Making Frederick Jealous

by Puck and Zillah

Disclaimer: Not ours, just having fun.
Notes: This is a post-ep for Ways and Means which is going to become a series. We like to think of it as the "Where's Ainsley?" series. Even if she's not in the show, she's in our hearts. < g >

"Seriously, Sam, about your hair."

He looked up to see Ainsley dangling in the doorway of his office. Of course, she was took short to reach the top of the frame and had one hand on each side of the jam, high as she could reach.

"Do you think I've had time?"

"I could do it."

"Cut my hair?"

"Sure." She sauntered into the room. "I've helped CJ usurp the special prosecutor, set Donna up on a date." She flopped into a chair. "Get you looking a little less shaggy and my week is done."

"You know how to cut hair?"

"Of course I do."


"My mom taught me. She used to cut my father's hair. I cut all my boyfriend's hair. For a while there I wanted to be a stylist."

"And none of these cuts involved putting a bowl on someone's head?"

"Well. . . one of them made the mistake of letting me cut his hair after I'd found out he was cheating on me."

"Do you have any particular grudges against me?"

"Not this week." She smiled widely.

He eyed her. "Okay."

"Meet me in the ladies locker room." She bounced to her feet.

"The ladies locker room?"

"I have to wash your hair. You can't cut dry hair."

"Okay. Am I allowed in the ladies room?"

"Sure, no one else is there." She backed out of his office. "Ten minutes." Then she was gone.

He frowned, watching her go.

He got down to the women's locker room in ten minutes. Ainsley was there, next to a row of sinks. She had a wooden chair set up in front of one of them. On the shelf beneath the mirror she had a bottle of shampoo, two pairs of scissors, a comb and a hair dryer. She looked very proud of herself.


"I am industrious. Sit."

"Yes, Ma'am." He sat down.

She gripped the back of the chair. "Trust me?" Before he could answer she tipped him back so the edge of the chair leaned on the edge of the sink, his head leaning into the bowl. She grinned, then turned on the water, beginning to wash his hair.

"We're about to find out."

She got his hair thoroughly wet and poured shampoo into it, giving him a heck of a scalp massage as she washed it.

"You are good."

"Thank you." She rinsed his hair out and wrapped his head in a towel, tipping the chair upright again. She gave his hair a quick ruffling with the towel and started combing through it, draping a towel around his shoulders to protect his suit. "So, what look are we going for?"

"Just a trim. Seriously. Frederick is going too be mad enough as it is."


"My stylist."

She started to giggle and had to pause in her clipping. "Was he responsible for that awful cut two years ago?"

"What awful cut?"

"The little Roman legionnaire look that looks good on Russell Crowe and very few other people."

"I got a lot of compliments on that."

"You looked like you were fourteen."

He made a face. "Maybe you shouldn't cut my hair."

"To late," she singsonged, snipping away.

"Oh, God."

"You trust me to keep you out of jail but not to cut your hair?"

"You went to law school, not beauty school."

"I took classes in community college."

"You did not."

"Raleigh School of Beauty is a highly respected center of learning." She stood in front of him, leaning over to see if it was even.

Sam started to laugh. "So what happened?"

"I realized I had a higher calling." She ruffled his hair gently and smile, snipping a little more.

"Wait. . .so you're an actual beauty school drop out."

"If you sing you're getting a buzz cut."

"I have a very good singing voice."

"Recording Secretary of the Princeton Gilbert and Sullivan society?"

"Bathrobe belly dance, Ainsley."

She snipped something with particular vigor. "Spilled coffee five times."

He sighed. "Be gentle, I had a bad day."

She ruffled his hair again, watching how it fell. "You want to vent? That's what hairstylists are for."

"Frederick's a good shrink." She tilted his head forward to get the back. "I had a meeting with Victor Campos, got bulldozed thanks to out brilliant campaign strategists. Because Bruno thinks I can't even handle our own meetings."

He felt her fingers rub the back of his neck gently. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"We have to support amnesty for all Hispanic illegals or risk California taking it's business elsewhere."

"I deference to your bad day, and because I know it wasn't your idea, I'll spare you the republican view point."

"The thing is, she swaers this is going to help us because all these illegals will vote for us. It takes seven years to become a citizen. They'll probably be voting democratic, but Bartlet will be writing his memoirs by then. To say nothing of the fact that it's grossly unfair to all the people desperately and patiently waiting for legal immigration *and* any and all the illegal immigrants who happen to be from, say, Bangladesh."

She stroked his hair gently. "This is Connie, right? I've talked to her a few times. She's not as brilliant as she thinks she is."

"Also, support this and it's possible we kiss off all the white voters in Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and God knows what other states. A lot of them think we give the immigrants too much already. But then, who am I to speak? My grandmother came across the border in the trunk of someone's car."

She ran her fingers through his hair, parting it. "I didn't know that."


"I certainly explains your hair and skin tone." She snipped a little more then put the scissors down. "You have excellent hair."

"Thanks." He paused. "Most people think I'm old money. I'm really not. I was embarrassed when I was at Princeton so I picked up this. . .trust fund baby persona that's kind of stuck with me."

"That explains why your monogram is wrong," she told him with a smile.


"Nothing. I just never understood how a blue blood mother would let her baby walk around with a backwards monogram." She touched the embroidery.

"It looks better that way. It's balanced." He smiled a little. "My mother wouldn't know a proper monogram from her aquanet hairspray."

Ainsley grinned. "My great-grandmother is from the bayou. Has money but you'll still catch her banging on pots to get crawfish to submit."

Sam laughed. "You can't always tell people by what they seem. Josh's family has. . .it's like an estate. It's huge. But I can't get him into a tailored suit with a crowbar."

"I guess you never can tell," she said softly.

"How's the hair coming?"

"Just about done." She reached over and picked up the hair dryer, clicked it on and started styling.

He stopped talking in deference to the noise of the hairdryer.

It only took her a couple of minutes and she stopped, putting the dryer down. She did a little combing, snipped off a few stray hairs, then whipped the towel off his shoulders. "Fini."

He turned and looked in the mirror. He grinned. "Thanks."

"You're quite sexy now." She gathered up her things. "My work here is done."

"Thank you, Ainsley," he said quietly.

She smiled. "Anytime. I bet I charge less the Frederick."

He shifted from one foot to the other. "I'll buy you dinner sometime. You know, when we have time to eat."

"Don't worry about it." She went to the corner and got a broom and dust pan to sweep up the hair. "You should get back to work. Someone should put that fire out."

He took the dust pan. "I'll help."

She smiled again and they cleaned up together. Then he helped her carry the chair back to her office. "There'll be better days, Sam."

"You made today one of them."

She squeezed his hand. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He gave her a grin and went through the doorway. "I'm serious about dinner . . ." He called over his shoulder.

"I'll take you up on it." She watched him go. "Just you wait," she murmured.

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