Relax. Recharge. Read!

3/26/2026

“The hair has to go,” Philippe, Mr. Kensington’s personal stylist, said.
“And it’s much too dark. He doesn’t fill out a suit the same way Mr. Kensington does, that’s for sure,” added Gwendolyn. Audrey called her the mistress of the wardrobe. Colt had no idea if that was a real thing or simply Audrey’s description of what Gwendolyn did. She’d warned Colt never to use the shortened version of her name—Gwen—however.

The two of them talked as if Colt were in some fancy salon, rather than in Mr. Kensington’s house. He wondered if it was customary for rich people to have rooms of their homes devoted to their wardrobes and hairstyles. This room was beside an office and had ample space for a barber chair, television, and a wide stool and armchairs. A second room across the hall had dressers, changing screens, a free-standing clothes rack, three-paneled mirror, and more armchairs.

“You would notice that.” Philippe pulled up a chunk of Colt’s hair and let it fall from his fingers slowly.

Gwendolyn snorted. “As if you didn’t.” She poked at Colt’s shoulder. “Stand straight.” She was a little taller than the average woman, with a very full figure and a bright, sunny smile. Colt judged her to be about his age, maybe a few years older. Everything about her matched. He could tell right away she was one of those people with such inner beauty it radiated outward, and she would have looked glamorous in a burlap sack.

“His coloring is all wrong for light hair,” Philippe mumbled.

Colt grabbed his hair and pulled it to the side. “Why does my hair have to go?”

Up until now, Mr. Kensington had been standing quietly to the side. He barked a short laugh but didn’t add any of his own thoughts. Colt had a moment of fright. Maybe Mr. Kensington had changed his mind about Colt or thought a street kid wasn’t the right type. Colt tried to quiet his mind and settle his nerves.

“Not all of it, of course.” Philippe yanked Colt’s hair from his hands and fanned it out again. “But this is not Mr. Kensington’s style at all.”
Colt looked at Audrey, hoping for some help. “I thought the point was a younger, hipper style for the distillery.” He inched away from Philippe. “I don’t have to look like a duplicate of him.”

Gwendolyn held different color swatches of what Colt hoped was fake hair against Colt’s face. She and Philippe were arguing—and getting louder—about how best to cut Colt’s hair.

“Couldn’t I just wear it like this?” Colt pulled his hair back and wound it around itself into a bun.

“The man bun is fine for some sweaty athlete or common model, not for Mr. Kensington’s public representative,” Philippe declared.

“I thought you enjoyed the look since you have an entire Pinterest board devoted to those men,” Gwendolyn teased.

Philippe snorted. “We won’t discuss what your Pinterest boards are.”
“Those are purely for professional references.”

“Uh-huh,” Philippe muttered.

Colt wondered if their rivalry was more of a friendly thing than first appearances led others to believe.

Audrey was leaning against the back of an armchair, flipping through a magazine. “What about a style like this?” She held the magazine up for them to see.

All of them looked first at the magazine, then Colt, then repeated the process.

“May I see?” Mr. Kensington asked. Audrey handed over the periodical, and Mr. Kensington spent another minute or two flipping through the pages. Every few seconds he’d stop, hold the magazine up, and focus on Colt before continuing. It wasn’t long before Mr. Kensington’s gaze met Colt’s. Offering a small, shy smile, Colt ducked his head after a few beats and bit his lip as he felt his cheeks warm.

The voices around Colt dulled. He mentally gave himself a shake, but the kindness and what he could only describe as kinship he’d seen a glimpse of in Mr. Kensington’s eyes settled and warmed him. A brief slip of time where it seemed to be just the two of them in the room. Colt never really believed in that sort of thing. It happened in books and movies, not real life, so he dismissed it as his imagination and maybe a bit of being overwhelmed at the moment. Nevertheless he returned the smile and was rewarded with one slight nod Colt had the distinct feeling was assurance and approval.

“I like this one.” Mr. Kensington held the magazine out to Colt. “I think it would look nice on you.” He shrugged and winked at Colt. “It’s hair. If you don’t like it, it’ll grow back. You’re not stuck with it forever.” His voice was soft and steady, giving the impression he didn’t regret his decision to hire Colt.

Philippe swooped in, snatched the magazine, and held it beside Colt’s head. “He’s got lovely high cheekbones and facial features.” Nodding, he moved from one side to the other. “Yes, yes, this is a very nice style.”
“Can I—” Colt reached for the magazine, but Gwendolyn yanked it away.
“It’s still too long,” Gwendolyn said.

“Gwen,” Mr. Kensington said softly and held out his hand. Gwendolyn rolled her eyes and turned the magazine over. He stepped beside Colt, put one hand between his shoulder blades, and leaned over his other shoulder. “I think it’s a very nice cut. You’ve got thick hair with just enough of a wave that this will look nice on you.” Holding the magazine in his free hand, Mr. Kensington showed Colt the picture.

“It’s very chic,” Audrey added.

“And looks nothing like Mr. Kensington,” Gwendolyn protested.

“Gwen, it doesn’t matter. He’s to represent me in public, not take over my identity.”

Colt looked up at Mr. Kensington and smiled when he winked at Colt. “If I don’t like it, I can grow it out and try another style?”

“Of course,” Mr. Kensington said.

“I bet you’ve had your hair the same way for fifteen years,” Audrey said. “Good for you, Colt, for trying something new.”

Mr. Kensington patted Colt’s shoulder before he nodded at Philippe and moved away. “Work your magic.”

Philippe unfolded a large tarp and let it flutter to the floor before motioning between Colt and the barber chair. “Have a seat.”

Once Colt was settled, Phillipe swung a large plastic cape around Colt’s chest and shoulders and tied it at the back of his neck. Philippe took what looked like a fishing-tackle box and a small folding table from the closet. He set the table up beside Colt and arranged the contents of the box across it. As Colt watched his hair fall to the tarp, he realized this was something that probably went on regularly in this room. Colt hadn’t seen the inside of a cheap barbershop in years, let alone been treated like this. He felt like royalty.

When Colt was trying to convince them he was the perfect choice, it all seemed like a great idea. However, he’d never been around this much wealth, and except for what he’d picked up these past weeks since he’d been here, he knew very little about the production of spirits.

Maybe he was out of his league.