“I’m sorry.” The man nodded his head forward. “About your ex.”

I stared at him, words not quite reaching my mouth. I was staring at the man’s face. It was hard to tell what he looked like exactly. His face was surrounded by a mane of tangled, matted black hair and beard. Both were tucked into the closed trench coat so I couldn’t tell exactly how long they were.

What stopped me from speaking were his eyes.

They were deep set, under full, black eyebrows, with long lashes. What I couldn’t stop staring at was the color of his eyes. It was wrong.

“I-it’s fine.” I finally answered after too long. “You can leave your clothes outside the door and I’ll come and get them and throw them in the washing machine for you.”

I continued staring into his strange eyes. I couldn’t quite figure out the color. They seemed like they were a light amber color, on the yellow side, maybe. But then the man would blink, and in the moment his eyes reopened, it was like the color had drained completely, leaving them ice grey for a split second before they appeared amber again.

“I…” nothing else came out of my mouth. The man’s head tilted to the side, almost like a dog would when it was trying to understand you. I closed my mouth.

His eyes didn’t break from mine, he started undoing the buttons on his trench coat. He shrugged it off and drew himself to his full height.

Then my mouth dropped open again. The man towered over me, easily at least seven feet tall, if not taller. I stared; eyes wide.

“Jesus…” I blinked, “I mean, fuck, you’re tall.”

He exhaled a snort of a laugh and pulled his tattered shirt over his head. My eyes, against my intention, dropped to his pale torso. He didn’t look like he had an ounce of fat on his body; he was all muscle. His body looked like a serious gym-head’s, which registered in the back of my mind as strange given his apparent homelessness.

He cleared his throat. My eyes darted back up to his face, meeting his eyes. His head tilted slightly to the side again, and he slightly raised an eyebrow. His strange eyes flicked toward his hand, which I only then realized was stretched out toward me, holding his threadbare shirt.

I grabbed the shirt in a spastic, jerking motion. The fabric of the shirt was warm to the touch.

“Sorry.” I mumbled.

He didn’t respond, he tugged at the tied cord on the waist of his pants. It took me a second, but as soon as I realized what he was doing, I spun around to face the bathroom door. I could hear the fabric shuffling as he dropped his pants behind me and pulled them off.

“The coat is made of leather,” He said behind me, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wash it in one of those machines. You can hang it up somewhere to get it out of the way if it bothers you. And please don’t touch my bag.”

Then I heard the shower turn on.

“It-it takes a few minutes to warm up.” I said without turning around. But then I could hear the shower curtain slide open, then close. I cautiously turned around, peaking over my shoulder. He was already in the shower. I could see his head towering over the blue shower curtain.

“It’s not cold?” I asked.

“I’ve been living outside in the rain. It’s fine.” He answered without looking.

“That’s fair,” I knelt down to collect his pants and coat from the ground. I noted a worn-leather shoulder bag on the floor near shower. “You can use any of the soap in there, if you could shampoo your hair that’d be helpful for when I cut it. Maybe shampoo it twice.”

I stood up and caught him frowning at a long-matted chunk of hair his fingers appeared to be caught in. I watched him for a second. His brows were furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and he tried to yank his fingers free. He glanced in my direction and when he caught me looking he smoothed his brow back into the cold, neutral expression he had worn before.

“I’m going to go throw these in the wash and get my stuff ready in my room. Enjoy your shower.” I said as I turned and hurried out the bathroom door, closing it behind me.

I hurried down the stairs and hung a sharp right towards the basement door. I went down the old stone steps into the basement that doubled as Kas’ photo studio and darkroom. I crossed to the washing machine, draped the man’s leather coat over a chair we kept next to the dryer, and dropped the man’s clothes on the rug in front of the washer. I made sure the washer was empty before pouring soap in, I scooped up the man’s clothes and stopped as I realized something. I cautiously pulled the clothes closer to my face and took a tentative sniff. They smelled of mud and dirt, but that was it. They didn’t smell like they had ever been worn. Looking at them, they appeared to be homemade, rather than bought. Most major tears and holes had been expertly repaired with thick black thread. I dropped them into the wash and closed the lid.

