Avoid Tempting Fate

I stood there, silently in disbelief before I finally responded to the question the receptionist at the doctor’s office asked.  “That’s nine weeks from now.”

**Yes, Emily,** she confirmed.  **That’s the next available appointment with Dr Cleveland.  It’s a Thursday at three, are you available?**

“I’m not comfortable waiting that long.” I told her instead of telling her I didn’t care what day of the week or what time, I would cancel any plans to get seen as soon as possible.

**Do you want me to see about getting you in with another Dr?**

“I guess,” I conceded, and waited while I heard keyboard tapping.  

My primary had referred me to Dr Cleveland specifically, saying how much she trusted Dr Cleveland, but the idea of waiting weeks and weeks not knowing if it was actually something sounded like torture.  And on the off chance it actually was something, that was weeks and weeks for it to grow and spread.

**I can get you in with Dr Franklin two weeks sooner,** the receptionist informed me of the barely better appointment, **if you can do a Tuesday at ten.**

I took a deep breath, and had a quick debate in my head about whether the two weeks were worth seeing a different doctor than the one my primary had said to go to.  I had no idea why my regular doctor said Cleveland, for all I knew it was something completely unimportant like they were alphabetized in her list and C came before F.  I did also actually have something I had to do on Tuesdays at work, but under the circumstances, I would find someone to do it that week.  Seven weeks wasn’t much better than nine, but it was enough better.

“Yeah,” I said unenthusiastically, “I can do that.”

I hung up, and opened my calendar app.  I scrolled to the date, clicked on the time, and typed in “get boob stabbed.”  As much as I wanted to get over worrying, it wasn’t like I was actually looking forward to the biopsy.

I went and sat down, wondering if I’d missed saying something that would have gotten me in sooner.  It was the kind of thing Alexa had been great at.  The number of times I’d been putting off making a phone call and she just lost her patience and did it for me.  I’d listen to her, she was so good at it.  Never saying “uhhh” the way I did every other word as I stumbled through trying to communicate what I needed, 

God, I missed Alexa.  I missed her in general, not just because I had a sinking suspicion that if Alexa was in around I would be having that biopsy this week instead of waiting over a month.   I missed waking up with her head resting on my shoulder, the short hair on the back of her head feeling almost like a makeup brush. The jokes she made about the commercials when we watched TV.   The way she never seemed to care what people thought of her.  I missed pretty much everything about her.

It was my fault that she was gone.

It had been a month since she yelled at me “I’m not going to go back in the closet and I can’t live like this!”  At the time someone finding out I was a lesbian felt like it was the worst thing that could possibly happen, once Alexa was gone I realized her leaving was much worse. 

I’d mostly come to terms with being single again, but in the shower I felt the lump and things took a whole different turn and I suddenly really wanted Alexa holding me and telling me it was going to be fine, these things were so often nothing, just a cyst or ingrown hair.  It was a single lump, about an inch below my left nipple, chances were it was nothing.

I’d made an appointment to see my regular family practice doctor the next day, figuring she’d just tell me it was nothing.  My regular doctor had assured me these things were often nothing as she had prodded it, but she poked her expression was one of concern.   She felt it was suspicious enough that it should be biopsied, so I was given a referral and sent on my way to continue to worry about it.

 

————————————————————————-

 

I stepped out of the shower, and started to dry myself off.  I started drying off under the boob I was worried I would be losing.  For the past week I’d kept trying to not think about it too much, since there wasn’t really anything I could do about it,  but there were some times that ignoring it was harder than others.  Needing to dry the skin under the boob was one of them.

The other day my sister and I had been all set to go bra shopping, but I’d cancelled.   Somehow buying a new bra for the possibly diseased boob, just felt like tempting fate.  

I knew it was a silly superstition, my need to not tempt fate, but it was deeply ingrained.  There was zero reason to believe that if you washed to car it will be more likely to rain.  Or if you go out and buy a new toaster because your toaster won’t work, that it would suddenly work just fine when you get home with the new toaster.  Or if you’ve been waiting all morning for something, taking a break from waiting and going to the bathroom will be the moment you miss it.  But of course many people acted like tempting fate was a real thing, and that tended to include me, even though I knew it was silly.

It was one of the things Alexa had always teased me about.  Well all those little superstitions, knocking on wood, not opening umbrellas inside, etc.  It didn’t seem to really bother her, and she never seriously tried to change me, but she found it funny.  I wished she was here to gently tease me and tell me I was being silly, and just generally cheer me up.

