The Shadow Tax¶
Mrs. Higgins brings in Barnaby every six weeks like clockwork. Barnaby is a Standard Poodle the color of weak tea, and he hates me. He expresses this by vibrating against the table, a low, constant growl rumbling in his chest like a busted muffler. His shadow, cast by the high windows, does the same vibrating thing on the concrete floor, but Mrs. Higgins’s shadow doesn't. Hers sits perfectly still on the wall behind the reception desk, arms crossed, tapering into a sharp point at the feet.
"Just the usual, dear," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Summer cut. Keep the pom-poms."
"Usual is forty dollars," I say, wrestling Barnaby’s front paw into the clipper guard. "Summer cut with scissoring on the topknot is fifty-five. You know the price list changed in March."
She sighs, a long, theatrical exhale. "Right. The 'inflation adjustment.' Fifty-five it is. But hurry up. I have bridge at one."
I mute the clippers. "He’s matted behind the ears, Mrs. H. Badly. If I shave it close, it changes the profile."
She finally looks up. Her eyes are the same watery blue as her shadow’s. "The profile?"
"The silhouette. The outline he casts." I hold up a handful of matted curl. "Last time I took the ears down to the leather, your shadow lost its hat."
She blinks. "My shadow doesn't wear a hat."
"Did that Tuesday," I say. "You came in a wide brim. Straw. Barnaby left looking like a rat terrier, and your shadow on the wall—it was bareheaded. Just a smooth dome. Stayed that way for three days until his ear feathering grew back."
She sets her phone down. The screen shows a solitaire game, frozen mid-move. "That’s nonsense. Shadows don't have wardrobes."
"Yours does," I say. "And your shadow’s purse strap slips off the shoulder when I trim his flank. Left side only. Right side holds."
She stands up. Her shadow stands up on the wall, mimicking the creak in her knee. "You’re telling me a forty-dollar haircut dictates my outerwear?"
"Fifty-five," I correct. "And it’s not the cut. It’s the dog. Barnaby anchors you. Always has. Since the puppy cut in '09. You dropped ten pounds that winter; your shadow didn't budge until I shaved his winter coat off in April."
She stares at me. The air conditioner hums. Barnaby stops growling, panting hard, eyes rolling white.
"So," she says, voice flat. "If you do the summer cut. The full shave-down."
"Your shadow loses the coat," I say. "The heels. The handbag. It reverts to the default. Nightgown shape. Bare feet. The shape you cast when you got him."
"That was the year David died," she whispers.
"Yeah," I say. "I remember. You wore his bathrobe for a week. Your shadow wore it for three years."
She looks at the dog. At the clippers in my hand. At her shadow on the wall, which is currently adjusting the strap of a purse that isn't there.
"Leave the ears," she says. "Leave the flank feathering. Just... tidy the paws. Sanitary trim only."
"Twenty bucks," I say. "He’ll still be matted."
"Twenty bucks," she repeats. She picks up her phone. "And throw in a blue bandana. The one with the anchors."
"Six dollars extra."
"Put it on my tab."
She leaves before I can say the tab was closed by management last month. The door chimes. Her shadow detaches from the wall a split second late, sliding across the floor to catch up, still wearing the imaginary purse, still wearing the hat I never cut off.
Barnaby sighs, the vibration stopping. He licks my wrist.
"Good boy," I mutter, reaching for the thin guard comb. "We'll do the paws. But next time, lady, I'm shaving the ears. My rent went up."