Red Bob
Our first year of living in London was certainly different from our humbler roots in Manchester. We were now much more financially comfortable thanks to Kevin’s transfer. He had settled into the club well, and as a result had gone from being familiar everywhere to being watched everywhere.
Where we were from, men would stop him in pubs and outside newsagents with the easy entitlement of people who thought they had helped raise him. In the capital, things felt more intrusive for him. As his exposure grew following the move, things were no longer normal. He was becoming something of an idol. I was happy to support him, whilst remaining out of the limelight.
I was also happy with my hair. The cut Ruth had given me was different, but the blonde spiked top and short sides suited me. It showed my face, sharpened my cheekbones, made me stand a little straighter. The darker roots had started to show through, and instead of making it look untidy, they gave the blonde more depth. I liked the height of it, the way I could push it up with my fingers and make it look as though I had meant every inch of it. It was not soft, and I did not want it to be. It made me feel clear, modern and fully awake.
Kevin loved touching it. He would come in from training, tired through the shoulders, and if I was standing at the kitchen counter making tea, he would come behind me and place his palm against the back of my head.
“You’re doing it again,” I said one evening.
He withdrew his hand. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say stop.”
He smiled and put it back.
“It’s softer now.”
“It’s growing.”
“I know.”
His thumb moved over the short blonde nape.
“But it’s still you.”
“Do I seem more different since we’ve lived here?” I asked, as I plated up our dinner.
Kevin considered it.
“You seem quieter.”
“I am quieter.”
“You’re still finding where you fit.”
It was kind of him. I had known my old newsroom by instinct. I knew which drawer stuck, which window leaked, and who would start shouting before lunch. At the agency, I completed my work, went home, and tried not to admit how much I missed being part of something I fully understood, and felt passionate about. Kevin told me it would come. I told him I knew.
Neither of us pressed the matter. He was learning a new team and a new manager. I was learning how to sell face cream in twelve words. We were settling, but at different speeds.
——
On a Friday evening in early autumn, Kevin had left with the team for an away match in Birmingham. Simon travelled with them. Claudia rang me at the agency before lunch.
“Hi. Are you still all right to come round tonight?”
“That sounds like an instruction.”
“Seven.”
“I finish at half past five.”
“Then you have plenty of time.”
She put the telephone down.
When the men stayed away, Claudia and I usually saw each other. Sometimes we went out, but more often I went to hers. We drank tea or wine and talked about acting, advertising, football, clothes and the women at club events who could make a polite question feel like an inspection. I expected the same thing that evening when I arrived at her home, carrying a bottle of wine.
Claudia opened the door wearing deep red lipstick, gold hoops and one of the most extravagant hairstyles I had ever seen.
“You’ve had your hair done.”
“I know. I got it done this morning.”
“You had it permed,” I said excitedly, as I entered her hallway.
“I fancied a change.”
Her dark brunette hair looked almost black in the lower light of the hallway, but warm auburn where the curls caught the lamps. It had been set into a dense, rounded mass of tight glossy curls, full through the crown and wide at the sides, with a short curly fringe resting against her forehead. It made her face look smaller and her eyes larger. There was nothing casual about it.
“You look incredible.”
“That was the intention.”
“It must have taken hours.”
“Most of the morning.”
She touched one side, pressing her palm into the spring of the curls before letting them bounce back.
“I wanted something different.”
“Well, you got it.”
“Yes,” she said, and for a second her smile did not quite hold. “I did.”
She stepped aside.
“You’re late.”
“It’s five past.”
“You said seven.”
“I stopped for your wine.”
She looked at the bottle.
“I’ll forgive you.”
Her sitting room was warm and orderly, furnished in cream, teal and polished wood. Claudia poured the wine while I removed my coat.
“How was the agency?”
“A man explained face cream to me for most of the afternoon.”
“Was he wearing any?”
“No. That apparently qualified him.”
She handed me a glass. We talked about Kevin and Simon’s match, a campaign I had been given, and an audition Claudia had attended earlier in the week.