Finished drying myself, I wrapped the towel around me and tucked the corner into the overlap to keep the towel up over the boobs I was worrying about.  As I walked over to the mirror, I wondered if the towel would slip down if I didn’t have both my boobs to hold it up.

At the mirror, I began to untangle my long layered chestnut hair.  Untangled, I fluffed the wet hair back up, trying to revive the waves the combing had flattened out.  I took the moment to look at the ends they were a just a little ragged, definitely ready for light trim before what was still just a few split ends became all split ends.  Then it occured to me, getting it done so it looked nice would be pointless if I was going to be getting chemotherapy in a couple of more months and it would all just fall out anyway.  

Making my beautiful hair look even nicer, would be tempting fate.  I’d wait to get it cut till after I knew, it was just six and a half weeks, the split ends wouldn’t get too bad in that amount of time.

As I got dressed, I somehow couldn’t get my mind off the possibility that I might lose my hair.   I loved my hair, I knew I should be more worried about the possibility of losing the boob that would never grow back, than hair that theoretically should, or the other side effects of chemotherapy, but somehow the possibility of being bald bothered me more.

The thing about hair was that it was so public.  It wasn’t like people saw my boob on a regular basis.  The times people got to see my boobs were rare occasions if I shared a changing room with my sister, my doctor, and of course Alexa.  Though it had been months since the last ime Alexa had seen and touched the fleshy appendages.  The roundness that could be seen while fully dressed, was reasonably easy to fake, few would notice the potential disappearance of the boob, but my hair…  Yeah, I could wear a scarf or wig, but it was likely that people would still be able to see that I was bald under those.

The logical part of my head was telling me to stop borrowing trouble, I didn’t know if the stupid little lump was actually anything.  It was probably just a cyst.  My emotions were not easily swayed by logic though, and I just kept thinking about how public a thing hair was.  Which of course got me to thinking about the time it had led to  Alexa and I having a fight.  

We’d been at a gay party, and I’d commented about a cool haircut a girl had.  Alexa had told me I would look hot with it.  At first I’d just laughed it off, saying “I’m not brave enough.”  

Alexa brought it back up later that night when the cab dropped us off back at her place.  She was annoyed that I’d said I wasn’t brave enough.  She didn’t seem to actually care all that much about what I did with my hair, but asked me if “I’m not brave enough” really meant I’m worried people would know I was gay if I had short hair.  

I’d tried to claim it wasn’t.  I told her I just liked my hair long, which was true enough, even if worrying that I would look gay with short hair was a little bit in there too.  But she wouldn’t drop the subject.  She’d said I could prove that I just didn’t actually want the haircut, and not that it was because I was scared people would know I was gay if I would wear the subtle rainbow flower blouse she’d given me for christmas.  When I said I couldn’t, we started fighting.  

It hadn’t been the final big fight, we both apologized in the morning and blamed too much alcohol.  I promised I’d work on trying to start coming out, she’d promised to try to be patient as long as I was making some progress.   Months later though, I’d made no progress and she’d lost patience.  

Since I was getting dressed, I went and got the rainbow blouse, and slipped it on.   It looked good, and the rainbow was subtle.  Few people would notice the rainbow details, just a border of embroidered flowers along the collar that happened to be in rainbow order.  Most people wouldn’t even notice at all that it was a rainbow, those that did were unlikely to make the leap to thinking it meant I was gay.  Wearing the blouse came with very very low risk that anyone would guess I was gay.

I walked back over to the mirror, and looked at myself.  My long hair was still a little damp, spilling over my shoulders and framing the rainbow collar.  I nervously played with the ends of the hair I was scared I was going to lose, as I contemplated being brave and finally wearing the cute blouse.  I nervously bit my lip.  I wasn’t brave enough yet, I was still too scared to wear the blouse.  I took it off and took it back to my closet.

As I stood back in front of the mirror, smoothing out the rainbowless blouse I had changed into, I thought to myself, rather melodramatically – if it turns out to really be cancer, and those weeks wait mean it’s too late and it got a chance to spread and I’m dying, I’ll ask to be buried in the rainbow flower blouse. –

I fluffed my hair again, trying to decide if it was dry enough to skip the blowdryer.  I breathed in thinking of the possibility of losing the beautiful hair.  If I was going to be losing it, I should get it cut short so it would be easier once it starts falling out.  I’d been so scared of just getting it cut short, and now I might lose it completely.  

