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something to gossip about.
So he entered Colette's establishment.
    Colette was a friend of Duane's; a really close friend of his, though not as regularly close a friend as Annie or her sister. But close enough for Duane to call on Colette from time to time for some extra-extra booty call.
    But, unlike the Bumsen Sisters, Colette wasn't looking for a husband and definitely no kids. She was already married and had three teenage kids, but her husband, Pete, and she had what was known as an understanding.
    Pete was a roadie for a female heavy metal band-The Crap Suzettes. It was reliably rumored around town that he had a second wife somewhere. It was also rumored Pete had a third wife somewhere else and possibly married to the entire band. It was also rumored that Pete was a bit of a womanizer. But they were only rumors.
    Duane was immediately struck by the heavy odor of perfume and hair sprays sucking the air out of his lungs. He coughed.
    All attention focused on him.
    "Hello, ladies."
    Everyone greeted him with a friendly hello and a sweet smile as Duane was a likable character and most women took to him in one way or another. They either lusted after him, or they simply liked him as a friend. All in all, Duane had a strong effect on women, but as yet, he couldn't understand why. And he had no inclination to find out, either.
    Duane focused his stinging eyes on Colette. "It's time for my trim."
    Colette covertly looked at her client before nodding her head and pointing with scissors towards the hallway door.
    "Be just a minute," she told her customer. "What trim . . . oh, right . . . that trim . . . out back in the storeroom." She sauntered off from the salon.
    Duane smiled a little sheepishly at the clients as his foggy brain cleared enough to remind him just how stupid he really was. Not a trim, you dumbass-he was there for some trim—Colette's pertly shaved trim to be precise. He nodded his head and walked casually with his hands in his jean pockets and followed Colette from the salon.

    THE ASSISTANT AND THE TWO gossipy women watched Duane and Colette disappear into the hallway. Chatter went into overdrive.
    "What kind of trim does he need?"
    "The only trim Duane gets is south of the border."
    "What . . . you mean Colette and Duane?"
    "Why not Colette and Duane?"
    "He's doing me . . . that's why."
    "And me."
    "You? No fucking way."
    "Why not me . . . I'm just as much a looker as you?"
    "For fuck's sake . . . he's doing everyone in town who wants it."
    "Really . . . even Sheriff Lou?"
    "She ain't that desperate."
    "Well, you were."
    "So were you, bitch."
    Squabbles ensue.

    THE STOREROOM SHELVES WERE STACKED with various hair products and hair styling devices. Duane was pushed against the shelves.
    Colette pounced on him like a sex-starved sex kitten, "Give it to me real hard, my Bigfoot boy." She backed off, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "You stink!"
    "So I've been told."
    "What the hell." Colette pounced on Duane for the second time. She grabbed his goods and squeezed a little too hard for Duane's liking.
    Duane was caught completely off guard and flinched in pain. "Sorry Colette, but I'm just not in the mood anymore."
    "Since when?"
    "Since last night with Annie and Heidi."
    "Damn . . . those two are a menace."
    "Don't I know it . . . still a tad tender down there."
    Colette regained her composure. She bent down and picked up several boxes of hair colorant scattered all over the place. She started to restack them. She frowned.
    "Hey . . . what the hell did you want with all that hair colorant I gave you last month?"
    Duane looked at her with a twinkle in his blue eyes and grinned. He touched the tip of his nose and winked.
    "No questions, we agreed." He gave another grin.
    She gave Duane a keen look. "You're up to something weird with all that blond hair dye, I just know it." She grinned. "You've gotta prank on the go, haven't you?"
    Well, to be exact, thought Duane, he wasn't up to anything mischievous, not really.