A skinny woman in an outfit of all black ushered the boy through the salon to an adjustable chair. She tapped a silver lever near the base with the tip of her tennis shoe. The chair eased down closer to the ground, while a blurry snake tattooed on her ankle wrapped its way around her leg.
“Climb on up there,” she said to the boy.
“Its too high,” the boy said as he clamored onto the seat, one limb at a time.
“What are we doing today, mom?” the stylist asked.
“Let’s go a little shorter than usual,” the mother said from behind the chair.
Nodding her head, the stylist ran her fingers through the boy’s hair.
“And then I get a lollypop,” the boy said.
The stylist shook the folds out of a crinkly cape and snapped it at the back of the boy’s sun-browned neck.
“If your mom says its ok,” the stylist said.
“She says its ok,” the boy said without a moment of hesitation.
He stuck his tongue out at the reflection of his mother in the mirror and turned to his own countenance, admiring the shaggy brown hair as it edged into his eyes and over his ears unaware as a wooly lamb that he was about to be sheared.