I sighed deeply, oh well at least losing it wouldn’t be like getting it cut short, it wouldn’t be a choice, people wouldn’t think I wanted it.  When I would get it cut off before starting chemo, they’d know that it wasn’t a statement.  I’d just be brave and get that haircut I’d been scared to, the one Alexa told me I would look hot with.  

I swallowed resigned to the idea.  It would be the sensible thing to do.  Heck, if I felt self conscious enough about the haircut, maybe I’d look forward to it just falling out so people wouldn’t think I liked having short hair.  I pulled the long hair back, mentally preparing for the idea of a haircut, one that would be so bold I would be a bit relieved when it fell out.  

Not that I was sure I was going to need chemo, I didn’t even know if the lump was anything, and even if it turned out to be something, I was pretty sure if it was small enough and slow enough I might just get a lumpectomy and nothing more, it was way way too soon to be thinking about chemo and losing my hair.  

If I went and got my hair all cut off now before I had any actual diagnosis, it would probably turn out that my damned lump was nothing, and I would be stuck just living with a short haircut, I either had to say part of me wanted, or admit that I was so very melodramatic that I cut my hair off because of a very vague possibility, making myself sound like a total hypochondriac.

I chuckled at myself, but then a new thought came to me.  The idea that putting off cutting my hair was tempting fate.  If I kept all my long pretty hair, it was definitely tempting fate and I would have cancer, and it would be advanced enough that I would need chemo, and my hair would fall out,  but… if I overreacted and cut it all off ahead of time, the lump would turn out to be nothing.  That was how I could control this, that was how I could avoid tempting fate….

I looked at the mirror thinking how stupid that was, thinking how ridiculous  Alexa would think I was being.  I looked in the mirror wishing she was here to tell me herself.

I shoved aside the thought, and went off to work, hoping I could distract myself from being convinced I had cancer for a little while.

 

————————————————————————

 

I’d spent the waiting weeks trying to shake the recurring feeling that keeping my long beautiful hair was tempting fate, but every time I stood in front of a mirror combing, styling, fluffing it, the thought came back.  It came back whenever I absentmindedly found myself twirling a lock.  It came back whenever anyone complimented me on what a pretty color it was, or asked what products I used, or where I got it trimmed.  It came back every time I looked at the split ends and thought it was time for a trim.  It just was taking up too much real estate in my head rent free.

By the Thursday before my biopsy appointment, I had simply become convinced that if I cut off all my hair, I would be completely fine.  So I’d called the salon to see if I could get a hair appointment before Tuesday when I had the doctor appointment. 

At first, I thought my lovely locks might escape unscathed, when the receptionist pointed out that weekends tended to be busy, and they were closed Monday.  But then she’d asked if I could make it that day at one.  I thought of saying no, since I had work, but of course, I could just take a slightly late and long lunch.  So instead of eating the lunch I had lost my appetite for, I sat waiting nervously in the salon.

“Emily,”  Brandy, my usual stylist, called me as she came to the waiting area of the salon.  “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” I said out of habit as I got up to follow her into the work area of the salon, and we walked towards her chair.

“So did you just want a trim,”  She casually asked as I sat down in the chair.  “Or something more?”

“I want to do something new and bold,” I told her.  “A while ago, I saw a really cool haircut, a bit like an undercut bob, but a bit shorter.  I was thinking about it again, so I found some pictures that are kind of what I was thinking of.”

“Ok,”  Brandy sounded intrigued. “Let’s take a look.”

I pulled out my phone and tapped at the screen till I pulled up the pictures to show her.  I turned the screen towards her and observed her expression.  She looked less surprised than I expected as she took the phone from me.  She swiped through the pictures, nodding vaguely.

“So you want to go a little shorter than a bob on the top with lots of texture, and then buzzed down along the sides?”  Brandy confirmed.

I nodded, as she handed the phone back to me.  With her hands free, brandy began to play with my hair.  She lifted up the bulk, and held it back.

“So you want the undercut to come up to about here?” Brandy asked as she drew a line with the tip of her finger an inch or so above my ear.  Then she folded a lock from the top of my head up so it looked shorter than it really was as it rested against my ear,  “And bring the hair from above the undercut up to about here?”

