Feeling Curious (Part 5)

The morning after I told Nick I wanted a pixie, I popped into town for a window browse and to get a caramel latte from my favourite coffee shop.

I settled myself down at a table to drink my latte and sent a message to Liz before I had time to begin a second conversation with myself about it.

Could you come next Saturday? I’m thinking about going properly short.

Her reply came a few minutes later.

Do you mean a pixie?

Yes.

Send me a reference. I’ll allow enough time.

I sent her the photograph I had been saving. The woman in it had copper hair cut neatly and closely around her ears and nape, with enough length through the top for soft texture. A few short pieces fell lightly across her forehead instead of a full fringe. It was a very short cut, but it did not look hard or severe. Her face looked open in it, relaxed somehow. The more I looked at it, the more I understood why I had kept returning to it.

Liz replied with a time and no further questions.

That helped.

By then, I had done most of the thinking. It had not happened all at once, although it would have been easier to explain it that way. First I had wanted the long bob because I was tired of the length. Then I had wanted the shorter bob because I liked what the first cut had changed. I had liked the clear line at the back of my neck, the way my earrings showed, and how quickly I could make it look finished in the morning.

After that, my attention had quietly moved elsewhere.

The haircuts I saved had become shorter without me making a formal decision about it. There was a little less around the ears, then a neater neck, then less fringe. I started by telling myself I only liked the shapes on other women. Eventually I had reached the point where I could no longer pretend I was not trying them on in my own head.

The pixie was not the first short haircut I had considered since we returned from Dubrovnik. It was simply the first one I could say aloud to Nick without feeling that I was getting ahead of myself.

—-

For the rest of the week, I was more aware of my hair than usual. The bob still looked good. Its back sat at the upper part of my neck, the sides lay close around my jaw, and the whole thing had a compactness I had never had before. It was thick enough to feel substantial despite the missing length.

That was what made the decision feel real. Nothing had gone wrong with it. I was not correcting a bad cut or dealing with an awkward growing-out stage. I was choosing to replace something I genuinely liked.

On Friday evening, I sat on the sofa with my hair clipped away from my face while Nick looked through the television listings. He knew Liz was coming in the morning. He had asked what time, made a plan to see his brother for the day, and left the subject alone after that.

After a while, he glanced over at me.

“You’ve had that clip in since we sat down. Does it help?”

I considered that. “A bit. It lets me see what I’ll look like without so much hair around my face.”

“And?”

“It makes me a little nervous.”

Nick put the remote down and shifted closer. “It will look different. That is the point, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He took my hand. “You’ve thought about it properly. You don’t need to keep proving that to yourself tonight.”

I smiled. “That is probably true.”

“And tomorrow, you’ll let Liz do her job.”

“I will.”

He nodded and picked the remote up again. “Good. Because I would like to find something to watch before we’re both too tired to follow it.”

—-

On Saturday morning, Nick was leaving early to see his brother. He had stayed overnight in Leeds for work the previous week and had promised he would go back when he could actually spend some time with him. He was due home in the evening.

I washed my hair and dried it smooth before I got dressed. It looked almost too good that morning. The shorter back curved neatly at my neck, the front rested at my jaw, and my centre part was straight. It was shiny, thick and familiar.

I put on my oatmeal jumper, dark jeans and the small gold hoops I wore most days.

I then stood in the bedroom for a few minutes looking my hair. Not because I was trying to make myself change my mind. More that I wanted to remember how it looked to have hair covering my ears and neck.

—-

When I came downstairs, Nick was by the front door with his bag.

He looked at me and smiled. “Your hair looks lovely.”

“I know it does.”

“That sounded less supportive than I meant it to.”

“A little.”

He came closer. “I mean that it looks good. You are still allowed to want something else.”

I looked at him.

“You don’t need a reason to get rid of something nice,” he said.

That settled something in me, even though I had been telling myself the same thing all week.

“You have clearly practised that,” I said.

“Only the basic position.”

I laughed, and he kissed me.

“Text me when you’re done,” he said. “Not a photograph. I know I’m not allowed one.”

“You’re not.”

“I’ll wait.”

He picked up his keys. At the door, he turned back once.

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

“You really need to stop saying that.”

“I’ll try.”

—-

Liz arrived at half past ten with her case in one hand and the charcoal cape folded over her arm. She was dressed as she usually was for appointments: a pale beige blazer over a fitted white top, blue jeans and a tan belt, with small gold earrings. Her champagne-blonde hair was in a loose low ponytail, with a few softer pieces around her face.

She came inside, set her case down in the hallway and looked at me carefully.

“Are you comfortable with the plan?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“All right. Let’s look at the reference once more before we begin.”

We set up in the hallway. Liz placed the chair in the middle of the limestone-look tiles and arranged her scissors, combs, clips, spray bottle and clippers on the folding tray beside it. The clippers were ordinary black clippers. I had seen them in her kit before. That did not stop me noticing them now.

