One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. The steps he took echo in sets of four inside his head. Sometimes he would count them quietly to himself. “Did I wash my hands? Yes.” he thought and repeated it three more times. As he walked down the street, light reflected off the zipper of his backpack, which had an identification tag on it. It read, Elliot Sonoma Designs, and on the back of the worn card was a phone number containing four number fours. Still new to life at the ripe age of 24, Elliot was established and had a reliable career ahead of him. Having been recently diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, most of Elliot's early life problems had been rationalized. He struggled particularly with numbers and repetition of sets of four.
One. Two. Three. Four. Elliot was walking to work at the same time he always did, 9:24 a.m. He walked the same four block radius regardless if he had an appointment or not. Today, Elliot wore a pair of washed up jeans given to him by an ex-girlfriend who tired of him within the first three months of their blossoming relationship due to his nightly trips to see if the door was locked. The other relationships he had were lost because of his impulse to flip the lights on and off and knock on his wood bed frame in sets of 4 for 32 repetitions. Elliot spoke aloud to no one, “My keys are in my left back pocket. My keys are in…”.There was a rip in the back left pants pocket that Elliot sometimes stuck his thumb into, thanks to a neighbors wild dog who thought it was a chew toy. The tee shirt he had on he found as he counted the hanging shirts, color coded, in his closet. It was grey with some quote about blood donation; he had kept it since the 12th grade after he had wandered into the school gym to give blood. He ended up making the volunteer withdraw his blood for a fourth time because he believed none of the rest were appropriate. His hair had almost always come just below his shoulders and if it caught the light right it would seem dirty blonde. It was unkempt and curly, and normally rested behind his ears.
He waited on the last block for the light to change. Tap, tap, tap, tap. He was anxious to get to his work where he played with hair for a living. Contrary to his appearance, Elliot found solace in working with others, primarily hair. The way his fingers could fumble in the same motion for the exact number he thought was perfect; this pleased him. It was his own way that he learned to cope with the disorder even before diagnosed.
A woman appeared farther down the block, and her eye brows raised in attention when Elliot came into her line of vision. She lifted her arm as if she recognized him from her past. Her arm became stationary mid raise and lowered when she realized she and Elliot had made eye contact. Elliot was counting his steps at the time their eyes met and his mind immediately rushed as to where he knew the woman from. Her face showed age with wrinkles on her forehead, laugh lines framing her mouth, and crows feet stamped next to her eyes. Her eyes, even from a distance, shimmered with familiarity. On the outer rim they glittered with the color of clouds and towards the center the clouds turned into a storm with flecks of lightning growing out of the dark center; the pupil. Her lashes were medium length and a dark chocolatey brown and visible from ten feet away. Her lips formed a simple pursed shape at the top and puckered at the bottom. They were a deep rich red, which Elliot assumed was her lipstick.
He also assumed she wanted a new dye job since her gray roots were almost past her eyebrows, which were three shades too dark, harsh straight lines, and made her look confused. Her face had several layers of makeup pilled on it and her outfit, which in the right light, might have taken a few years off her appearance, resembled a jogging suit. The funny thing was, Elliot believed that the hardest form of exercise the woman ever did was go on the occasional shopping spree and if she was lucky started to sweat on her fifth trip up the escalators. And at this point Elliot and the woman were within five feet from one another.
“Hello?” she said tenderly. Elliot kept walking. “Please, I need your help” she paused, “My hair, um, I saw you look at it.”
Elliot turned, “Yes” he said, and repeated it. “I don’t take walk ins, if you need an appointment please talk to the front desk”. He continued a few doors down to the salon.
The woman stood in front of an empty building, and now it had started to rain. Elliot looked back between the rain and the woman’s stormy eyes; he was unsure whether she had started to cry with the rain. He motioned for her to follow.
As Elliot washed his hands four times in preparation, the woman sat with her hair damp in the rotating chair as an assistant put a black cap around her slender, frail neck. Elliot began and looked at the woman’s reflection in the mirror. Her eyes had changed, although still familiar, the storm had softened and they appeared cloudy and clogged. Elliot shivered.
The two had shared a small amount of talk consisting of how each one of them liked the city and what their favorite crime drama was. Elliot combed through one piece of her hair, one, two, three, four. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. As Elliot cut, the woman gave up trying to talk and studied him. She watched his tapping and his cutting and his combing. She counted each one. He sprayed her hair to dampen it once more, one two… The woman shed a tear. And another. Soon they were all down her face silently falling to her cape. Elliot saw one fall from behind her layer of framing around her face, and he peered at the mirror slightly afraid. He was perplexed as for her sudden emotion. Their eyes touched, and he nodded toward her hair, she shook her head no.
Her eyes had lightened, they were brighter, like a summers day, but a sad summers day with a little rain. Elliot finished trimming the dead fair ends. He went and got some bleach from the counter over and started to apply it to the rainbow of grays. She sat in the heated chair for a little too long, but Elliot knew her hair was already dead so it wouldn’t hurt too much. He was about to turn on the blow dryer once more when she interrupted.
“Do you have any family?” she asked. He thought like the question was hard and answered, “ I have a father, but he died. I have a mother, but I never met her. My father, Paul, I called him Paul because he never acted like my dad, he said she used to wear flowers in her golden hair”. Elliot grew nervous and thought “Are my keys in my pocket? Yes. Are my keys…”
The woman saw Elliot struggling so she answered a question she wasn’t even asked, “I have two daughters, an ex-husband, and a son.” She paused, “He’s about your age”.
He looked at her reflection when she said the word son. He stared at her familiar eyes, they were stormy again, and clouded by tears, with lightening flecks everywhere. Elliot looked to his own reflection and peered at his own eyes and saw the same storm. It clicked, clicked, clicked, clicked. Elliot’s eyes grew wide, and brows lifted. The woman saw and spoke.
“I’m your mother. Elliot?” Elliot said nothing, felt nothing.
He finished with the last of her hair, and said nothing. He handed her the bill, but quickly retracted it and said, “ It’s on the house”. She spoke softly, “Thank you.” He turned away to file  her record. Elliot’s mother began to leave. But one last thought crossed her mind.
She called, “ Elliot?” He looked. Her voice shook, with a sweet sincerity, “Elliot,” she paused, “You are what you love, not who loves you.” On that train of thought she opened the jingling door, shaking, and teary eyed over a son who didn’t yet know why she felt the way she did. And Elliot stood consuming the moment, the dialogue, the thought, and he galloped over to the door like a young boy watching his mother down the block. As she grew smaller with the distance between the two, her newly colored hair was hit was a bright ray of sun, which reflected a golden hue as Elliot closed his eyes, and he pictured the mother, his mother, the one his father described with flowers in her hair as she disappeared into the mono tonal cement ahead with her shadow behind.