I hung the man’s coat on a hanger and hung it on the clothes rack we kept nearby. Then I hopped up the basement stairs two at a time, then up the house stairs back towards my room. The shower was still running as I passed the bathroom. I grabbed an extra towel from the linen closet on my way into my room. Once inside, I pulled my desk chair to the middle of the wooden floor, dropping the towel onto it. I laid my shears, comb, and clipper guards out on the desk, then plugged the clipper in to the old power strip underneath the desk.

I heard the shower shut off, so I crossed the hall and knocked on the door. As I went to speak, the door swung open. The man was standing there, the towel wrapped around his hips. He had a narrow waist considering how big he was, but the towel was barely on, he held it in place with one of his massive hands. He was so tall that the towel, which I knew was oversized, practically looked like a hand towel on his frame.

“Oh, um.” My face went hot, as my eyes darted around for somewhere safe to look. I landed on the man’s eyes as I continued, “I have a spare toothbrush in the left drawer. Toothpaste is in the cabinet... And then that,” I pointed to the aerosol can on the counter, “is deodorant.”

His eyes darted over to the can, his head tilted in confusion.

“It’s a spray on, so, no worries sharing.” I said after a moment, “My room’s across the hall, just head on in when you’re ready.”

He looked back at me and nodded once, water dripping into his eyes. I practically scurried away into the safety of my room. My heart was starting to pound nervously, I busied myself by shaking out the towel I had laid over the chair. After a few minutes, I heard footsteps behind me. I spun around to face the man and my heart twisted slightly in my chest. Of course I remembered the shirt, the jeans with the hole in the left knee from when their original owner tripped over a crack in the sidewalk while walking home with me from a bar at two in the morning. I chose to focus instead on the poor fit instead of the clothes themselves. The shirt was tight, and a bit too short; the man’s midriff was showing. The jeans fit around his waist, though they were a bit tight around his thighs, but they were too short, and the cuffs of the jeans were around the man’s calves.

“What do you want me to do?” The man asked.

“Oh, um, just sit here for me?” I gestured to the chair.

He walked around me and looked down at the chair. It was almost laughably small compared to him. “Should I take the shirt off?” He asked.

“I have a towel I can put over your shoulders,” I answered, my eyes on the floor, my face going red again. He didn’t say anything, so I peeked up at him. His head was tilted to the side again.

“It’s not my shirt, so I’ll take it off while you cut my hair.” He pulled it off as he spoke and sat in the chair.

“Okay, that’s fine.” I mumbled, moving behind him and placing the towel over his broad shoulders. I took a deep breath and fell into my professional mode. “So, how would you like your hair cut today?”

He exhaled a short laugh. “You’re the expert so whatever you think looks best. It’s just hair. It will grow back.”

“Okay, great. Love that…” I started circling around the front of him and carefully picking through tangled mats of hair. His hair was very long, falling nearly to his waist, though it was so matted, I imagined it was even longer. “Your hair is very…” I stopped myself, “I’ll have to cut a lot off unless you want me to try and detangle it for you.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes watched me carefully. “I tried to untangle it in the shower for you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it…” I trailed off, “Let’s get started.”

He nodded once, and I turned red as I suddenly realized something. “Shit. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“I don’t know yours.” He answered, as if that justified my not knowing.

“Oh, shit. I never really introduced myself, did I?” I tried to laugh, but it sounded forced. He raised an eyebrow at me.

“My name’s Cole.” I sighed and tried to smile. I was met with his usual neutral gaze. “And yours?”

His eyes narrowed, but I couldn’t place the emotion behind them; it wasn’t annoyance or anger. It almost read as confusion. His soft reply was almost inaudible, “I don’t have a name.”

“You don’t…” I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t have a name?”

“I was never given a name.” This time his eyes moved away from mine, to look off at the corner of the room.

I had no idea how to respond to that. I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment, then crossed behind him to grab my shears and comb. When I was behind him again, I asked, “Okay, well, what do you call yourself?” and began cutting out the thick mats of hair.

“Nothing kind.” Was his low answer.

I was used to hearing people say odd things while I cut their hair, but something in his tone made this feel different. A sense of deep loathing that made me pause for a second.

“Okay,” I stretched out the word, unsure of how I should take what he was saying, “what should I call you?” I asked as chunks of hair fell toward my feet.

“You can call me ‘hey,’ ‘you there,’ or something like that. Most people call me that.” His shoulders shrugged slightly as he spoke.

I laughed at the almost bored tone in his voice and moved to his side to cut more mats out, “I’d kind of rather call you by a name.”

