy matrimony.

  Arranged marriages aren’t uncommon between mob families. When one owns the dock, and the other the railway line into it, then these things have to happen to tie the families together forever. You know, because divorce is still a swear word in Italian.

  Rainieri, my husband, had no use for a fifteen year old girl, so thankfully it was a marriage on paper only. After the reception and a very awkward night in a hotel room, my life went back to normal and so did his. We have almost no contact.

  Occasionally I will see his cousins in and out of my dad’s offices, but in truth I stopped visiting my family when I started working. I prefer to spend my downtime on me.

  His family only cared it was legal, and my Ma was so ‘heartbroken’ she’s quite happy with the arrangement as it is now. I have no doubt that somewhere in my life I will have to cross paths with my husband, but for now, I just pretend he doesn’t exist.

  I studied hairdressing, much to my entire family’s disgust. You know, a girl having a trade and all, made me seem like a lower class citizen than them, but I love it and wanted to take care of myself. I did not want to be like my mother, having no life other than my father and us kids – she’s certifiably nuts – because she is so bored she invents stuff to do.

  Every year, on this day, I get a small box delivered by a man in a black car, before seven in the morning. The only evidence of my dear husband is his yearly tradition of sending me an anniversary gift. A diamond encrusted charm for the bracelet he gave me on our wedding day, each year a number, and today is number five.

  It seems like a lifetime ago. I was a kid starting high school and he was already an old man to me. I clip the charm onto the bracelet, which for some reason I actually do wear every day; I took the wedding ring off the next day.

  I go and put the box with his sweets, but the generic card goes in my closet with all the others. A glance at my bedside clock and know I will be late for work if I don’t leave now. It’s been raining and everyone forgets how to drive when it’s wet, so traffic will be a nightmare.

  Rain’s gifts always unsettle me a little. I am forced to remember I am not a carefree twenty year old girl, that someday this will all come out and the man I said I do to will have a claim on my life, whether I like it or not. My brain tells me I know how Italian families work, where I’ll have to bear children eventually, to carry on the Calligaris’ name. He’s just waiting to ruin my life, and once a year I feel it getting closer.

  The last mouthful of cool coffee churns my stomach. I dump the cup into the overflowing sink and promise myself I will clean up tonight. I will clean up tonight!

  I probably won’t, but hey, it’s only me living here so no one will see it. Grabbing my oversized bag and car keys, I hoof it out the door before I’m soaking wet and late for work. I know that I have clients booked all day starting at eight-fifteen; it’s a long day before I’ve even begun.

  All the front street parking has been taken when I pull up, so I have to park in the lot behind the building; the dingy lot where the dumpsters stink to high heaven. At least the rain has stopped, so I won’t look like a drowned rat before I get inside.

  Juggling my bag, phone and car keys, I push open the trade entrance door with my butt and shuffle into the staff kitchen. It smells of stale coffee and second hand smoke, and there are dirty cups on every surface.

  “Lee-Lee.” I get squeezed hello by Chelsey, who obviously got rained on this morning because her usually tall hair is flattened and frizzing out at the sides.

  “Chels.” I wiggle free and get myself past her to the staffroom. “What’s the time?” I know I’m almost late. “I have eight-fifteen.” I shove my phone in my pocket and scratch for a stick of gum in my bag.

  “Five past,” she says, flopping into a chair. “I don’t have anyone until ten.”

  “I better get ready. Shit, I don’t even know who or what it’s for, I just checked times. Probably a blue rinse, or an old lady perm at this hour.”

  Putting the cinnamon gum in my mouth and zipping up my bag I leave her to nap on the chair and go set up my station for the day. My combs, clippers and scissors are sterilized and ready, the whole salon is already buzzing with early clients, dryers going full bore, and the natter of catty voices.

  Six out of the eight of us are already busy when my first client comes through the door. I’m expecting a regular. I have a good client list and new ones are few and far between these days, most people find a stylist and stick with them.

  The electronic doorbell chimes as it opens. I hear Alistair greeting them with his bubbly morning voice which is two octaves too high for a man. “Follow me this way. Ailee is waiting for you.”

  When I look up into the giant mirrored wall in front of me, it’s not the blue rinse or perm I expected – not even close. Shit. Alistair is winking and making ‘did you see that’ faces behind the man walking towards me. He’s tall, very tall, and skinny, with long dark hair. I am not cutting that off even if he begs me, look at it!

  He turns to Alistair catching him mid-funny face and says, “Thanks.”

