Mr O Hair Novels & Stories

They wiggled their fingers at me. “Maja Porter,” the spikey haired person said. “She or they if you will. I’m a MUA and hair artist.” “MUA?” I repeated. “Hair artist?” Maja snorted. “Well I can’t say hair dresser,” they said. “My work is far superior to that.” “Zora?” I heard behind me, all grumbly and full of sleep. I turned and saw Loren had finally gotten out of bed. “Oh, sorry,” I said and propped the door open a little bit more. “My, um, hair and make up people are here.”

He’s not confident to be with his silly nephew. “I bet that toddler has no class because I saw him with auntie at the office earlier this morning.” Paul puts the last clean plate on the side rack. He turns around and noticing his worried face. His husband’s hair roots are starting to have visible reddish hair strands. “Why don’t you wear your red hair again? Last time I saw you flexing it was … the birthday of Lord Luke,” he says making him feel little. The CEO was never been confident from wearing his red hair.

He read the name written in bold out loud in question. Opening a new tab, he put his research skills to work. There were too many profiles that popped up under the name but one look at the brief information sent alongside their new mission, it was easy to find their next target. An old man who was in his late seventies popped up and Rod was not all too surprised about that.

He then moved his arms in a mocking, robotic way and made his voice deep and stiff - “you - must - keep - your - hair - high - and - tight, - boys!” Cole fell onto his bed laughing, his own hair a tangle of dirty blonde curls that always stuck out in odd angles. “I think he gave up on me as far as hair was concerned in - what - the third grade? But you - I think he got to you, brother.” It was true. Garrett’s hair was known for being perfect, along with the rest of his appearance. Not a hair out of place, his perfect jaw never hidden behind so much as a layer of stubble.

I had almost thought he would no longer be able to attend, but better late than never—I guess. The doors swung open, and I furrowed my eyes in confusion when I realized that the man who had stepped in was not Rosa. Sure, they had similar builds and similar hair color, but this man was sporting a full head of wavy brown hair. And considering the fact that I had met with Dean Rosa earlier this week, and he had been sporting a crew cut then, there was no way his hair had grown this long in just a matter of days. Nevertheless, I filed this information in the back of my mind and turned to Adriana, who was still latching on to my right arm.

I didn’t want to see it, I would be stronger this time around. Rather than watching the screen intensely, he first looked at my barely-there bump when Doctor Ward applied the cold gel. Robert’s hair was messier than usual, it was normally slicked back. Today however, several strands were poking out and heading into different directions. He must have pulled his hand through it one too many times.

I spent about three months with Gruvv, but I never really understood how he worked. He headed out in a nice suit, like the one George wore, and he left with his hair all combed and sleek, using gel. But when he came home, his hair was a bit tousled. When I asked him about it, he just said, "Uh, my job, it's exhausting. Sometimes, I ruffle my hair without even thinking about it." He responded with a slight chuckle. "Mr. Shiloh, are you all right?" A maid came up to me.

They ignore Joanne's cheerful greeting and rush headfirst for the grocery aisle. I feel my eyes could be deceiving me so I walk to the side a bit, my attention no longer on my phone but now on the guy angrily stomping his way past food and grabbing enough steak to make up a whole horse. It's him all right. It's the guy from Helion Finance. The one who made a comment about my hair the day of the interview. All at once, I become hyperaware of my hair again, the redness and how it’s not under the store cap Mr. Wood always shouted at me to wear.

Mark added as we began the long drive back to Otterville Falls. “Are you kidding me?” I knew he was just saying that to get my goat. But I couldn’t help but remember the strange man’s office. “He had three inches of dark roots!” Mark grinned at me. “Maybe he’s looking for a new stylist.? They can be hard to find, a lot like an OB-GYN.” I snorted. “His hair was shoulder length, half of it was bleach blonde and the other half almost black. He had a life size cut out of his son who was in college and he sang while he walked.”

The uniformed chauffeur, his face etched with professionalism, escorted me down the pier towards a magnificent cabin cruiser, its polished hull gleaming under the afternoon sun. Awaiting me on the deck was the enigmatic Mr. Anderson. His attire was relaxed and informal—a pair of vibrant blue shorts and dark sunglasses shielded his eyes from the sun's glare. His body was a testament to countless hours spent under the sun, a deep, all-over tan that contrasted sharply with the thick mane of grey hair that adorned his chest. This sight stirred an undeniable attraction within me, a testament to my inexplicable fondness for men with such abundant hair.