Once I was under the cape, she brushed through the bob slowly, checking the line and the density at the back.

“It is in very good condition,” she said. “You have enough weight in the crown for the texture you want. The sides and nape will need to be much closer, but I’ll keep the shape soft.”

She opened the reference photograph on her phone.

“The ears are clear here,” she said. “The nape is close. The fringe is not really a fringe as such; it is only a few pieces brought forward. Is that still what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Once we take the sides in, it will be a true pixie. If you want to pause before that, say so.”

“I won’t.”

Liz met my eyes in the mirror. “I need to ask once.”

“I know.”

She put the phone down and divided my hair into sections, clipping the top out of the way.

“We’ll take the bob away first,” she said.

The first cuts were less dramatic than I had expected. The back was already short, so Liz worked in narrow sections, taking the length away gradually and keeping the line even. Thick copper pieces slid over the cape and gathered in folds across my lap. More landed around the chair legs.

I watched in the mirror as the shape changed.

For a while, it looked like a short bob that had been interrupted halfway through. The back was blunt, the sides were unevenly long, and the clipped-up top made my head look smaller than it was. It was not flattering, but it was clearly temporary.

“It looks strange,” I said.

“It is between shapes,” Liz said. “That part doesn’t last long.”

“I know. I just wasn’t prepared for how quickly it stopped looking like mine.”

She glanced at me in the mirror. “How are you feeling?”

“All right.”

“All right as in carry on?”

“Carry on.”

The floor was filling with hair, although it was more volume than length now. There were dense copper clippings around the chair, some caught in the folds of the cape and some resting on the toes of Liz’s trainers. Seeing it there did not make me regret the cut. If anything, it made the change easier to understand. The bob had been a shape I knew. It was no longer the shape I was having.

Once the bulk had gone, Liz began refining the nape with scissors. The hair there had always been thick and inclined to push out at the bottom. She combed it down, shortened it close to my neck and stepped back to assess the line.

I felt the air at the back of my neck more clearly than I expected.

“Is that all right?” she asked.

“Yes. It just feels very open.”

“It will settle quickly.”

She picked up the clippers and fitted a guard to them. I watched her check it, then watched her place one hand lightly at the side of my head.

“Ready?”

I took a breath. “Yes.”

The clippers came on.

The sound filled the hallway, not frightening exactly, but clear enough to make the moment feel definite. Liz began just in front of my right ear and worked slowly upward, keeping the hair close without taking it down to skin. The vibration startled me for a second. Then I felt the hair lift away.

Each pass made the side of my head feel cooler. I could feel the difference between the short clipped hair and the longer section above it. I had expected the sensation to feel extreme. Instead it felt oddly straightforward, as though the cut had been waiting for this part to make sense.

When Liz switched the clippers off, I let out a breath I had not realised I was holding.

“Still all right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She held up the hand mirror so I could see the first side.

My ear was completely visible. The hair around it was short and neat, following the shape of my head before softening into the longer top. It did not look harsh. It just looked as though it belonged there.

“What do you think?” Liz asked.

I looked again. “I like it.”

“Good. We’ll match the other side, then I’ll finish the nape.”

I touched the newly clipped section with the tips of my fingers before she moved away. It was much softer than it looked. There should have been more hair there. My hand expected it. There was not, and I found that I liked the surprise of it.

Liz did the left side, then worked around the nape. I sat very still while she cleaned up the line, leaving it close and neat but not too high. Small cut hairs slipped down inside the cape and tickled my collarbone. The clippers stopped and started; then the sound was gone and the back of my neck felt bare to the air.

By the time she had finished the sides and back, the haircut had changed completely.

I could see my face properly.

That sounds obvious, but it was the first thing I noticed. My cheeks, my brows, my nose stud and both of my ears were all visible at once. There was no hair at either side to pull forward when I felt tired or wanted to make less of myself. The thought made me pause, but it did not make me want the hair back.

Liz let the top sections down and began cutting them into shorter pieces. She worked carefully, lifting small sections and taking away less than I expected each time. She kept enough length at the crown for movement, but not so much that it would turn into a big, deliberately messy style.

“I don’t want too much height,” I said.

“You won’t have it,” she said. “The shape will stay close. You’ll be able to move the top with your hands, but it will sit neatly on its own.”

“That is what I want.”

She continued around the crown, adding texture with the tips of her scissors. The hair began to settle into small, soft pieces rather than one solid mass. I could see the cut taking the shape of the photograph, but it was becoming mine rather than a copy of somebody else’s hair.

The fringe came last.

Liz combed a small section forward. There was so little of it that my forehead already felt exposed.

“These will sit above your brows,” she said. “They’re not meant to form a line.”

“All right.”

She cut a few short pieces, then softened them with the point of her scissors. The result was not a proper fringe. It was just a light, broken suggestion across my forehead, enough to balance the cut without hiding anything.

