Permanent perfume was like oxygen to me now. A pungent mix of ammonia and chemicals, tempered by the sweet scents of conditioners. I was the apprentice, the boy who took care of the curlers, the first blow-drys, the bangs that always seemed to want to escape. Then she arrived.

Mrs. Rossi wasn't just any customer. She was the quintessential "coming-of-age woman" the magazines in the waiting room told me about. Auburn hair with a few strands of silver glimmering through it, a slow, deliberate way of moving, and those thin-framed glasses that gave her an air of intellectual yet incredibly sensual. Today, her request was an elaborate blow-dry and perfect bangs.

As I wound her damp hair around the curlers, I felt the heat radiating from the nape of her neck. My fingers moved with practiced precision, but my mind was elsewhere. Her scent—not just the scent of her products, but something more intimate, a blend of jasmine and skin—filled my nostrils. I was so close I could feel her light breathing, the rustle of her silk blouse as she moved.

Then it happened. One of her hands, as I adjusted the last curler on my temple, slipped from the shoulder of my apron and, with an almost imperceptible lightness, brushed my groin. It wasn't a fleeting touch, it was a lingering caress, as if she were assessing the fabric of my pants. A warm shiver ran down my spine, sending a heat wave up my face. My hands on her head trembled slightly, while my heart pounded wildly. Her scent was now intoxicating, almost like a thick mist enveloping me.

I tried to concentrate, to finish the job, but my mind was trapped by that sensation, that casual or perhaps not so casual touch. My blood pounded in my veins, a growing, uncontrollable excitement. I felt my body react, a tension building more and more, until it became unbearable. And it happened. A warm, unstoppable wave hit me. Abundantly. Too abundantly. My pants felt heavy, the wet, sticky sensation unmistakable.

She didn't move, but her eyes, reflected in the mirror, immediately went to my pants. The curve of her lips slowly deepened, turning into a mischievous smile and then into a soft, yet full, deep laugh, which shook her shoulders slightly. It wasn't a screen laugh, but one of amusement, of an awareness that made me feel both profoundly humiliated and, somehow, strangely desired.

Seized by a mixture of burning shame and an uncontrollable desire to disappear, or perhaps sink even deeper into that situation, I did the only thing that seemed possible at that moment. I lowered my head, burying my face in her hair, in its scented curlers, inhaling her scent, holding her gently. It was an instinctive gesture, a refuge, a surrender. She didn't resist, and for a moment, time stood still. The outside world disappeared, and there was only the two of us, the scent of the curlers, and the damp secret between my pants.