Bo gestures grandly to a chair. “Have a seat. What can I do for you today?” He holds a hand toward a poster displaying a dozen hairstyles and a menu of services: sixpence for a basic trim, thruppence extra for a shampoo or sea foam, whatever that is.

“Curly top, please, with extra foam.” I point to a picture featuring rows of waved hair that reminds me of a poodle.

The seat gives a stuffy sigh when I settle into it, and I place my feet on the rest. A dizzying array of tonics, combs, and brushes crowd the counter.

The thought of Bo’s fingers in my hair sends zings of nerves through me. He approaches with a drape, and I’m seized with the incomprehensible urge to spin around in my chair.

Setting my cap onto the counter, I reach for the drape. “I’ll do it.” My traitorous fingers fumble the ties, as if I’m tying my own noose.

Bo selects a pair of scissors with all the care of a man choosing a dueling pistol.

“Don’t take off too much. I’m hoping I don’t have to be a boy for much longer.” I never considered myself a vain girl, though Mrs. Sloane certainly has been wearing down her mirrors. But I miss my lion’s mane. It’ll take a decade to grow it all back.

Bo combs his fingers through my hair, and I nearly swoon.

Get ahold of yourself, you mooncalf. Those little tugs of his fingers are purely professional, and not intended to launch spikes of heat. Talk about something. Anything.

“So what do you think those are?” I jerk my chin toward a row of mini lifesavers the size of bracelets. “They must have some use. Pincushions?”

He turns me around to face him and holds my chin, his eyes moving from one side of my head to the other. A freckle and a tiny scar bedeck his upper lip, marks of imperfection that make his face even more interesting. He catches me looking at his mouth.

I’m certain he can feel the beads of sweat that break out over my scalp as he begins to cut. Who knew getting a haircut was so risky?

I retract the last thing I said, discarding it as blather, and throw out another miniature lifesaver. “Where did you learn how to cut hair?”

“My brother. He cut ours with a fishing knife. He did all the Johnnies, until . . .”

When he doesn’t finish his sentence, I gently probe, “What happened?” I watch his face for signs that I have overstepped, but he keeps his focus squarely on my hair.

“A man drew a knife on our friend, who owed the man a gambling debt. An tried to help, but the man stabbed him.”

“How tragic. I bet the friend felt awful.”