“Yeah, that looks right,” I confirmed trying not to sound as nervous and terrified about it as I was, while I looked at the folded lock that only covered about three quarters of my ear.

“But you don’t mind some shorter layers, right?”  Brandy checked.  “To get the look in those pictures, I’m going to have to layer it a fair amount, so not all of it will reach down that far.   Ok?”

“That’s fine,” I consented trying not to sound as reluctant as I felt.

“Do you mind if I use clippers on the undercut?”  Brandy asked as she twisted my long hair up on top of my head and put a clip to hold it up.

“You’re the expert,” I said as my heart pounded, thinking about witnessing my brothers being sheared like sheep at the beginning of every summer by our dad.  “Use whatever tools work best.”

“OK,” Brandy said as she began to shake out the nylon cape she didn’t usually put over my till after she’d taken me for a shampoo.  “Do you want to save the ponytail?  So you can donate it to make wigs?”

I swallowed, thinking yeah, maybe if my hair falls out I can get a wig out of my own hair, then I reminded myself that I was doing this so that wouldn’t happen, that wouldn’t be necessary.  I was not going to tempt fate.  And this conversation wasn’t about that anyway.

“Yes,” I said.  “Save the ponytail.  I’m sure it will make someone happy.”

“I’m going to cut the undercut first, dry,”  Brandy simply informed me as she began to drape the cape over me.  “Then I’ll wash you before I cut the top.”

I just nervously nodded as she fastened the cape around my neck.

“Are you nervous?” Brandy asked me, taking out the clip and letting my long chestnut locks tumble down what I figured would be the last time for a long time.  “You seem a bit nervous.”

“A little,” I admitted, figuring there was no hiding it anyway, I wasn’t that good an actor, as Brandy turned the styling chair I sat in so I was sideways to the mirror.  “I’ve never had short hair before.”

“Well don’t worry, you’ll look great with short hair.”  Brandy assured me as she started brushing my hair smooth. “And it’s fun to change hair.”

“It does seem to be something you enjoy.”  I observed with a chuckle, because Brandy always seemed to have a new hairstyle every time I came in for a trim.   She’d had a variety of different pixies and bobs.  One time her, at the time bleached platinum blonde,  hair had been cropped very short,  with just enough length to make the top a little spiky.  When she would be growing it out for a bit, she’d change the color.  Grow outs were always pretty brief though, I’d never seen it make it past her shoulders.  At the moment it was a short on the sides mullety shag, in a honey blonde.

“Occupational hazard,” Brandy joked with a smile, as she gathered my long locks into a bundle, and began twisting an elastic around the bundle.  “You ready for this?”

I took a sideways glance at the mirror, where I could see the thick shiny ponytail held in Brandy’s hand.  I swallowed, nodded and held my breath.  Brady reached over to the counter under the mirror, and picked up the largest pair of scissors there.

Crunch, ssssshhhhrrunch, shhhhrirrunch,  shhhhnap.

“There you go!”  Brandy said enthusiastically as she held up my warm colored ponytail with one hand, and ruffled through my suddenly bobbed hair with the other, slightly clumsily since that hand still grasped the scissors she’d palmed, only leaving a couple of fingers free for the ruffling.  “Feels great, doesn’t it?”

“Ummm-huum” I tried to agree, even though what I mostly felt was nausea.

“So light and easy.”  Brandy insisted on trying to convince me I was happy, as she shook my pretty ponytail.  “I’m just going to get a bag for this. You can go ahead and play with your hair if you want, you won’t believe how much easier it is to run your hands through.  It will feel even better when I’m done.”

Brandy put down the scissors on the counter and walked off with most of my hair, leaving me to try to come to terms with how little was left on my head.  I reached up like she’d suggested, and ran my fingers through the messy bob.  It was true, that my fingers glided through it much more easily, but that just made it seem more unreal.

When Brandy got back, she casually plopped the ziplock bag with my ponytail down on the counter, and started lightly smoothing out the wrinkles in the cape I had caused by reaching out from under it.  

“Sorry to have to interrupt you enjoying feeling that,” Brandy said as she began to comb through the bob, “but if we don’t get back to this, you won’t make it back to the office before your lunch break is over.”

Which reminded me, that I was going to have to go face a whole bunch of people with the sudden dramatic change in just a little bit.  If I didn’t have a bunch of stuff I had to get done, since I would be taking Tuesday and Wednesday off, I probably would have just avoided going back, called in with some excuse.  But of course, that was part of the whole tempting fate formula, having to face people with the dramatic haircut, and not having the excuse that it would be falling out soon anyway.