She kept touching her hair. Not arranging it. She pressed her palm into the thick side, then drew her fingers through the ends, watching the curls pull out and spring back again. She also kept looking towards the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not very good at showing there’s nothing up.”
“I’m an actress.”
“Not tonight you’re not.”
She took a drink.
“You remember the science-fiction role I told you about?”
“The one they kept delaying?”
“They’ve finally given it the go-ahead.”
The role was not the lead, but the character appeared throughout, and the production had enough money behind it to matter.
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
I looked at her hair again. The new perm suddenly seemed less like vanity and more like theatre.
“Do they still want you to be bald?”
“Yes.”
“When for?”
“Initial photographs on Monday. Costume tests after that.”
“Monday?”
She drank again.
“Bloody hell, Claudia.”
“I know.”
“And you had that done this morning.”
Her hand went to the curls at her shoulder.
“I wanted it good once more.”
That was when I understood. The perm was not a whim. It was not Claudia being dramatic for the sake of it, though there was some of that too. She had sat for hours that morning while her hair was wound, set, dried and arranged into the fullest version of itself, knowing it would last only the weekend.
“Have you booked somewhere?”
“No.”
“You have two days.”
“I know.”
She stood.
“Come with me.”
A kitchen chair had been moved into the centre of the floor. Towels were spread beneath it. On the table stood scissors, clippers, a bowl, shaving cream, a razor, fresh blades and two folded hand towels. Everything had been arranged neatly.
I stopped beside the table.
“You’re doing it here?”
“Not exactly.”
Claudia folded her arms.
“I want you to do it.”
I stared at her.
“Me? Why me?”
“Well, I suppose I wanted it done by a friendly face.”
I could tell she was scared by the prospect of having to get all of her hair cut off for the role.
“You knew that when you rang me,” I replied.
“Yes.”
“You might have warned me.”
“You might not have come.”
“That should tell you something.”
“Please.”
I looked at the tools again.
“I have never cut anyone’s hair.”
“I know.”
“That is not a small detail.”
“I don’t need a good haircut.”
“You need someone who can use scissors without removing part of your ear.”
“I need someone I trust.”
“You could go to a salon.”
“I couldn’t face it.”
“And Simon?”
“He offered.”
“But you said no.”
“I don’t want to sit there watching him try not to look upset.”
Her hand returned to the curls at her shoulder.
“I don’t want a stranger telling me it’s only hair. I don’t want anyone praising me every few minutes. I want it done here.”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
“I don’t think I am, Allison.”
She looked at the chair.
“You’re the only person I know who would understand. You’re the only woman I know who’s been that close to bald. I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather ask.”
She was frightened. She had disguised it with lipstick, a fresh perm and a carefully prepared kitchen, but it was there.
“Why did you have it done like that this morning?”
Her fingers closed around one thick curl.
“I wanted it good once more.”
That settled it. Not because it made me feel capable. It did the opposite. But I understood what she wanted me to take from her. I set down my glass.
“All right.”
Relief crossed her face, followed immediately by fear.
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
She reached for her wine.
“Sit down before I change my mind.”
——
Claudia lifted her hair while I fastened the pale cape around her neck. I took its weight from her as I secured the fastening. It was heavier than I expected. When she released it, the curls settled across the cape, holding their rounded shape even after her hands left them. I tried to comb through the back, but the teeth caught almost immediately.
“It’s thicker than it looks,” I said.
“It always was. Now it’s worse.”
“Better.”
She gave me a nervous smile.
“Tonight, worse.”
Claudia drank again.
“You can still stop,” I said.
“No.”
I had no idea how a hairdresser would have divided it, so I made three rough sections and secured the first low at the back. The curls resisted my hands. It was so thick my fingers barely closed around it. I placed the scissors above the band. Claudia lowered her glass. I closed the blades.
They pressed into the gathered curls and stopped. Her shoulders tightened beneath the cape.
