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“Miss Susie Glitter.”
The man across the counter dwarfs you in size— which would be not so unusual if not for the fact that his austere mien magnifies him. To say nothing of the way he casts his gaze as though perceiving beyond what you can, for he aims it neither at your coworkers presently on the floor, nor their patrons.
He draws no-one’s attention but yours. The chill in the air would have you wondering if you really weren’t facing a ghost if you hadn’t taken to the battlefield with him once before, and not so long ago that his presence had fully rotted in your memory. Still, you feel the fur on your tail begin to stand on edge.
You think his name was…
“Mr Nearl?” You attempt, like stepping gingerly onto a rickety plank of an old wood bridge.
“Please call me Młynar.” A practised response to a frequent unpleasant situation, rote. He raises a hand as though to dismiss your concerns when you begin to utter an apology, as though this, too, was anticipated. “Are you available for a walk-in?”
“Er— we really prefer our patrons to make prior appointments…” but you do not want to chase away a new customer, and so when he shifts to leave you interject, “But! But. If all you need is a quick trim, I can squeeze you in right now.”
He seems to find this arrangement satisfactory, but when he follows you to the lone empty chair it is in grave silence, even through the apparent tickle of the barber’s gown snapped around his neck.
He struggles to suppress a cough.
Just when you think it might be best not to attempt small talk with him, he surprises you by speaking up himself.
“It’s grown much longer than I typically keep it,” he says, “I’d been away from home awhile, and neglected its health. Pardon the mess.”
The hair falls in mats as you snip at it.
“Were you on holiday?” You venture the question after all, and feel more bold for doing so than is probably warranted.
“Not exactly.” He offers no further detail, and in fact until his hair is cut to his satisfaction offers no further input but simple assurances when you intermittently enquire his opinion on whether you’re on the right track.
Standing this close, you smell that his cologne only narrowly overpowers the scent of smoke on him.
When he is handing you cash over the counter you give him a punched card in exchange.
“Every sixth haircut at our salon is free,” you explain, and he tucks it in snugly into the fold of his leather wallet.
“I see. My thanks, Ms Glitter.”
“It’s really quite alright to call me Susie—”
You think it’s hardly fair that he should feel obligated to be so formal with you and yet request himself be known on a first-name basis, after all.
“Good day, Ms Glitter.”
And he leaves with as much notice as he’d entered.