Liz stepped back and studied the overall shape. She made a few small adjustments: a fraction more softness behind one ear, a little more texture at the crown, a neater edge at the nape.

“Let me check it dry,” she said.

She dried it gently, using her fingers rather than a round brush. The hair was so short that it took only a few minutes. She worked a small amount of paste between her hands and touched it through the top, lifting and separating a few pieces before letting them fall back naturally.

Then she removed the cape and shook the loose hair to the floor. A thick, bright scatter of copper gathered around my shoes.

I turned the chair towards the mirror. I looked, and for a few seconds, I did not say anything.

The pixie was much shorter than the bob. There was no way to make it seem otherwise. My ears were out. The nape was neat and close. The sides followed the shape of my head, and the top was compact and textured, with the smallest broken fringe across my forehead.

I did not look younger. I did not look as though I was trying to look younger either.

I looked more visible.

My eyes looked greener without the length around my face. My freckles were more obvious. The gold hoops, which had seemed like an afterthought with my long hair, suddenly looked right. I turned slightly and looked at the short line over my ear, then at the nape.

There was very little left to hide behind.

I waited to feel exposed in a way that made me want to cover myself up. Instead, I felt settled.

Liz watched me from the side.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I looked at myself again. “I really like it.”

She nodded once. “Good. It suits you.”

“It feels like a lot of face.”

“It is,” she said. “But it is your face. The cut doesn’t compete with it.”

That was a more useful way of putting it than anything I had managed to think.

When I stood, I immediately put both hands to the sides of my head. The clipped hair was soft under my palms. The top moved when I pushed it back and settled again when I took my hands away. I tried to tuck the side behind my ear out of habit, then stopped and laughed quietly.

“That will happen for a while,” Liz said.

“I’ve already done it three times.”

“You’ll stop noticing eventually.”

She showed me the small tin of styling paste.

“Use less than you think you need,” she said. “Warm it in your hands, then work it through the top only. You don’t need to do much with this cut.”

“That may take some getting used to.”

“You’ll work it out quickly.”

She packed her kit while I kept returning to the mirror. Every angle showed me something different. From the front, the cut was neat and compact. From the side, I could see how closely it followed my head above the ear. From behind, the nape looked deliberate and clean.

At the front door, Liz put her case down briefly and looked at me once more.

“If you want to check anything later, message me,” she said. “Otherwise, enjoy it.”

“I will.”

“And let me know how Nick gets on with the surprise.”

I smiled. “I thought you were being very professional about that.”

“I am. I’m also interested.”

After she left, the house felt unusually quiet.

My hand instinctively would reach for my nape. It felt so short yet soft, almost therapeutic to stroke. I now had a small piece of what I felt when I stroked Marija’s buzzed hair in the massage room all of those months earlier.

I made a tea, answered two emails and walked past the hallway mirror more times than I needed to. Every time, I stopped. Not because I was trying to decide whether I liked it. I had decided that. I was still getting used to the fact that it was me in the mirror.

—-

At about six, I heard Nick’s car on the drive.

I was in the kitchen when he came in through the hallway carrying a shopping bag.

“I ignored your instruction not to buy anything,” he called. “I got ingredients for risotto. And wine.”

He came into the kitchen and stopped.

For a moment, he did not say anything. His eyes moved over my hair and then back to my face.

I felt nervous again, suddenly and properly.

“Well?” I said.

He set the shopping bag on the worktop.

“That was a pleasant shock,” he said.

I smiled despite myself. “A good shock?”

“A very good shock.”

He came closer, then stopped a small distance away.

“You look incredible,” he said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

I watched his face for a second, making sure he was not simply trying to say the right thing.

“It’s much shorter than you expected,” I said.

“It is. But it suits you completely.”

He looked at the sides of my head, then the nape. “Can I touch it?”

I nodded.

His hand rested lightly above my ear, following the short hair without flattening the top. His fingers moved over the textured crown, then down to the nape. He paused there for a moment before taking his hand away.

“It’s softer than I thought it would be,” he said.

“I know.”

“You’ve been touching it all afternoon.”

“A reasonable amount.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

I turned my head slightly so he could see the other side. “Does it make me look strange?”

“No.”

“Different?”

“Yes,” he said. “But still you.”

That was exactly what I had wanted him to say.

He picked up the bag again and began taking out the mushrooms, rice and wine.

“I’ve spent the whole day wondering what it would look like,” he said. “You were right not to show me.”

“I know.”

“You’re enjoying saying that today.”

“A reasonable amount.”

He laughed, and I sat on one of the stools while he started dinner.

Every few minutes, my hand went to the side of my head or the back of my neck. The cut felt light, unfamiliar and very present. I could feel the air around my ears. I could feel the short nape whenever I moved my head against the collar of my jumper.

It had not been a sudden decision, even if the final change was dramatic. I had been moving towards it for months, only I had not understood that while I was doing it.

Now I did.

To Be Continued