“They’re through most of it,” I said, though I was not entirely sure.
I opened them and cut again. The section came free with a sudden give, springing shorter in my hand as soon as it was no longer attached to her head. Claudia’s head lifted slightly as the weight left it. I held the severed curls for a moment. They were warm from her neck and still held the shape the hairdresser had given them that morning. Then I placed them on the table.
She stared at them.
I gathered the second section before either of us could think too much. That one came away more easily. Then the third. Dark curls slid down the cape and landed on the towels. The extravagant shape she had paid for that morning broke apart quickly. One side still bulged thickly around her cheek while the other ended below her ear in an uneven, springing mass. I kept one hand against her head whenever I could.
“You’re all right.”
She nodded and reached for the wine. I cut what remained to roughly jaw length. The result was thick and uneven. One side curved towards her face. The other kicked out. The curls had their own ideas about shape and direction. It was the first haircut I had ever given anyone, and it showed.
Claudia touched the shorter side.
“Does it look awful?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“It looks unfinished.”
“That means awful.”
“It means I’ve only just started.”
I moved behind her and cut the back higher. Small curls fell against the cape. A few found their way inside the collar, and Claudia shifted when they touched her skin. I brushed them from her neck with a towel. She shivered.
I shortened the sides around her ears, working cautiously because I did not trust my fingers or the scissors. The rough bob became a dense curly wedge. Then the wedge began to disappear as I removed more from the crown. Every few cuts, I stepped back. I had never noticed how quickly hair altered a face. One section released an ear. Another exposed the angle beneath her cheekbone. Taking the nape shorter lengthened her neck. I began to understand the appeal. There was an immediate answer to every movement of my hand.
I cut the front away from her face. A thick curl slid across her cheek before dropping onto the cape. Claudia closed her eyes. I left a broken curly fringe because I did not know how to make it even. Then I lifted sections at the crown between my fingers and shortened them, following instinct rather than method. The fear of ruining it began to leave me. Nothing I did would survive the evening. That freedom made me bolder.
I cut closer around the ears. I reduced the back to short, uneven tufts. I pushed my fingers through the crown, saw where the curls stood, and cut into them again.
“You’re enjoying this,” Claudia said.
I looked at her in the dark window.
“Yes.”
The truth surprised me. Holding the scissors. Choosing where the hair ended. Watching the next version of Claudia appear before either of us had adjusted to the last. Every time she touched the new length, something in her face loosened. I shortened the fringe again.
The result was a rough curly pixie: close around the ears, irregular at the nape, fuller through the crown and broken across the forehead. It had clearly been cut by somebody with no experience. It also suited her. Her eyes looked larger without the heavy mass of curls. Her cheekbones appeared higher. The red lipstick looked sharper against the exposed shape of her face.
I put down the scissors. Claudia lifted both hands. She touched around the ears first, then pushed her fingers into the crown. She rubbed the short nape with her palm and closed her eyes.
“How does it feel?”
“Light.”
She ruffled the top. The short curls sprang back.
“I can feel my head.”
“You had one before.”
“Not like this.”
I picked up the clippers. Her hands stopped. For a moment, the fear returned. Then she held out one hand.
“I want to do the first part.”
I passed them to her. She found the switch and studied the blades.
“You need to keep them flat,” I said.
Claudia switched them on. The vibration startled her. She tightened her grip, then raised the clippers towards the centre of her forehead. The blades hovered above the broken fringe. I placed my hand lightly around her wrist. She took a breath and pushed them backwards.
The fringe disappeared first. The blades entered the longer curls on top, forcing them upwards before cutting through. Dark pieces scattered across the cape. Claudia stopped halfway into the crown and switched the clippers off. A narrow strip of close dark velvet ran back from her hairline. She touched it immediately. Her fingertips moved forwards and backwards across the short strip. Colour rose beneath her makeup.
“That feels good.”
She rubbed it again. Then she handed me the clippers.
“Do the rest.”
