Categories > Celebrities > Taking Back Sunday > Untie the Knot
One.
"So, Shellie," Collin said as we sat down, him in the large, swiveling leather throne behind the desk, me in the just-uncomfortable-enough-to-make-you-shuttup-and-listen chair opposite. Everything in Collin's office was spotless, from the sheer white tile on the floor, to the perfectly painted walls. It was only on a rare occasion that I was ever called into Collin's office. Only the slackers of the salon made it in here, usually resulting in reduced pay or even their whole jobs being taken away. So, naturally, when he called me in earlier I was suddenly panicing.
Collin shifted in his seat, adjusting his bubble-gum pink tie. He was a skinny guy, with shaggy, white-blonde hair and a bit of a soft spot for any woman who could speak fluently in Latin. Why? No one knew. But he adored my beauty skills with a fiery passion; something I was highly thankful for. "I think it's time you get promoted."
"Since when do you get promoted in a salon?" I asked, reaching in my back pocket for my vibrating phone. I turned it off before Collin has a chance to recognize the buzzing noice.
"Since we're suddenly short of an assistant manager," Collin smirked, and my dazed expression spoke for me.
"I'm gonna be assistant manager?" I whispered to myself, a coy smile spreading across my face.
"Yes ma'am. You start tomorrow."
"FUCK YES!" I screeched, hopping excitedly out of my chair. There wasn't any possible way that I could tell Collin I was leaving New York City in a few short months. Not now. He'd fire me on the spot for "spreading negative energy in his peaceful rhelm" or whatever.
"Okay, okay, calm yourself," He said lazily, his fingers already typing away on his computer. He lifted his hand towards the door. "You have a late 5:30, so hurry along."
"Okay," I said, then watched as Collin hastily started scribbling on a yellow notepad left of his elbow. I shut the door quietly, then wandered down the long hallway that led to the actual salon room.
Working at Raine wasn't always that easy, but it sure as hell wasn't difficult. The hardest part of the job was keeping up with myself once I got started on something.
I was halfway across the salon before I realized I had a full half-hour before my next customer (or victim, as Collin called them). I plopped myself onto one of the large, puffy red couches that was sitting in front of the huge, brick fireplace that took up nearly half the wall. "Taste of Ink" by The Used was playing overhead, and Bert's jagged vocals made their way through my ears. It was growing louder, as if someone was fiddling with the volume behind the front desk. I guess that's what the consequences are when you work with a bunch of seventeen year old bisexual boys with a passion for makeup and hair. I crossed one leg over the other and closed my eyes, pressing my fingers into the arm of the couch. Just a few weeks of this, I thought, and I'm leaving New York.
Just then, someone plopped down hard beside me, causing my knee to knock sideways into the wall; it hurt like hell, hitting me right in the funny bone, which sent a zap all the way down to my toes. And suddenly, in a short instant, I was pissed off. Really pissed.
"What the fuck," I said, grabbing my knee, ready to chop the head off of whatever little emo coworker had decided to get cozy with me today.
I turned my head and saw that it wasn't a salesperson at all. It was a guy with long brown hair, around my age, wearing a black band T-shirt. And for some fucked up reason, he was smiling.
"Hello," He said cheerfully. "How's it goin'?"
"What's wrong with you?" I snapped, still clutching at my knee.
"Problems?"
"You just slammed my knee into the wall, asshole."
He blinked. "Oh goodness," He said finally. "Such naughty language."
I just blinked at him.
"The thing is," he said, as if we'd just had a long conversation about the weather. "I saw you from outside when I was lookin' at my tire, 'cause that thing's pretty fucked up, but let's not go there."
I'm pretty sure I was glaring at him, but he continued talking.
"I though to myself, all of a sudden, that we totally had something in common. Like something big was gonna happen," He said. "To both of us, not just you."
"You got all this," I said, "when you were staring at your tire?"
"You haven't seen that thing. Like I said, it's pretty screwed."
"No, but I'm pretty sure I can see this big-ass bruise you left on my knee," I said evenly.
"That was an accident," he said, lowering his voice and leaning in closer to me. "It was just one of those unfortunate results of my enthusiasm. I felt it knowing I was about to talk to you." He said, perking up.
I blinked at him again. Behind us, I could hear two guys mumbling.
"Go away," I told him. I could hear Jet's "Are You Gonna Be My Girl" playing faintly overhead.
"Y'know what?" he asked, pointing up at the speaker, which cracked a bit before blasting the song as full blast. "From now on, forever" --he pointed again--"this song will always remind me of you and you're insane beauty."
"Oh, God," I said, and right then, I was saved by Darrin, my coworker, yelling at me about my 5:30 appointment being cancelled.
I stood up, and the guy beside me lept to his feet. "Wait, I only want --"
"Darrin?" I called, ignoring him.
"Just take this," the guy said, grabbing my hand. He had turned it palm-up before I could even react, then proceeded to write a name and phone number.
"You are so wierd!" I said, jerking my hand back, which caused the pen from his hand to clatter onto the floor.
"Yo, Romeo!" someone yelled from outside, and there was a burst of laughter. "Come on dude, let's go!"
He glanced behind him, then back at me. "See ya soon," he said, and grinned at me. And okay, I had to admit that he had a very sweet smile. But he was still wierd.
"Whatever," I replied, but he was already leaving towards the salon door, where a large black car was parked nearby.
I looked down at my hand, where in black ink was scrawled 255-65somethingsomething, with one word beneath it. God, his handwriting was sloppy. A big A, a smear on the last letter. His name. Adam.