He eyed me sideways, “I told you I don’t have a name.”

“Okay, then.” I sighed in defeat.

After about fifteen minutes I had finally managed to cut all the mats and knots out of his hair. What was left was a mess of all different lengths. I moved around to the front of him and stared thoughtfully at his face, though his incredibly long and matted beard obscured most of it.

“Can I trim your beard? It would be easier to figure out what style of cut I should give you if your beard wasn’t so… wild.” I wiggled my fingers to emphasize my words.

He shrugged his massive shoulders, “You may do whatever you would like. I don’t care.”

“Great,” I nodded. “You know, it’s kind of fun having someone give me complete control over their hair. Most people who come in the salon are very specific about what they want.”

“I’m happy to be a change from the routine.” He sounded bored again.

“Uh, right.”

Moving closer to him I began trimming away the tangled excess length of his beard. It was relatively easy. He was so tall, even sitting his face was nearly level with mine. Once I had the beard decently trimmed with the scissors, I took another critical look.

“Something wrong?” He asked. Now that his beard was trimmed, I could just barely see his lips through the hair.

“Huh? Why do you ask?”

“You look concerned.” He answered, tilting his head. “And you’re biting your lip.”

“Oh, no, no,” I laughed, “sorry, I was just focusing.”

“I will alleviate your fears; there’s nothing you could do to improve this face and not much you could do to make it worse.” He said, his voice oddly serious.

I laughed, but his face remained solemn, and I realized he wasn’t joking. I cleared my throat. “Well, I can’t really see your face, so it’s hard to say. If you’re cool with it, I think we should just shave the beard.”

“I told you, do as you would like.”

I considered the best way to shave his beard. I could grab my razor from the bathroom, but that would be a pain in the ass and messy. Plus, I wasn’t really trained as a barber. I could use my clippers, which would be easier, but the cord would be annoying.

“Oh, fuck!” I clapped my hands together as I remembered something.

He furrowed his brows and stared at me, concerned.

“Sorry, one second.” I crossed the room to my closet and dug in the corner until I found the facial hair groomer, brand new in the box, that had been sitting in it for the last six months. I wrenched the box open and pulled the groomer out, pushing the button, thankfully it buzzed to life. “Nice. Hopefully it has enough of a charge to get through your beard.”

The nameless man glanced at the torn packaging on the floor. “I wouldn’t picture you as the type to grow a beard.”

“I’m not, it was supposed to be a birthday gift for my—” I stopped myself, I didn’t want to think about him anymore. I cleared my throat and continued. “But I lost the receipt so I couldn’t return it.”

I moved back in front of the man; his eyes were looking toward the corner again. I turned the trimmer on and carefully began shaving the hair away from his cheeks and jaw. I had never shaved someone else’s face; it was weird. After only a few minutes, nothing was left but a slightly unruly mustache over his upper lip. My quick shave job had revealed sharp cheekbones, a strong chin, and a chiseled jaw.

“You’re making that face again.” He said to me.

“Sorry,” my eyes met his, “focusing again.” I lied. “Okay, be very still, I have to trim the mustache now.”

He gave me a quick, short nod and became statue still. I moved the trimmer towards his lip, but I got nervous and backed away. I tried another approach and stopped. The third time, I instinctively reached up with my off hand and put it on his chin and jaw, as if to hold him still. The minute my hand made contact with his skin, he inhaled sharply in surprise, but he didn’t move.

“Sorry, I’ll move my hand in just a second.” I mumbled, moving the trimmer forward and shearing off the whiskers above his lip.

His skin was so hot that I started to wonder if he was sick or something. Maybe my hand was just cold because I was so nervous.

“There,” I said as the last whisker fell away. I dropped my hand and took a step back to look at his face.

“It’s not a good face.” He mumbled, almost sullenly.

But he was wrong. In fact, it was just the opposite. His face was very handsome; all his features perfectly balanced with one another, his pale skin was perfectly smooth and without any noticeable flaws, though he had a few fine lines around his eyes as though he spent a lot of time furrowing his brows. He appeared to be in his latest twenties or early thirties.

“That awful?” He asked after a moment, his eyes were still on the corner. “You’ve not spoken in a while and your face looks rather shocked.”

“No, it’s just—” a laugh broke through unintentionally, “You don’t look how I expected you to. But I know how I want to cut your hair now.”