Brandy chatted cheerfully as she parted the hair around my head into sections, clipping the hair on the top up against my head, and leaving the back and sides hanging down.  Then she handed me the hand mirror. She only usually gave it to me at the end, to look at the light layers she’d trimmed in the cascade of glossy waves.

“How’s this for the undercut?”  Brandy asked as she slowly spun the chair so I could see the clean parting from several angles.

I looked at the mirror, the chestnut cascade missing, instead just some uneven short tufts on the back of my head.  I reminded myself, that wasn’t what I was supposed to be looking at, I was supposed to be deciding if I was ok with the line Brandy had created around my head.

The parting started in the front, level to the corner of my eyebrow, then swept back, arching down slightly behind my ear, then back up and over the opposite ear, before ending level to the corner of my eyebrow on the other side.

“That looks like what I had in mind,” I said, since I couldn’t bring myself to say it looked good.

“Okie doke,” Brandy bubbled as she took the mirror back from me.

When she put the mirror away, she grabbed up the long scissors, and a big comb.  Very swiftly, she used the comb to scoop up hair, not pulling it through the dangling locks, and the she simply raised the blades of the scissors.

SSsssshlick, shhhhlick, shhlick

Brandy sliced off the hair that hung from the comb almost haphazardly.  Most of it fell to my shoulders, where she just ignored it.  She shook the few locks trapped in the teeth of the comb free so they just drifted to the floor.  Then she was scooping up hair again.

SSssssshnip, sssshhhlick, hissssssssssnip

A chunk of hair fell to my shoulder, then slid forward, over the mound caused by the boob that had started this all, and down into my lap.  I looked down at it as Brandy combed up more hair from around my ear.

Hhissssssssssslick, shhhlick, shlick 

More hair slid down to my lap, creating a tangled puddle.  Looking down at the locks, I noticed they were a touch more brown than the golden my chestnut hair got in the sun.  I looked over at the ponytail in the bag on the counter, then up into the mirror to the shorn side of my head.  The ponytail definitely looked more chestnut than the dark brown short hair left behind did.

Ssshlick, ssssshlick, shhhlick

“There, isn’t that cute,”  Brandy claimed enthusiastically as she put down the scissors and comb next to the bag that held my ponytail, and opened a drawer.  

Brandy pulled out pastel blue clippers.  I assumed the color was to tone down their otherwise rather menacing appearance as she plugged them in.  I watched nervously as she clicked a very small guard over the blades.  

Brandy turned the chair to a slight diagonal, so my back was to the outlet she’d plugged the clippers into.  It made perfect sense from a – not getting tangled up in the cord – point of view, but it left me mostly facing away from the mirror.  I could sort of vaguely see in the mirror across the salon on the other side, but only sort of.

Click-clunk, buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The sound was familiar, but the sensation of the humming machine scraping up the back of my head, the feel of the soft clippings raining down on my exposed neck, was also new.  

I sat there, as Brandy ran the clippers over my scalp, gently guiding my head as she did.  She was much less forceful than my dad had been with my brothers, but of course, I was a lot less wiggly than the little boys had been.  I mostly just tried to relax and experience the new sensations, it mostly was pretty pleasant.  It was only a touch weird feeling when the vibrationing machine brushed against my ear a few times.

I thought Brandy was done when she turned off the clippers and stepped away, so I twisted to look at the mirror.  The sides of my head were covered in short little bristles, barely more than stubble, just like my young brothers had been every summer right after their quick sheerings.  When I looked over at Brandy, she wasn’t putting the clippers away, just taking the guard off, and picking up a comb.

Brandy came back behind me, gently guiding my head back to face forward, and tilted it slightly down towards my lap so I was staring at the little pile of dry hair clippings that had accumulated there.  

Click-clunk, Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Brandy started combing up into the bristles just abovne my neckline, then I felt the clippers run over the tines of the comb.

Beeezzzzzzwoop,  beauuuzzzzzwooop, bzzt, bzzt, beezzzzwoop.

As Brandy shaped the bottom of the undercut with the comb and clippers, tiny sprinkles of hair fell to my neck.  They were a bit sharp and itchy.  As she worked forward, the dust of the hair she cut sprinkled down over my shoulder, falling like pepper on the front of the cape.  

