“Uh, you two don’t have a place to stay in this dome, do you?” Fritz asks.
“No,” I admit. None of my thinking ahead has included anything practical.
“Well, since my shop is closed anyway,” he says, gesturing at the mess, “why don’t you just crash here? How long are you going to be in town?”
“At least three days,” I say, thinking of the impending blockade.
Fritz tilts his head a bit, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Oh, huh,” he murmurs, sounding pleased. I wouldn’t exactly say he lights up at the news, but he seems happy to hear it.
“Yeah, three days and then we’re not sure if we can leave,” Cleve grumbles. “Either resolution or death.”
“We’d be grateful for your hospitality,” I tell Fritz, not letting Cleve bring things down again.
“It’d be a delight to host you,” he says, quickly appending, “host you both.”
“A solid floor will make a change from the ship’s hammocks,” I say lightly, unsure of what exactly he’s proposing.
“Well, I have a couch, too,” he says, indicating the one across the showroom near a small changing room. I imagine how this place might have looked a week ago, well lit, with fancy clients sitting on the couch waiting for their companion to come out and show off a new look. “And, um, we could roll out a mat or something to make the floor a softer surface. I could practically make a new mattress out of all this cloth I can’t use,” he adds, looking grimly at where Cleve has collected all the bleach-splattered clothes he’s picked up.
“It’s fine, thank you,” Cleve says, able to sleep under any conditions.
Fritz is still looking at all that material, though. “I wonder if I could turn it into a new style…” he murmurs pensively.
I step over to look through the pile, getting a closer look at the stains on these other articles. “Have you heard of acid-wash or tie-dye?” I ask. Those techniques had their origins over a hundred years before Unity took off, but they’ve come in and out of fashion several times since.
“Yeah, but that’s not normally the style preferred by my clientele,” Fritz says. He’s going to stay here, taking care of his shop this afternoon while we go out to visit Shu-Fen. To that end, he tells us to follow him behind the counter to the rear of the building. Cleve starts in that direction, and Fritz casually places a hand on my back, ushering me along as well. The backroom holds a lot of his supplies, but there’s also a staircase leading up to his living space and a hall leading to an alley. That back entrance is for trash and deliveries—it connects to the less wealthy part of the dome. Fritz doesn’t do any business out that back door, so his shop isn’t easily discoverable from that direction, but now we’ll be able to find it from either part of town.
We return to the shop floor so we can pick out a few items from the trunk that might sway Shu-Fen. Cleve starts checking over his rifle, though it will be staying here with the trunk. And me, I’m standing there next to Fritz, with no further plotting or planning to do. He seems more his old confident self, the one I met in the streets of the dome last time who was comfortable with proximity and attention, and I turn to him. He looks back at me with a wordless question crinkling his brow, and I throw my arms around him, holding him tightly. “I am so glad you are okay,” I whisper into his ear.
Fritz returns the embrace, breathing out a deep sigh of relief as well. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he replies. “You said your arm was broken! But it looks great.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I reply excitedly, stepping back from him and holding out my left arm. I turn it this way and that, showing off how awesome a job the tattoo artist did at realizing my vision for the design.
“A new tattoo and hair up, such changes,” Fritz says lightly. “It was an interesting style, having it up…”
A shake my head in disagreement. “Cleve was worried about—”
“Cleve was worried about your hair?” Fritz says, his eyebrows going up and a teasing lilt in his voice. “Whyever would he be worried about it?”
“Cleve was worried about our, uh, distinctive appearance. He’s a bit paranoid—or, he worries a lot,” I amend.
“I’m still not sure about it being down,” Cleve grumbles. “This guy probably knows about disguises,” he says, perhaps thinking that Fritz can better sway me than he himself can.
“I don’t think you need to change it one bit,” Fritz tells me, lifting a hand up to gently tug at a curl. “But if you wanted to, there are a couple things we could adjust. Not a full-on cut, just a restyle. But as I said, I think it looks great.”
“By all means, restyle my hair,” I encourage him, eager to see what he’ll do with it. I haven’t had a proper haircut since I left Earth, and these curls are getting longer and heavier. Anything Fritz can do with that which will make Cleve stop complaining would be fabulous. And also, honestly, I want to see Fritz at work. There was an intoxicating air of intensity about him when he was conducting his dye experiment earlier, and I’d love to have that energy directed at me.
Fritz gestures for me to take a seat on the stool behind the counter while he grabs a cloth and some scissors. This makes Cleve quite happy—well, satisfied, at any rate. Seeing as how Fritz mentioned Louisa was on wanted posters, Cleve asks about our own likenesses. “I haven’t seen you two on wanted posters,” Fritz tells him, which makes sense to me. Anything on us was purely circumstantial and so long ago. “Part of that might be that there are so many active dissidents right now. You two haven’t been seen in a month, so the problem must have been dealt with, right?” He drapes a sheet around my shoulders and considers me with pursed lips, tapping his slender steepled fingers against them.