  His voice is so deep. I did not expect it to come out of such a skinny guy. It’s got that vibration that only baritone voices carry as he gives me a panty melting smile.

  Shit.

  “Morning, how are you? I’m Ailee.” I try being perky and cute, but it feels awkward and stupid. “Take a seat…”

  “Trent, hi I’m Trent,” he says while sliding into my chair, his voice taking me by surprise again.

  I will have to lower my chair because he is so tall, or stand on a box. Running my fingers through his mane of dark locks I look at him i
n the mirror, his amber eyes locking with mine as I ask, “So what are we doing for you today, Trent? And don’t say cut it all off, because I won’t.” I jokingly wink at him, because if he wanted it cut off I’d have to do it.

  “Just a trim thanks.”

  That voice, God, I feel it in my ovaries. “Okay how much are we taking off then? An inch, more? Less?” I pull the strands down so I can gauge the length when it’s straight.

  “An inch is good.”

  Stop talking man. “Let’s get you to the basin then.”

  He doesn’t need his hair washed, it’s squeaky clean and smells like eucalyptus oil. I can tell he looks after that spectacular head of hair.

  I walk to the basins with him following me, and hand him off to the apprentice to wash and pamper him, while I go back to my spot and wait. Alistair, who is really named Bob, but that name just doesn’t go with his image so he renamed himself, is at my spot with a stupid smile on his face.

  “And is he gay? Because if he is I’m all over that.” His animated speech and hand gestures make him look like a real life cartoon. If Walt Disney had to draw someone gay, it would be him.

  “I am going with probably not gay, just by the sound of his voice and the way he is wearing those jeans. Sorry to burst your bubble.” I laugh at him as he makes a sulky face and retreats to the ringing phones out front.

  Saturday morning is always a zoo, and everyone wants a last minute something for a wedding, party, or date.

  When Trent returns to me with his hair wrapped in a towel on top of his head, I get a good look at his square jaw. It’s completely devoid of stubble, so completely unlike the Italian men I am always around. It’s an almost-baby face, but manly. And when he smiles I turn into a fourteen year old with a crush on my best friend’s brother – mush. I melt when this man smiles at me in the mirror.

  “Ready?” I remove the towel and comb out his hair; it reaches the middle of his back when it’s pulled straight like this.

  Leaning over him so I can just reach my scissors, I know I should just step around, but like this I can brush my boobs up against him, I start to snip the ends off his hair and work my way slowly around from the back to the front, making sure I keep it straight.

  When I get to the front I squish myself between him and my table and finish up the cut. It’s a quick job and I wish he wanted more done so I could keep him here and stare at him, All. Day. Long.

  The two young girls with their mom, at the station behind us are giggling and whispering, and I catch them looking at him, their cheeks blushing. He’s a very handsome man, and they have obviously noticed it too.

  “Hello, Mr Walsh,” one greets when she is caught looking.

  “Hello.” He turns his head away, almost shy.

  “Hmm, Mr Walsh?” I ask him as I run my fingers through his hair, loosening the threads to inspect my cut.

  “I am a teacher at New Preston Middle School.”

  I never had teachers that look like him; probably why I never learned anything in school. “That explains the teeny-bopper brigade giggles then.” I laugh a little as he shakes his head. “I bet they never expected to see you in the salon. Are teachers even allowed hair this long? Maybe I should chop it off for you?”

  His laughter is as deep as his voice and sounds like it comes from his belly. “My hair really doesn’t affect my job, I promise, and if you chop it off then I won’t have any reason to come back again, now will I?” He winks at me now, cheeky bugger.

  “All done, Mr Walsh.” I joke, “Alistair will sort you out in front.” I brush the hair off and remove the cape. He stands up, looking down at me, and again I feel myself turning into a gooey mess. “I hope to see you again.”

  “Oh, you will,” he says flippantly, as he walks off through the sea of curling irons and dryers, and out of my sight.

  I actually fan myself, like a swooning damsel from a period drama on the history channel, once he can’t see me any longer. Shit. The two girls laugh at me and we make jokes as I sweep up and clean my station before my next client. I never actually wanted to keep someone’s hair before, and if it wasn’t completely weird I probably would.

  * * *

  By the time seven o’clock rolls on and we close the door after the last whiny bitch whose hair had to be just so, we are all grinding our teeth and ready for a glass of wine and some fun.

  I only had one smoke break all day and I am dying for one.

  Saturday night is drinking night, and after closing we all make our way to our favorite club near the marina to get rat-faced. Painting our faces with fresh makeup and fixing each other’s hair has become the norm in the salon on Saturday nights.