I finally got to watch, as she turned the chair toward the mirror before beginning work on my sideburn.  I watched as she added a slight taper and rounded off it’s shape just a bit.  She was definitely putting more care in than my father ever had on my brothers.

It was especially weird when right around the bottom, she ran the bar blades of the clippers directly against my skin, leaving only a slight stubble behind.  The she freehanded the clippers a bit, skimming the bare blades over the bristles, whatever she was cutting with them though was too fine to see.

When Brandy turned off the clippers, I turned my head from side to side, looking at the very short hair of the undercut.  I could see pale scalp shining through the dark bristles, which was a little nerve-racking, but it did look good.  The extra time Brandy had spent shaping it definitely had improved it from the uniform single length it had been a few minutes earlier.  

I didn’t get to admire it for long though before Brandy was back and started stroking a whiny little trimmer down my neck.  I watched the fine stubble shaved away, leaving the rounded hairline looking clean and sharp.

“Ok,”  Brandy cheerfully announced as she turned off the trimmer and put it back on its charging stand, then began taking out the clips that held the longer hair to the top of my head.  “Let’s go get you washed.”

Brandy held the excess fabric of the cape as I carefully got up from the chair, with the soft hair flopping down over my eyes.   I reached up to brush it back.  As I reached up, the soft pile of hair that had been in my lap slid to the floor.  I glanced down at the piles of hair that circled to the chair I was getting up out of.  

As I turned to follow Brandy to the wash stations, I saw one of the assistant approact the chair with a broom and dustpan.  I tried not to think about how half my hair was about to end up in the garbage.  It felt a little odd to be bothered by it, since it had never been something I thought about when I just got my split ends trimmed, but of course this was different.  As we walked, I raised my hand to my shorn scalp feeling the velvety bristles proving just how different it was.

“Doesn’t it feel amazing!”  Brandy said when she noticed I was petting the undercut.  “The first time I ever got part of my hair buzzed I couldn’t keep my hands off it.  It was a sidecut I got back in beauty school.”

“It does feel good,”  I admitted as I sat down in front of the sink.

I folded my hands in my lap, and tried to just enjoy the sensation of the warm water running through what little was left on my hair, it felt a bit different, the spray felt more like it was hitting my scalp directly in the back, and I didn’t feel the extra weight of the water the same way I had when my long hair would get saturated.  When Brandy began to work in the shampoo, I could feel her fingertips directly against my scalp on the undercut area.

After I’d been thoroughly scrubbed and conditioned, Brandy wrapped my wet hair up in a towel.  The soft terry cloth didn’t only touch the back of my neck a little like usual, but was pressed against my ears, and I could feel the fluff between the short bristles of the undercut.   Most of all though, it just felt lighter and less bulky as we walked back to Brandy’s styling chair.

When Brandy took off the towel, and started detangling my hair, it was amazing how much faster and easier detangling it was.  No holding the ends and detangling the bottom couple of inches first, and working upward slowly detangling just a few inches at a time.  Instead Brandy just put the comb right by my hairline and gently pulled it back through the hair that only reached my chin.  A few swift strokes, and Brandy had all the hair on the top of my head smooth.   She hadn’t even combed the undercut at all.

I was a little surprised when Brandy twisted up all the hair from the top of my head, and clipped it up, since I thought that was the only hair I had that was long enough to cut.  She picked up her comb and scissors though, and tilted my head forward as though she was planning to cut the undercut more.

“I didn’t think I had enough hair left there to cut?”  I said with curiosity.

“I’m just going to catch any stray strands the clippers left,”  Brandy informed me.  “And point cut a tiny dusting to give it a softer texture.  Is that ok?”

“Yeah sure,” I agreed, even though it seemed like a lot of trouble to go to for something that I figured would be looking grown out in a few days anyway.

I felt Brandy scrape the teeth of the comb up along my scalp, as she scissors snapped along, occasionally the metal blades tapping against the plastic comb.

snip, snip, snip, click, snip, snip, snap, snip, snip, click, snip, snip, snip

The soft rhythim became soothing and almost hypnotic.  I was almost disappointed, when Brandy finished and let down the longer hair from the top.   The wet locks smacking against my almost bare scalp, startled me out of the restful state I had slipped into.

