Bobbi slid her black and white patrol car to a stop in front of Hagey’s House of Hair.  She knew that taking the empty parking spot might discourage walk-ins but what could she do? She needed a haircut and the side lot was full.

Annie, her favorite stylist, smiled when she saw Bobbi push on the glass door and enter the little shop. Beams of sunlight poured through the floor to ceiling front window, even shining through the posters taped on the glass. The soccer team fundraiser, the beef and beer for an injured neighbor, the bingo at the senior center: Annie said yes to them all. She had a hefty mortgage on the shop, but it was hers, and she was proud of it. Pink and gold wallpaper, white track lighting above the mirrors at the six workstations, pink ceramic sinks, Annie had chosen them all when she took over from the previous owner five years ago. A whole new look, and a whole new start, Bobbi knew, after her divorce. Annie was not shy about sharing her story, and her customers loved her. She was a kind and generous boss, and the other two stylists, though she could only give them part-time hours, loved working here.   

Bobbi had come to know these things over the year she’d been coming here for haircuts. Though she was a short and muscular cop, Bobbi felt comfortable amid the feminine décor, and the local women chatting around her. Two of them wiggled their fingers at Bobbi then returned to reading magazines, their foil-wrapped heads under bullet-shaped dryer hoods. A young woman smiled at Bobbi as she swept hair from the floor into a dustpan. 

Annie waved the scissors in her hand toward the washing section of the shop. Her other arm was wrapped in a thick gauze bandage from elbow to shoulder.

“Take a seat at the sink, there. I’ll be with you in a sec,” she said.

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do,” Bobbi answered. She strode to the shampoo chair and lowered her body into it with a sigh. Bobbi had a woman’s figure but you wouldn’t call her slender. That would be Annie, an ash blond with soft tendrils of hair framing her heart-shaped face. “Boy, do I need a haircut,” she said.

“Yes, you do, my friend. Same style as always?” Annie spoke while brushing loose hairs from the neck of her customer and handing her a mirror.

Bobbi chuckled. “You know me well.”  Her gaze swept over the mirrors and larger than life photos of glamorous-looking young women on the wall across from where she sat. Models, she reminded herself. No one walks out of here looking that good, and I’m fine with that.

Annie swept the black plastic cape from around her customer’s shoulders. “All set, Mrs. Supsic. Candy will take that over at the register.”  She arched her lower back and massaged it with both hands. Then she walked over to Bobbi’s chair.

“Busy today?” Bobbi said. Then “I know…” and both women laughed as they said in unison, “Busy every day!” Bobbi lowered her head back over the edge of the sink. She enjoyed the shampoo, the vigorous way Annie shampooed her head and rinsed it with warm water, soothing and relaxing. She felt her shoulders release inside her black uniform shirt.  The hum of the hairdryers and the low buzz of traffic outside lulled Bobbi into a moment of peace. For this bit of time, her lunch break, she could let her guard down. She was technically off duty.

“Guess I won’t get robbed today,” Annie joked.  “Not with that cruiser parked out front.”

“Not while I’m gettin’ my haircut, anyway,” laughed Bobbi.

“And I guess the rest of the neighborhood’s safe.  You’d answer a call even if your hair was wringing wet, wouldn’t you?”

“Chief Haber doesn’t take kindly to excuses,” Bobbi said, “especially from his only female officer. And wet hair is no excuse when duty calls.”

“Well, let’s finish you up, just the same, and you can be on your way, protecting Plum Grove from crime and corruption.”

“Do my best on the crime, don’t know about corruption.” 

Both women laughed. The other two customers and their stylists smiled into the mirrors on the wall. It felt good here, Bobbi thought, among only women and safe; a woman’s place.

Annie threw a cape around Bobbi’s shoulders and snapped the Velcro snug around her neck. After running a long comb through the officer’s short hair, she picked up her scissors.

“You do pretty well with that arm,” Bobbi said. “What happened?”

“Yeah, the one-armed hairstylist, that’s me.”  Annie dropped her eyes from the image in the mirror.  She took a second to lightly touch her left arm where the bandage was, wrapped around it just above the elbow.  Then she gave the answer, the practiced answer. “Bumped into the door jamb when I was closing up last night.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Gave myself quite a whack.”