This was no more familiar to me than the scissors had been. I knew how clippers felt against my own head. I did not know how to hold them against somebody else. I stood in front of her and looked at the strip she had made. It began at the broken fringe and ran back into the crown, clean and dark against the remaining curls. I placed my palm lightly against the side of her head.
“Keep still.”
She lowered her hands into her lap. I switched the clippers on.
Starting beside the strip she had made, I set the blades flat against her fringe and pushed them back over the top of her head. The dark hair folded away. One pass. Then another. The clippers travelled from her hairline into the crown, cutting through the rough curls and leaving close dark velvet behind. Hair dropped onto the cape in soft, uneven clumps. Claudia’s eyes followed the movement as far as they could. Each time I brought the clippers forward again, her gaze returned to them.
I worked slowly across the top, from the centre towards one side, then back across to the other. The broken fringe vanished completely. The last of the crown curls lifted, trembled, and came away. Claudia inhaled sharply but did not pull away. I learned to keep the blade flat and let the machine do the work. Each pass became shorter.
The top of her head changed beneath my hand. The height went first. Then the shape. Then the softness of the perm disappeared altogether, reduced to a close dark surface that caught the kitchen light like velvet. I switched the clippers off for a moment. Claudia raised one hand at once. Her palm moved from her forehead backwards, following the path I had made. She rubbed the newly buzzed scalp with her fingertips, then pressed her whole hand against it. She closed her eyes.
“That does feel good,” she said again, quieter this time, calmed by the gentle vibrations of the clippers.
I let her raise a hand to feel the bristles. The wine glass stood forgotten on the table. Dark curls lay across the cape and gathered against her shoulders. Then I switched the clippers on again. This time I moved behind her.
“Chin down.”
She lowered it. I placed my palm against Claudia’s crown and started at the nape. The clippers moved upwards through the rough tufts and left a close strip behind. Claudia’s shoulders lifted slightly, then settled. I made another pass beside it. Then another.
The buzz spread across the back of her head, joining the close velvet already running over the top. I worked steadily upwards until the back met the crown without a break. Claudia relaxed beneath my hand. Her head began to rest into my palm, trusting me to guide it. I moved around her right ear, folding it down carefully with my thumb. Her eyes closed. A small smile appeared as the vibration travelled above the ear. I did the other side. The remaining hair vanished around her temples and above her ears, the last curls falling away in small dark pieces.
When the sides and back were evenly buzzed, I went over the whole head from different directions, checking with my fingertips for places I had missed. The shape was gone now. The perm was gone. Everything had been reduced to the same close dark velvet.
“How does it look?” She asked, seeking some reassurance.
“Its looking perfect, if I don’t mind saying.” I replied, actually feeling proud of my efforts as I checked over her headed for any bits I’d missed..
When I switched the clippers off, Claudia reached up at once. Both hands moved over her scalp. First the crown. Then the sides. Then the back. She felt everywhere, slowly, as if she needed to learn the new shape by touch before she could believe it belonged to her. I watched her palms travel over the close dark nap. Her eyes had changed. The fear had not vanished completely, but it had loosened. Something else had come through it. A kind of wonder.
She stood suddenly.
“I need a minute.”
She did not wait for me to answer. She left the kitchen and went through into the hallway, one hand still moving over the back of her head.
The room became very quiet. The wine glass stood forgotten on the table. Dark curls lay across the cape, the chair, the floor. The clippers were still in my hand, warm from use. I looked down at them.
For a moment, I thought about doing it. Just lifting the clippers to my own head and running them over the pale-blonde shape, letting them bite through the spikes and the lift until all of it was gone. The thought was simple and physical. The hair falling. The shape disappearing. Only soft stubble left beneath my hand.
I wondered what Kevin would think. He had liked it before. I knew that. He liked the plainness of it. The way there was nothing between his hand and my head. The way it made me look more direct. I could almost feel his palm at the back of my skull. My thumb found the switch. For one second, I imagined the vibration starting again.