  Tomorrow is our only day off, so we make the most of them. The staffroom becomes a unisex change room as clothes are swapped, stripped down, and sluttied up for a night of dancing and drinking.

  “I wonder if the sexy teacher parties on a Saturday?” Alistair asks, changing into pleather pants that require him to jump up and down to get on.

  “He looked way too uptight for that,” Chelsey butts in, over her mascara.

  “He doesn’t look like he’s seen a night out since he was in middle school,” Luna snorts with a laugh.

  He did look a bit uptight and reserved. Not the guys we usually find on our party evenings. He is far cry from the Italian boys with fake tans, and biceps poking out of wife-beater vests, that roll around these parts like it’s their natural habitat.

  “Okay, who’s driving with me?” I ask. A few of the girls don’t have cars and rely on buses, Uber, and taxis to get around, and I could use the company.

  “Oooh me,” Chels is first to jump on my offer.

  “And me. Please Ailee.” Romi is our designated male stylist and other than Alistair he’s the only man in the salon. Not that Alistair counts, because he can pull off leggings and a floral blouse better than any of us ladies.

  “Okay, I’m out back. I need a smoke. I’ll see you at the car in a bit.” I leave them to finish painting faces and changing clothes.

  I swapped my comfy work-flats for patent heels, and my baggy top for a shiny tank and leather jacket. I dump my belongings in the trunk of my car and light a smoke, taking a long drag to calm the chaos of the day. The shiny, new number five on my bracelet catches my eye, and for a fleeting moment I wonder why he does this every year?

  “Let’s go, I want to get there before happy hour ends.” Chelsey opens the trunk and piles her shit on top of mine before grabbing my smoke and taking a drag.

  Personal space and boundaries are things she has no concept of, but she is my self-appointed best friend so I tolerate it. Romi isn’t far behind and we are out of the lot before the rest of the group emerges from the building.

  Two

  Shave

  RAINIERI

  I’ve been married five years today. Five years ago we stood in the front of the giant Catholic Church, in front of our two families and a priest, and said vows that neither of us meant. I was twenty-eight and she was fifteen. I felt like a rapist off the crime channel.

  I could be on the crime channel for many things, but being a pedo is really not one of them, so it was a marriage on paper only. I left her to live her life and I lived mine.

  I questioned her choices silently to myself and did all the right things, I gave her a car on her sixteenth birthday, and she has a credit card in my name that she’s never once used. I pay her rent and it gets returned every month because she pays for it herself. There is no reason for her to be cutting hair on the edge of the wrong side of town, but she’s stubborn. Even when I went to her father to put a stop to it she wouldn’t listen.

  She changed her beautiful strong name to some silly nickname to fit in with the girls she works with. My Amelia became Ailee, and she took my last name but only with hers. I didn’t care. I was a man and I did not want a fifteen year old child running about my home giggling and driving me crazy. I have twin sisters the same age as her. None of it felt right, so we did wha
t was expected and then went on with life as if nothing had changed.

  But, something did happen. After we got married I couldn’t date and she couldn’t date. We had this thing that hung over us like a storm cloud for five whole years. She’s mine but she isn’t, and now that I’m older things like family and children become the topic of every conversation. I am beginning to think I should have taken her home and made her into a good Italian housewife. Not that she’d be good at it, for she’s far too much of a wild child to follow tradition.

  My Nonna could never understand my frustration at the whole situation, nor my leniency; her marriage was arranged when she was fourteen and she eventually did love her husband and have a family with him, because that’s what was expected of them. She grinds me every chance she gets about my stupidity and that I should claim what is mine.

  How do I just walk into her life and say ‘you are coming with me, playtime is over’? So I watch her. I have watched her since the beginning, but now I watch her all the time, waiting for the moment, because I know I will have to claim her eventually.

  She’s so young, and as I watch her living her life as she pleases I am jealous of things I never got to do, because I was the eldest and the business was everything. Fun was for my cousins and sisters, but it eluded me.

  Her gift was delivered this morning as it always is. The driver knocked on the ground floor apartment door and she opened up already dressed for work. She took the package inside to her kitchen, where I watch through the windows above the small lace curtain that covers the bottom half. Her face was neutral, then sad, and then back to normal.

  The charm is a full carat of diamonds, just like the other four, and I watched her clip it onto the bangle – and then nothing at all. She went on about her day as always, feeling nothing for me, yet somehow I am angered by her dismissal. I want to storm over there, shake her by the shoulders and yell at her about what that gift cost, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t go near her.