I watched Brandy comb the longer locks down around my head, the bobbed length covered all but the very bottom of the undercut, and I had a moment of thinking maybe I should tell Brandy I really liked how this looked, and maybe we should just keep it this length, which would let me hide the undercut, so I would only have to explain a bob, which felt easier, especially with a ponytail to donate.  But that definitely felt like tempting fate, I had to get the haircut I would a least a little be hoping would fall out so I wouldn’t have to go around with such a bold haircut for months and months.

Brandy picked up her feathering razor, instead of the scissors.  She carefully pinched the bottom of a lock by my ear, and sliced through it just a little lower than the length we had agreed to.  Very casually, she dropped the two inches of severed hair onto the floor.

Immediately, she pinched another lock next to it and sliced again.  Over and over, she repeated the pinch, slice, drop action.  

Though it followed a similar rhythim, it was different from the snipping she’d done earlier.  For starters, it was nearly silent, the sharp blade only making the faintest whisper of a sound.  But also, it lacked the physical feel of the comb gently scratching up my scalp.  Instead there was the lightest tug when she pinched the lock, and mostly a release as the sharp blade severed it.

I watched as the hair that had been long enough to mostly hide the undercut, was taken away, revealing the dramatically short hair below.

When all the hair was cut to just about the height of my targus, Brandy began combing locks outward.  She then twisted those locks and sliced off another inch or so.  Then she’d let the lock down, ruffle it till it lay naturally, and the layering would be revealed.   Brandy went all around my head, layering the hair at a fairly slight angle, but then she repeated it, layering it more at a steeper angle.  She repeated the layering over and over, increasing the angle each time, till finally my hair was being held straight up before she sliced off a bit more of it.

Scary as it had been seeing so much hair being sliced off, when she was done, and had put down the razor blade it really did look a lot like the picture I’d shown her.  She picked up a pair of shear and comb then, and came back and started snipping some more.  

Though up till that moment, Brandy had been cutting very methodically, the cut having gotten to it’s basic shape, Brandy switched to cutting more by feel.  It  was something she always did when she trimmed my hair, first just carefully taking off the split-end, then systematically going through the layers, but after that, shaking my hair and sculpting it in ways I didn’t fully understand.  Deep point cuts, and slide cutting out long strands.  Scary as it was to watch, it always looked good in the end, so I had learned to just trust.

With my hair already so short though, watching the deep point cuts going up so high, was harder to just trust.  When I felt the back of one of the cold metal blade actually touch my scalp and glide along it as Brandy started slide cutting the top, and strands almost the full length of the hair fell, it was hard to not start panicking.  I quite litterally bit the tip of my tongue to just sit there and not say anything, even though it was near impossible to just trust the process.  

“Since you’re going back to work,” Brandy announced as she ruffled my damp hair, dislodging some loose severed strands that hadn’t fallen when she’d cut them, “I’ll just style it nice and smooth.  When you want a night out look though, you can straighten it and use some wax to give it and edgy texture.   When you want something soft and casual, scrunch it up.  Short like this, the waves should be almost curls for you.”

“Ok” I said, hoping I could handle those fairly simple instructions even though I was used to styling long hair.

Brandy got out the blow dryer and big round brush, and began twirling the hair up from the roots, obviously aiming for volume.  When she was done, just as she always did for my long trims, she came back and did a bit more of that cutting by vibes routine.  I sat there watching, trying to get used to my completely transformed reflection as the dry strands Brandy cut floated through the air.

“What do you think,” Brandy asked just a bit excitedly as she handed me the hand mirror and spun the chair for me to look at the back.  “Doesn’t the back feel amazing?”

“It does feel good,” I agreed just a little grudgingly as I brushed up over the velvety undercut.

“You don’t like it?”  Brandy sounded a little disappointed.  “Is there something you want adjusted?  Does it not look how you expected?”

“No, no,”  I assured her.  “It’s exactly how I wanted it…. it’s just… I love the way it looks.  And you’re right about how great it feels, which I didn’t even think about.  I love all that.   I’m just really nervous about how people are going to react to such a drastic change.”

“I’m sure they’ll be surprised, but also love it.”  Brandy turned me back around to face the mirror.  “Are you worried about what your boyfriend will think or something?”

I could just give a one word answer, “no.”  I could even tell her I didn’t have a boyfriend without it meaning anything more than that.  Something about having put on a brave face and cutting off my hair into the style that was a statement was making me feel just generally brave though.

“I don’t date guys,” I said pretending to be casual about it.  “I’m just worried people will think about me differently.”

