Boomer kept quiet as he shampooed me, gathering my hair in great sopping snatches and making lathery spears with it. I closed my eyes and listened to the crackle of foam bubbles. He massaged my scalp, my temples; lulled me into drowsiness.

Raf wasn’t lulled. He chattered at the whispering woman, whom he called Barber-ah, and he wouldn’t let go of the tiny joke.

“You think I should get an earring, Barber-ah?”

“Wouldn’t know. Ask your wife.”

“You do pierce jobs, don’t you? Or am I too old for an earring?”

“Your wife might know,” the woman said.

Raf said, “Boomer, give my wife a back-to-school cut, O.K.? I’ll buy her a lunch pail and a little matching knapsack.”

“My students probably don’t want to be taught by someone who looks like their little brother,” I said.

“I hate doing kids,” said the whispering woman. “More than anything. You’re a teacher?”

“I’m on leave this year,” I said.

Raf said, “Do you ever take a leave, Barber-ah? Do a vacation?”

“I’m Lois. No. Hold still.”

“Aw, are we cranky? Do we need a sip of blood to feel better?” Raf said.

Behind me, Boomer sighed mightily.

“I know,” I said to him.

“You don’t shave, do you?” Raf asked Lois.

“No, we don’t do shaves. Not in this salon. It isn’t permitted to smoke in here, sir.”

“I know it,” Raf said. “I just want to make you angry so you give me a mean haircut, not a Houston haircut. You’re not from Houston, I hope.”

“I’m a native.”

“Tell you what I think of Houston . . .”

“Raf!” I said.

“I adore it,” he said.

“We’re happy to hear it. All Houstonians are relieved about that,” Lois said.

“I meant you don’t shave. Under your arms. I see up your sleeves you don’t.”

“Is he really named Raft or did he make it up?” Boomer asked me.

“Does it bother you, sir?” Lois was saying to Raf.

“Does Boomer want his butt pumped?” Raf said.

Lois balled up her hand towel and threw it. “I don’t have to take this,” she said.

“Then I don’t have to pay any forty fuckin’ dollars,” said Raf. He was standing now, with the body-length bib still tied around his neck, smoking and flicking ashes at Lois.

“Laws,” she said to him. “One phone call.”

It was a hundred and five degrees outside the salon. As we rushed for the car and its air conditioning, I said, “I don’t think you were being fair in there.”

“Nothing is no goddamned fair, Paige. You should’ve fucked Raymond.”

“And another thing,” he said as he was driving. “I don’t approve of us. Where are we going next, for example— the fuckin’ dry cleaners! Maybe afterwards we could do budget.”

He sped up, pressing pedal to the floor on a road called the Buffalo Speedway.