Timothie Hill and the Cloak of Power

Chapter Four

Chapter FourInitially, the next day at the salon proved interesting. Timothie swirled into the backroom, through Paula's waiting room, past Skye putting on her makeup, and grabbed a quick coffee before he entered the front rooms as hairstylist extraordinaire. His Ralph Lauren military brown belt with silver buckle coordinated perfectly with an Alexander McQueen white peasant boy lace shirt with brown French military boots and matching silver buckles. Black lambskin low-rise jeans completed the outfit. He tossed his gym bag onto the table by the ceramic pot of blooming impatiens. He imagined the Cloak of Power stirring inside the bag.

Now, his coffee cup to his lips, Timothie waited for his first appointment of the morning, a 30-something woman who worked in graphic design at Sapphire Designs on Alberta Avenue. She asked him to use his “special powers” to create a stunning hairdo that would knock them out at the annual meeting that night of creative designers from all over North America, including those with the best and most innovative stylists.

Timothie was up to the challenge. Starr, his client, sauntered through the front doors, threw her foxy cape on a hanger, and plumped into a silver chair in front of the mounted wall mirror. She smiled and wriggled herself into the chair as he settled the salon's cape around her shoulders. “Do your worst, Timothie. Surprise me. But you remember, no stripping the color from the lovely auburn I already have.”

“Rainbow hair?” he asked and swept his hands through her blunt shoulder-length cut. “Five or six weeks ago, we ordered these rainbow gradient hand-dyed hair extensions just for you, Starlight. They'll add a pop of rainbow color to your lovely crown. They're hand sewn, clip-in, and double-woven at the back. Your shoulder length hair is perfect for these psychedelic tresses. I'm so excited!” He began initially to clip in violet and shocking pink extensions – seven of them – then neon yellow, lime green, screaming purple, crimson, and silver. Starr moaned.

“They're gorgeous!” she cried. “Just right. The girls will be so jealous. I have the best hairstylist in the world.”

“If only you knew,” Timothie remarked cryptically. “I'm the best in many worlds.” He chuckled and drew out another bright extension, carefully weaving it into Starr's natural hair. The whole process took more than an hour and cost in excess of four hundred dollars, but the end result was well worth it. His client agreed. She paid him generously for the fiery, Woodstock-era tresses that cascaded down her back and twisted in psychedelic colors over her shoulders.

“Perfect. Is Skye still doing sugaring?”

“Of course.”

“Does she have any openings this morning? My chin…”

“Yes,” he said and smoothed his hands over the snug black leather jeans that slung low on his hips. He drew water in a basin and washed his hands to above the wrists, pushing the French lace closer to his manly forearms. “Just a minute, I'll call her.” His assistant appeared almost instantly at the door to her waiting room, by the horse chestnut vines and the limited edition stainless steel coffee Bodum, which had been purchased on holiday.

“Ooo la la,” Skye exalted. “That's fabulous, Timothie!”

Starr grinned and swung her legs off the silver chair. “Can you sugar my face quickly, Skye? I need to be at the office in forty-five minutes. Tops.” She clapped her hands.

Skye pirouetted on one cream-colored Valentino canvas espadrille. “No problem.”

Paula poked her frizzy pink head around the corner. “I could do a quick manicure.”

“No, thanks,” Starr declined. “I so need a sugaring. By the best.” She winked at Skye, who threw her hands into the air and beckoned for the client to follow her into the back salon. Paula grasped her hand as she pranced by.

“Ooo, nice nails. Who did them?”

“I did them myself. Do you like the designs?”

“Pretty blush pink gel polish with lime palm trees – why didn't I think of that for you last time you were in? I know how you love Maui.”

Starr and the assistants swished into the back rooms, past the French press and the horse chestnut vines, with a toss of lurid tresses and shoes clacking on the hardwood floors until, muffled by carpet, they disappeared from Timothie's view. Very pleased with his morning's work, the stylist slouched in his silver chair. With deft fingers, he dialed the bistro west of the Beverly sign. He ordered a gyro and diet Pepsi for his lunch. Momentarily, his next client would arrive. He would have time to eat and drink between afternoon appointments.

Timothie exhaled and studied his Android phone, the many icons blinking in psychedelic colors. Several calls had come in while he had been working on Starr's hair extensions. He began to call them back but was interrupted when his next client clacked through the front doors, throwing her light summer stole onto the hangers in front and settling herself in the chair Timothie had just vacated.

“Cut and color?” he asked, weaving his slim fingers through her black hair.

“Something different,” she entreated. “How about something wild this time, my friend? The grey roots are beginning to show. I'm tired of matt black. Maybe something more youthful?”

Timothie clapped his hands. He laughed. He did enjoy a challenge. “I have just the thing.”

“Gold highlighting?” he suggested. “Or should we try ash blonde?”

“I think that would be glorious,” his client replied. “Oh, is that your lunch I see coming in the door? A deliveryman is lurking outside, and his little truck says, 'Italian Bakery.' I didn't know they were open again.”

“Oh, yes, no problem,” said Timothie as he smoothed the metal comb through her long, shining hair. “Just put it down there, dearie.” He tipped the man and left the sandwich and soda on the table by the window. “I hope you don't mind, luv?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Not at all. A man's got to eat. Especially a superhero.”

Timothie stopped mid-stride. “What?”

She laughed. “I think you're a super stylist. A real hero. As far as I'm concerned, anyhow.”

“Oh.” He laughed and levitated six inches off the floor. She didn't notice. He knew she wouldn't. He had power over minds like that – they didn't notice his peculiarities, or if they did, they loved him for them. Not unusual to levitate off the floor, he thought and smiled to himself, his handsome stubbled face thoughtful as he drew himself to the problem of how to make Mrs. Cardinal look young again.