Later that day, Bobbi cruised by the shop, though it was not on her regular route. She would have been hard pressed to say why, only that she had to do it, had to satisfy that odd feeling things were not quite right. A cop with women’s intuition, she laughed to herself, better not let that get out.   

Over the next couple of weeks, she dropped by the House of Hair to just say hi, checking in with the pet shop next door and the couple who made custom blinds upstairs to make it look official.  Nothing wrong with that, she thought, just being the “friendly police presence” the Chief talks about so much.

When she was ready for her next haircut, Bobbi walked into the shop and noticed a long scar on Annie’s arm where the bandage had been.  Annie tossed her head, as if to show she was fine, but her hair fell back to reveal ugly purple marks on her neck.  Bobbi stood just inside the door, her boots planted wide.  She recognized these marks.  She had seen them before, on other women whose husbands or boyfriends had put their hands there and squeezed hard.

“Annie, oh Annie.” Bobbi sighed. 

“What?” Annie muttered.  When her eyes met Bobbi’s they filled with tears. “What, you’ve never seen a bruise before?  I fell, okay?”

“Annie, stop.  You didn’t fall on both sides of your neck and leave fingerprints.”

“It’s my private business.  I don’t interfere in your life, do I?”

“You don’t deserve this, Annie, no woman does.  Let me call it in.  He can be arrested for doing this to you.”

“Get out. Just get out.” Annie turned away and strode toward the back of the shop, pushing aside the pink drape that led to the storeroom.    

Bobbi left, slamming the cruiser’s door as she got in and drove out of the parking lot. She had to report this. The evidence was on Annie’s neck. But what if it didn’t stop him? What if it made him madder, and he hurt Annie even worse? She drove around for a while until her heart rate felt like normal. She finished her shift without incident, though she almost hoped for something to happen, to justify her lack of action on Annie’s case. 

April turned to May, prom season. On Saturday morning, a shy sixteen year old walked into the shop.  “I have an appointment for my prom do,” she whispered to Candy at the front desk. Even though the day was warm, her arms were covered in long sleeves. Her hair fell over her face but not far enough to cover the purple splotch below her right eye.

When Annie saw her she felt her stomach drop. She ran to the bathroom and retched into the sink, dry heaves of spit and bile.  Holding onto the sink, she took a few deep breaths and saw her face in the mirror. Horrified, she looked down, splashed water on her face and hands, and turned to the towel dispenser. The paper stuck as she pulled on it, tore into shreds she used to mop her face, then tossed into the basket. She pushed open the door and walked back out into the shop.

“Okay, how shall we do your hair for the prom?” she said, feeling tender as she washed the girl’s hair, massaging her scalp.  A flash of memory took Annie back to high school, the boyfriend who hit her in the face. She could not remember why.  Why he hit her, why she went out with him.  Why she kept dating him until another girl hit on him and he ditched Annie.  Today, she remembered how free she had felt when he was gone.

Annie cut the teenager’s hair and styled it to fall across her face, and recommended makeup to cover the bruise over her right cheekbone.  She showed the girl how to apply it to her pretty young face.

“It’s not your fault, you know, whoever hit you,” she said.

“I know,” the girl answered, shocking Annie into silence. She remained quiet while the girl gave Annie a small shy smile.

She watched out the front window as the girl walked to her car and drove away alone. The shop was empty now, the other stylists long gone. Annie sat down at the counter and picked up the phone. Her hands trembled. She had to concentrate hard to push down the three numbers.

“911, what is your emergency?”  Annie’s body was so heavy, and her mouth so dry. “911, what is your emergency!” She had to place the receiver back in the cradle but her fingers didn’t work and it fell to the countertop. “911! What is your location, please?”

Emergency? Annie’s mind went blank. Location? Not here. Not her business, their livelihood.  What if they could trace her call? Mark said he was sorry. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. She had to do something to stop this now. She had to turn things around before …

She picked up the receiver and held it to her mouth. Her voice came out in a high squeak, but it came out of her, thank God. She could stop this.   

“Sorry, my mistake.”