#c. twyla

Dealing with uptight celebrities wasn't unusual for Twyla, but every once and a while she'd get someone in the makeup and hair chair that was... particular, to be polite about it. Ah, who was Twyla kidding?—that rising actress was a total diva! Her attitude made everyone in the costume department uncomfortable to say the least. Such was Hollywood, however; there was nothing Twyla, or anyone else in the department, could do or say about it because they were simply "the little people."

Once the actress left the costuming trailer, Twyla exchanged a knowing look with her co-worker, friend, Ruby. She approached the redhead and, through gritted teeth, asked, "What the heck was that all about? She was so nice yesterday and now she was all like, 'My curls are all wrong. This outfit's so ugly.' Blah! I'm glad that's over."

This was the last thing she expected to happen during their fifth year anniversary celebration. It all happened so fast: One minute she was pulled away from David for a brief moment to head down to the underwater viewing deck by one of the captains himself (a special privilege not afforded by just anyone on the cruise ship) and the next, she was on all fours, face down in his intestines. And as she tore through and ravaged the captain's entrails she couldn't help but remember the fancy dinner she'd had with David last night, under the stars in the middle of the ocean, romantic violin playing in the background while she ate... spaghetti.

Suddenly the door burst open and she turned around, caught red-handed, literally. Mouth and hands drenched in blood as if she was a rabbit who'd just chewed through a whole strawberry farm in the summertime, she flashed a grin toward her husband—her loving husband, at least she liked to believe that—and pretended like everything was okay. Because, well, it all happened in such a blur that she was certain she was just hallucinating, and Captain Samuels was still alive and well beside her.

"Honey!" she sang, slapping Captain Samuels' big hat on her. "You made it just in time." There was a slight gargle as she choked, barely, on something fleshy in her throat. "Captain Samuels was just telling me how a family of dolphins likes to swim in this part'a the ocean. Isn't nature just amazin'?"

She loved every client who came in to her raggedy in-house haircut operation. Even the quiet ones.

Most commonly Twyla would get students or lesser-paid members of the on-set crew of whatever show or movie she was working on. Every now and then she'd get a movie star, but don't get ahead of yourself—it wasn't anyone crazy like a Streep or a Witherspoon or a Davis. They were mostly B-listers. She was still working on swaying the A-listers to come visit her straight-from-the-trailer-park-except-cleaner-but-still-cluttered apartment. But every now and then, Six—whom she affectionately dubbed "mystery man"—would come in and surprise her.

She never questioned how the man knew who she was or why he couldn't just go to your regular Cost Cutters or Great Clips. Maybe he'd just heard of her—was a stuntman friend of a friend of a friend's or something—and wanted to check her out. Well, it'd been a couple of haircuts with Six at this point, and if he didn't like her or the way she cut his hair, he would've said something by now, right?

Twyla had to stand on a stepstool to get her hands on Six's hair on account of not having one of those kick-chairs you could step on and watch your client bounce until they whooshed to your height. Once they were facing her big, thrift store mirror, she smiled at him in it. "So. You finally lettin' me give you that mohawk? How's about bleach blonde hair?"

Her usual jovial nature came to a halt, however. "Did you just wince? Where are you hurt?"

"Y'know," the blonde said, finishing up her Twix bar before tossing the wrapper in the garbage can on her way to the gentleman across the kitchen, "if you're gonna keep askin' me for haircuts, I'd better start charging you." Of course she wouldn't actually, but she just loved teasing him. She cracked a smile.

Honestly, Twyla didn't mind one bit that he always came to her to freshen up, even if it was during inopportune times (she'd just finished bartending at the cosplay club, hence her zany outfit and cotton candy hair). It allowed her to exercise those old haircutting muscles of hers, since her roots—ha! Get it?—were working in a salon after all, and these days she was getting more makeup and costume gigs than anything else. So she enjoyed their appointments together; it was almost tradition at this point.

"Or, at least 'nough to buy me a nice, fancy swivel chair to stick in the living room for you," she said, pulling out a folding chair from the hallway closet and placing it next to him. She also grabbed a basket of tools from the closet and set them on a nearby surface, now fully ready to give him a haircut.

"So, slick—is today finally the day I can give you that big, spiky mohawk we've been discussin'?"