Then I stopped. I lowered the clippers. This was Claudia’s moment. She had chosen me to take her through it. If I put myself in the chair now, I would turn her transformation into something shared, something performed, something no longer entirely hers. The thought remained mine. I placed the clippers on the table.
A moment later, Claudia came back into the kitchen. Her face was calmer. Her hands were at her sides now, though her fingertips kept twitching as if they wanted to return to her scalp.
“All right,” she said.
——
She sat back down, still wearing the cape, her hand already returning to her head. She smiled openly.
“I thought that would have been the worst part.”
Her hand moved slowly from her forehead to her nape.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Her fear had become excitement. She liked the shape of her head, the sensation beneath her palms, the movement of my hands across it. I ran my palm from her forehead over the close buzz to the nape. Claudia closed her eyes and leaned into the touch. The razor and shaving cream waited on the table. She opened her eyes and looked towards them.
“Finish it.”
I brought the bowl closer and worked warm water across the buzz. Claudia tipped her head slightly back as my fingers moved over her scalp. I applied shaving cream from her forehead towards the crown, then down the sides and nape. The dark velvet disappeared beneath the white foam.
The first stroke of the razor cleared a smooth path at the front. She exhaled slowly. The clippers had filled the kitchen with noise. The razor left it quiet. I held the skin firm with one hand and used short, careful strokes with the other. Every few inches, I stopped, rinsed the blade and checked the skin with my fingertips.
Claudia remained still. I worked over the crown and down one side. Around the ears, I moved slowly, frightened of cutting her. She turned whenever I guided her, offering each part of her head without hesitation. By the time I reached the back, she no longer appeared to be enduring the loss of her hair. She was enjoying the completion of it.
I tipped her forward and shaved towards the nape. My fingertips followed the blade, checking the smoothness. Claudia shivered. When the whole scalp had been cleared, I wiped away the remaining cream with a warm towel. There were rough places above one ear and low at the back. I added more cream and went over them. Then I placed both hands against the sides of her head.
“It’s done.”
I handed her a makeup mirror to see her finished look.
Claudia opened her eyes and studied her reflection. For a moment, she only breathed. Then she raised her hands and covered mine. She guided them upwards over the smooth curve of her scalp before releasing them and feeling it herself. Her palms moved from her forehead to her nape. Once. Then again, more slowly. She looked down at the curls on the table.
“I was terrified of this.”
“I know.”
“I thought I’d feel stripped.”
“Do you?”
Claudia looked at me.
“No.”
Her hand moved over the smooth crown.
“I feel free.”
I removed the cape. Cut hair slid from her shoulders and joined the rest on the towels. Claudia stood, then sat again almost immediately, one hand still moving across her scalp. She turned towards the mirror once more. Her eyes were more visible. Her neck looked longer. She appeared exposed, but not diminished.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
She studied the outline in the glass.
“Do I look ill?”
“No. You look as though you chose it.”
Claudia touched the centre of her scalp, where she had made the first pass.
“I did.”
We began clearing the kitchen. I emptied the bowl and rinsed the razor. Claudia gathered the long sections together on the tiled floor. The curls looked strange separated from her, still formed, still glossy, still carrying the shape of that morning. Neither of us suggested throwing them away.
She stood close while I wiped a trace of cream from behind her ear. Her scalp was faintly pink near one temple. The skin felt warm beneath my thumb. Claudia caught my wrist. I thought she wanted me to check another patch. Instead, she placed my palm against the back of her head.
“Feel it.”
“I have been feeling it.”
“Not now it’s finished.”
I moved my hand from the nape towards the crown. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked directly at me. Her hand rose to the short blonde hair above my ear. She leaned closer.
For one second, I did not move. She had drunk most of the wine. She was flushed and exhilarated. I had spent the evening with my hands in her hair and against her scalp. The closeness had stopped feeling ordinary before either of us acknowledged it.