"So, Shellie," Collin said as we sat down, him in the large, swiveling leather throne behind the desk, me in the just-uncomfortable-enough-to-make-you-shuttup-and-listen chair opposite. Everything in Collin's office was spotless, from the sheer white tile on the floor, to the perfectly painted walls. It was only on a rare occasion that I was ever called into Collin's office. Only the slackers of the salon made it in here, usually resulting in reduced pay or even their whole jobs being taken away. So, naturally, when he called me in earlier I was suddenly panicing.
Collin shifted in his seat, adjusting his bubble-gum pink tie. He was a skinny guy, with shaggy, white-blonde hair and a bit of a soft spot for any woman who could speak fluently in Latin. Why? No one knew. But he adored my beauty skills with a fiery passion; something I was highly thankful for. "I think it's time you get promoted."
"Since when do you get promoted in a salon?" I asked, reaching in my back pocket for my vibrating phone. I turned it off before Collin has a chance to recognize the buzzing noice.
"Since we're suddenly short of an assistant manager," Collin smirked, and my dazed expression spoke for me.
"I'm gonna be assistant manager?" I whispered to myself, a coy smile spreading across my face.
"Yes ma'am. You start tomorrow."
"FUCK YES!" I screeched, hopping excitedly out of my chair. There wasn't any possible way that I could tell Collin I was leaving New York City in a few short months. Not now. He'd fire me on the spot for "spreading negative energy in his peaceful rhelm" or whatever.
"Okay, okay, calm yourself," He said lazily, his fingers already typing away on his computer. He lifted his hand towards the door. "You have a late 5:30, so hurry along."
"Okay," I said, then watched as Collin hastily started scribbling on a yellow notepad left of his elbow. I shut the door quietly, then wandered down the long hallway that led to the actual salon room.
Working at Raine wasn't always that easy, but it sure as hell wasn't difficult. The hardest part of the job was keeping up with myself once I got started on something.
I was halfway across the salon before I realized I had a full half-hour before my next customer (or victim, as Collin called them). I plopped myself onto one of the large, puffy red couches that was sitting in front of the huge, brick fireplace that took up nearly half the wall. "Taste of Ink" by The Used was playing overhead, and Bert's jagged vocals made their way through my ears. It was growing louder, as if someone was fiddling with the volume behind the front desk. I guess that's what the consequences are when you work with a bunch of seventeen year old bisexual boys with a passion for makeup and hair. I crossed one leg over the other and closed my eyes, pressing my fingers into the arm of the couch. Just a few weeks of this, I thought, and I'm leaving New York.
Just then, someone plopped down hard beside me, causing my knee to knock sideways into the wall; it hurt like hell, hitting me right in the funny bone, which sent a zap all the way down to my toes. And suddenly, in a short instant, I was pissed off. Really pissed.
"What the fuck," I said, grabbing my knee, ready to chop the head off of whatever little emo coworker had decided to get cozy with me today.
I turned my head and saw that it wasn't a salesperson at all. It was a guy with long brown hair, around my age, wearing a black band T-shirt. And for some fucked up reason, he was smiling.
"Hello," He said cheerfully. "How's it goin'?"
"What's wrong with you?" I snapped, still clutching at my knee.
"Problems?"
"You just slammed my knee into the wall, asshole."
He blinked. "Oh goodness," He said finally. "Such naughty language."
I just blinked at him.
"The thing is," he said, as if we'd just had a long conversation about the weather. "I saw you from outside when I was lookin' at my tire, 'cause that thing's pretty fucked up, but let's not go there."
I'm pretty sure I was glaring at him, but he continued talking.
"I though to myself, all of a sudden, that we totally had something in common. Like something big was gonna happen," He said. "To both of us, not just you."
"You got all this," I said, "when you were staring at your tire?"
"You haven't seen that thing. Like I said, it's pretty screwed."
"No, but I'm pretty sure I can see this big-ass bruise you left on my knee," I said evenly.
"That was an accident," he said, lowering his voice and leaning in closer to me. "It was just one of those unfortunate results of my enthusiasm. I felt it knowing I was about to talk to you." He said, perking up.
I blinked at him again. Behind us, I could hear two guys mumbling.
"Go away," I told him. I could hear Jet's "Are You Gonna Be My Girl" playing faintly overhead.
"Y'know what?" he asked, pointing up at the speaker, which cracked a bit before blasting the song as full blast. "From now on, forever" --he pointed again--"this song will always remind me of you and you're insane beauty."
"Oh, God," I said, and right then, I was saved by Darrin, my coworker, yelling at me about my 5:30 appointment being cancelled.
I stood up, and the guy beside me lept to his feet. "Wait, I only want --"
"Darrin?" I called, ignoring him.
"Just take this," the guy said, grabbing my hand. He had turned it palm-up before I could even react, then proceeded to write a name and phone number.
"You are so wierd!" I said, jerking my hand back, which caused the pen from his hand to clatter onto the floor.
"Yo, Romeo!" someone yelled from outside, and there was a burst of laughter. "Come on dude, let's go!"
He glanced behind him, then back at me. "See ya soon," he said, and grinned at me. And okay, I had to admit that he had a very sweet smile. But he was still wierd.
"Whatever," I replied, but he was already leaving towards the salon door, where a large black car was parked nearby.
I looked down at my hand, where in black ink was scrawled 255-65somethingsomething, with one word beneath it. God, his handwriting was sloppy. A big A, a smear on the last letter. His name. Adam.
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