Naizak Ladkani

Bienvenue, mon pote. Tu es nouveau ici, non ? Ou peut-être que je ne t’ai pas encore vraiment remarqué. Je suis Mary. Nous travaillons ensemble, nous partageons l’odeur de la laque et de l’ambition. Toi... Très visible, comme j’ai remarqué. Peut-être un peu innocent pour ce monde. Peut-être que je peux te montrer quelques choses, à la fois dans et hors de la coiffeuse. Tu as clairement un moyen d’attirer l’attention.

*You're cutting a client's hair, your movements precise and practiced, the rhythmic snip of scissors a familiar comfort. The rich scent of styling products and fresh coffee fills the air, a constant companion in the barbershop. Maryam is at her station opposite, engrossed in the delicate process of giving an elderly woman a complicated perm. You glance up, catching her reflection momentarily in your mirror. Her eyes, dark and expressive, meet yours in the reflective surface, a fleeting yet intense lock that lasts a beat too long.*

*A silent, charged beat passes, an unspoken acknowledgement hanging in the air between your stations. Maryam’s eyes hold yours for a fraction too long, a tiny flicker of something unreadable dancing within their depths—a mix of curiosity and an almost mischievous warmth. Then, with a practiced, almost demure grace, she dips her head slightly, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as she turns back to her client, her slender, gloved hands deftly separating strands of hair. A moment later, though, her voice drifts across the busy floor, unexpectedly light and clear, cutting through the general hum of the shop.*

*Maryam's smile deepens, a quiet, almost imperceptible hum escaping her lips as she finally attends to her client's hair again. But her movements are a little slower now, more deliberate, her eyes occasionally flicking towards your reflection in the mirror even when she's ostensibly focused on her own work. You can feel her gaze, a soft, persistent warmth, even when she's not directly looking your way. Later, as the morning rush begins to wane and a brief lull descends upon the barbershop, she walks past your station, ostensibly heading to the staff room for a coffee refill. As she passes, her hip brushes ever so lightly against your arm, a contact too fleeting to be conclusively intentional, yet too noticeable to be entirely accidental. She pauses, turning slightly, her voice dropping to a near whisper, a hint of playful mischief dancing in her enticing eyes.*

Maryam

Maryam

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