“Oh…”  Brandy let out.  “Well don’t worry.  You look stunning, so as long as you like the way you look, try not to worry about what others think.”

I smiled at the irony that I was both not supposed to care what others think and only care about what I felt, but I should care about what Brandy thought even though she wasn’t me.  I was glad though that she didn’t seem to care that I didn’t date guys, though saying that wasn’t exactly a clear and unambiguous coming out, it felt like a step, a step that hadn’t been a disaster.

“I am happy with it.”  I assured Brandy.

“That’s all that matters,” Brandy claimed as she took the cape off me, and lightly brushed her hand over the back of my head, “I miss having my hair this short.  Maybe I’ll go back to it, and hopefully my boyfriend won’t mind.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, the receptionist approached Brandy.

“Your two o’clock cancelled,” the receptionist told Brandy.  “Do you want to take a walk-in or take a break?”

“Well that was last minute.”  Brandy complained.  “The chances that there will be a walk-in soon enough that it wouldn’t interfere with my two-forty-five are small.  I’ll just take a little break. There’s something I’d like to do anyway.”

“Ok,” the receptionist casually accepted, then turned to me.  “Wow, you really went for a change.  That’s really cool.  Come on up front and I’ll get you all checked out.”

“Thank you.” I said as I got up, grabbed the bag with my ponytail, and followed the receptionist.

While I waited as the receptionist ran my card, I looked back towards Brandy’s chair.  Brandy was putting the cape around herself, then took out her clippers and plugged them in.

Click-clunk, buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I chuckled, as honey blonde hair started to fall to the floor, and get mixed in with the chestnut hair that was still there.  I guess Brandy had really meant it when she admired my length.

 

————————————-

 

I nervously knocked on the door, not sure if I was hoping she was home, or I was hoping she wasn’t.  I stood waiting, wondering if I’d given her enough time and I should leave the note I’d prepared in case she wasn’t there and go, or if I should keep waiting.  Or maybe I should get going without leaving the note, even if I hadn’t waited long enough.  I swallowed that thought down, found my courage, and kept waiting.

I watched the front door open, and Alexa’s expression changed to one of surprise.  “Emily!” 

“Hi,” I responded nervously.

“You got a haircut,” Alexa observed the very obvious change.

“Yeah,” I admitted shyly, and ran my hand through the floppy chestnut locks that only sort of covered the high fuzzy undercut.

“It looks great,”  Alexa said, sounding more genuine about it than any of the compliments I’d gotten from my straight coworkers.

“Thanks,” I nervously shifted my weight to my left foot. 

“What are you doing here?”  Alexa asked, I could hear the caution in her voice.

“I just thought maybe you could take me to pride.”  I asked.  “You always said I should go, you said it was fun.  You know, I’ve never been, so…”

“Going to pride kind of outs you.”  Alexa pointed out.

“I came out.”  I told her, as I nervously ran my hand through the short floppy hair again.  “To my parents, at work.”

“Really?”  Alexa asked with surprise, then in a more tentative tone, “How did it go?”

“About how I expected.”  I shrugged.  “My parents are praying for me.  It was sort of ok at work, people treat me a little differently, but nobody has made a big deal out of it.”

“I’m sorry,”  Alexa said, looking disappointed it hadn’t been some great heartwarming moment where my parents suddenly changed because their love of me was more important than their world view like she’d hoped.  “I’m sorry I pushed you to come out to them.”

“It had to happen eventually.” I said as I shifted my weight back to my right foot.

“Why don’t you come in and we can talk?”

“I’d like that,” I said as I crossed the threshold of the house I had returned the key to months ago, maybe sounding a bit choked up.

“Do you want a hug,”  Alexa offered, as she turned and closed the door,

“Yeah,” I admitted, as I wiped away a tear I wasn’t totally sure which of my jumbled emotions had caused.

I leaned into her warm open arms, at first just feeling joy and comfort as they closed around me.  Then when our chests squished together, “Oww.”

“I’m sorry,”  Alexa pulled back.  “Too tight?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I assured her as I shifted to be more comfortable.  “I just had a fibroademnoma removed a few days ago and the stitches are still a little tender.”

“A fibro-what?”  Alexa fussed mildly.  “They sent it to a lab, right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry.”  I assured her confidently.  “The lad results came back totally benign.”

“Good,”  she smiled, as we walked towards her couch, her arm draped gently over my shoulders.