“It just needs to be different,” Cleve says. “The bun was fine.”
“The bun was not fine,” Fritz tells him.
“Yeah, really, Cleve,” I say. “I was dying a little inside.” I am only half-joking.
Fritz lightly takes hold of my chin, adjusting the angle of my head. “No mirrors for you,” he says. “This is up to me to figure out.”
“You could just shave it all off,” Cleve suggests, completely deadpan.
This earns an immediate and visceral, “No!” from both me and Fritz. “These beautiful curls?!” Fritz objects. Cleve laughs—he’s subjecting me to the same needling teasing that he did with Corazon about wolf beetles. Clearly he’s in a better mood now than this morning.
Fritz sets to work, trimming a bit, restyling with some gel. I watch him work, enjoying seeing his focus and confidence, all the while curious about what the finished product will be. “Eyes closed,” Fritz tells me, getting ready to hold up the mirror. I comply, shutting them until he says he’s ready. “All right! Eh? What do you think?”
These are definitely styled curls now, not the relaxed, tousled look I normally maintain. They’re held in place, stiffer than usual—they look expensive, like I’ve just left a high-end salon. With my shaving mirror as well, I get a look at the back, too. He’s done a thorough job. I am smiling so broadly my cheeks hurt. What a gift!
“I suppose that’s different,” Cleve says. “Now, the poncho,” he states.
I can’t read his tone. “Are you saying I have to wear the poncho?”
Fritz comes to my rescue. “Ah, Cleve, why don’t we give you a different look, too?” he suggests.
“Yeah! Let’s get rid of this safari vibe you have going here,” I agree, happy to jump on that bandwagon.
“We can shave it all,” Cleve says, waving a hand at his head, “but I did that last time.”
“I mean all the khaki,” I tell him.
“I don’t care. I just need pockets. And to look different. And so do you.”
“I had the blazer on last time,” I object, insisting that shirt sleeves and a vest are different enough. It’s true, my vest was noticed last time even with the blazer on, but that was by Fritz, who has good reason to care. I honestly don’t think the repo squads paid so much attention to my fashion choices. Cleve adds another requirement to his makeover: he has to look like someone Campos will listen to. “We’re not going to let you leave here looking stupid!” I tell him.
As we’ve been squabbling, Fritz has been thinking. He presents Cleve with a fancy courier bag that was hit by the bleach. It will go well with the alternate outfit he offers, also from the pile of damaged goods. “You are my new model,” he tells Cleve, who will be presenting the acid-washed splatter style to the world. “And how do you feel about wigs?” He has a selection in various textures, styles, and colors, but with how Cleve is frowning after seeing just a few, I suggest a side shave instead. “Ooooh… That, I think we can do,” Fritz says, fetching clippers.
“I honestly do not care,” Cleve reiterates. “As long as it isn’t in the way at all and doesn’t draw attention.” Fritz presents a flipbook of potential haircuts, opening it to a section with photos of men with partially shaved heads. “This one!” Cleve declares, swiftly pointing out one. I suspect he’s choosing at random just to speed this whole thing along.
“Oh, Mr. Chiron 10 After Planetfall. A classic!” Fritz sets to work, replicating the style. I hover behind him, watching him lose himself in his work. When he’s done, the sides of Cleve’s head are shaved with a jagged edge bordering the longer hair left on the top, which is now teased up in gelled spikes. Cleve’s face is shaved except for the mustache now sporting waxed tips. “Now, you’re going to have to maintain this,” Fritz warns.
“He’s going to grow it out as soon as we’re done with the job,” I tell Fritz apologetically.
“Yeah! Definitely going to maintain it.” Cleve’s eyes roll as he chuckles at the thought.
“Ugh!” Fritz sighs, overly dramatic. But there’s a smile on his face, and he tells us, “I’m really glad you two came here today. I feel a lot better.” He lets out another long breath, shaking off the lingering stress from the status of his shop. Then with another one of those grins that lights up his eyes, he says to Cleve, “You know, I bet Roze would love this look. And you,” he adjusts my boutonniere just a smidge, “you look so dapper.”
Cleve’s goal has been achieved. We will not be casually recognized on the street by some repo squad guys who saw us a month ago. And I’m feeling great too. We’re getting out of here way later than we planned, but it was totally worth it to see Fritz smiling again.
“All right then, good luck!” Fritz tells us, as he lets us out the back of the shop.
“We’ll be back,” I assure him.
“I hope so!”
“Later today,” I tack on. This is not goodbye for another month.