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dbsk_flashficTitle: Over the Laundromat
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
twhitesakura
Wordcount: 700
Conrit? Yes
Rating: G
Summary: AU. Jaejoong, the barber, gets a new customer.
Shim Changmin walked into my life on the fifth of December, stomping puddle water off his caramel-colored Timberlands. He had the haggard look that dogged all the early generation idols -- a decade of lack of sleep can do that to a person; I should know, I used to be one. In the 2010s I was an indie rocker, hit it big with “Mine” in 2011 and then faded away from the spotlight. You can’t beat the big three and their boy and girl bands that sprout up like mushrooms after a storm. The sun comes out, and the groups die off one by one but the companies always have new seedlings germinating in neon-lit basements. Only the good ones get to debut and smell rainwater.
Changmin was lean, moved languidly like a runner after exercises. He didn’t bother to look at me and picked the last of the three barber’s chairs lined up by the wall of mirrors, a place where the lamplight doesn’t reach as well. I licked my lips and started cleaning up my tools.
“Just a trim in the back.”
He spoke softly and to the point, but his eyes watched me in the mirror as I moistened my scissors and came over with a sheet. It was freshly laundered from the Laundromat downstairs which dominated the block and brought me a sluggish pipeline of customers who kept my shop alive. I folded the cloth around Changmin, turned the edges down against his long neck so the fabric wouldn’t scratch, and got to work.
I did everything methodically although I had a scant two inches to trim away. I fine-combed more than once and began to cut. I could sense him relaxing; the spot where he was losing hair rolled away from me like an eight ball tipped by a cue. Silence, and then gradually the snoring built into a pleasant buzz. I removed the cloth, dusted it, swept his hair from the floor with an old-fashioned straw broom, washed my scissors, and dimmed the light. I leaned against the wall nearest to him, cushioned my head with the glossy poster of a suavely coiffed model, folded my arms, and waited.
He had slept for maybe five minutes when another man came into the shop. The man was as tall as Changmin and had a scar over his left eye. It must have been old because it was white, silvery, almost as if someone had dripped candle wax over it. He saw that Changmin was sleeping, then turned to me, bowed politely, and rose. I tried to approach him but he waved his hand in a shushing motion. He sat in the first of the three chairs, placed his elbows on his knees, and bent forward. He frequently glanced across the empty chair to Changmin and also at the antique analog clock that I had put up on a dresser where I stored homemade hair waxes I sometimes sold wholesale to customers.
At four, the man got up and straightened his coat. He walked over to Changmin.
“Wake up,” he wheedled and patted Changmin’s cheeks as if rousing a child. “Changmin. You’ve got Elle in half an hour.”
Changmin whined but his eyes did open and he did get up. He reached towards his jeans’ back pocket but suddenly aborted his move. The man I didn’t know the name of smiled and reached into his own coat and pulled out a black leather wallet. He smiled at me, friendly and open, and gave me a generous wad of won.
“Oh no,” I said and tried to push the money away. “This is too much.”
Changmin snorted and touched the back of his head.
“I’ll be back,” he massaged the recently bared skin, “for another trim and another nap. Come on, Yunho.”
They exited swiftly, Changmin almost haughtily, but the stranger with the scar turned back for a moment to grin at me. I was embarrassed at the gratitude in his gaze: for the service, for my silence, for not over-charging a celebrity when Changmin could afford it? I don’t know. But it wasn’t the last I’d see of them, and later, I became glad of it.
Author:
twhitesakuraWordcount: 700
Conrit? Yes
Rating: G
Summary: AU. Jaejoong, the barber, gets a new customer.
Shim Changmin walked into my life on the fifth of December, stomping puddle water off his caramel-colored Timberlands. He had the haggard look that dogged all the early generation idols -- a decade of lack of sleep can do that to a person; I should know, I used to be one. In the 2010s I was an indie rocker, hit it big with “Mine” in 2011 and then faded away from the spotlight. You can’t beat the big three and their boy and girl bands that sprout up like mushrooms after a storm. The sun comes out, and the groups die off one by one but the companies always have new seedlings germinating in neon-lit basements. Only the good ones get to debut and smell rainwater.
Changmin was lean, moved languidly like a runner after exercises. He didn’t bother to look at me and picked the last of the three barber’s chairs lined up by the wall of mirrors, a place where the lamplight doesn’t reach as well. I licked my lips and started cleaning up my tools.
“Just a trim in the back.”
He spoke softly and to the point, but his eyes watched me in the mirror as I moistened my scissors and came over with a sheet. It was freshly laundered from the Laundromat downstairs which dominated the block and brought me a sluggish pipeline of customers who kept my shop alive. I folded the cloth around Changmin, turned the edges down against his long neck so the fabric wouldn’t scratch, and got to work.
I did everything methodically although I had a scant two inches to trim away. I fine-combed more than once and began to cut. I could sense him relaxing; the spot where he was losing hair rolled away from me like an eight ball tipped by a cue. Silence, and then gradually the snoring built into a pleasant buzz. I removed the cloth, dusted it, swept his hair from the floor with an old-fashioned straw broom, washed my scissors, and dimmed the light. I leaned against the wall nearest to him, cushioned my head with the glossy poster of a suavely coiffed model, folded my arms, and waited.
He had slept for maybe five minutes when another man came into the shop. The man was as tall as Changmin and had a scar over his left eye. It must have been old because it was white, silvery, almost as if someone had dripped candle wax over it. He saw that Changmin was sleeping, then turned to me, bowed politely, and rose. I tried to approach him but he waved his hand in a shushing motion. He sat in the first of the three chairs, placed his elbows on his knees, and bent forward. He frequently glanced across the empty chair to Changmin and also at the antique analog clock that I had put up on a dresser where I stored homemade hair waxes I sometimes sold wholesale to customers.
At four, the man got up and straightened his coat. He walked over to Changmin.
“Wake up,” he wheedled and patted Changmin’s cheeks as if rousing a child. “Changmin. You’ve got Elle in half an hour.”
Changmin whined but his eyes did open and he did get up. He reached towards his jeans’ back pocket but suddenly aborted his move. The man I didn’t know the name of smiled and reached into his own coat and pulled out a black leather wallet. He smiled at me, friendly and open, and gave me a generous wad of won.
“Oh no,” I said and tried to push the money away. “This is too much.”
Changmin snorted and touched the back of his head.
“I’ll be back,” he massaged the recently bared skin, “for another trim and another nap. Come on, Yunho.”
They exited swiftly, Changmin almost haughtily, but the stranger with the scar turned back for a moment to grin at me. I was embarrassed at the gratitude in his gaze: for the service, for my silence, for not over-charging a celebrity when Changmin could afford it? I don’t know. But it wasn’t the last I’d see of them, and later, I became glad of it.
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