In a moment, possibly overcome with emotion from the night’s events, Claudia leant in to kiss me. Reading the signs, I placed my hand against her shoulder and turned my face away.
“Claudia.”
She stopped immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
She touched her smooth head again.
“You’ve had wine,” I said. “You’ve just had all your hair shaved off, and you’re rather pleased with yourself.”
“More than rather.”
“I noticed.”
A small, embarrassed laugh escaped her.
“It won’t happen again.”
“Good.”
“Are we all right?”
“Yes.”
The answer came easily.
“Drink some water.”
She did. I made tea while she cleaned the table. By the time the kettle boiled, the moment had returned to its proper size. We talked about Monday’s photographs.
“They’ll assume I’m ill,” Claudia said.
“They won’t be used to this version of you, that’s for sure. It’ll draw a lot of attention.”
“That is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
“You needn’t be. You look stunning.”
She ran a palm over her head.
“I do, don’t I?” she laughed.
“Do you think Simon will like it?”
“I think he’ll be surprised.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
She accepted that. When I left, Claudia stood in the hallway wearing her teal blouse, cream trousers, red lipstick and gold hoops. Bald, she looked entirely unlike the woman who had opened the door. She also looked more certain.
“Good luck Monday.”
“Thank you.”
“Wear something warm.”
“I’m bald, not elderly.”
“Your head will still be cold.”
She smiled. We hugged and I kissed her cheek. Then I went home.
——
Kevin returned the following afternoon. His boots landed beside the back door. His bag remained in the hall. Mud marked one leg of his trousers, and he looked tired of hearing the match discussed. He made tea while I stood at the counter.
“How was Claudia?”
“Fine.”
He looked at me.
“She had me shave her head.”
“Really?” he said, surprised. “For the role?”
“Yes.”
“How did she take it?”
“Better than she expected.”
I put my mug down.
“She tried to kiss me afterwards.”
Kevin stopped stirring.
“And?”
“Well, she was quite drunk. I stopped it.”
He looked at me for a moment.
“Did you want her to?”
“No, of course not,” I replied.
“All right.”
“She’d been drinking. And she was affected by the whole thing.”
“I gathered.”
“She stopped when I asked.”
He finished stirring his tea.
“I believe you,” he said. “I just wish it hadn’t happened.”
“So do I.”
It unsettled me because, alone later, I had admitted something to myself that I would not have said aloud. In another life, under different circumstances, I might not have turned away quite so quickly.
Later, we sat together in the front room with the radio on quietly. His hand went to the back of my hair as I read my book. The touch was careful for a moment. Then it became ordinary again.
——
Claudia’s photographs appeared two weeks later. The production had darkened her eye makeup and dressed her in something pale and severe, high at the neck. Her smooth head, which she was now maintaining, made the character look exotic yet menacing.
She invited me around to show me that Friday, while Kevin and Simon were away. We were in the kitchen, drinking tea rather than wine. Her scarf lay folded on the table.
“You look almost terrifying,” I said.
“In the right way?”
“Of course.”
She went quiet for a moment and then began to reflect on what happened that night.
“I owe you a proper apology,” she said.
“You already apologised.”
“Not properly.”
I waited.
“I had no right to put you in that position. I know I was overwhelmed, but that doesn’t make it yours to manage.”
“You stopped when I said your name.”
“I should not have needed stopping.”
“No.”
She accepted that without flinching.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want it sitting between us.”
“Then we won’t put it there.”
She looked relieved, but she did not make a joke. That helped more than a joke would have done. After that, we left it alone.
——
At club events, people would stare. A few of the players’ wives would comment, with one calling it a bold choice. Another quietly asked whether she was well and seemed disappointed when Claudia explained the role. A younger woman simply told her she looked fantastic. Claudia mentioned that compliment twice later while pretending it had not mattered.
Simon did not claim to prefer the baldness to the hair she had worn for years, but he never asked her to cover it. At one dinner, I saw him place his palm briefly against the back of her smooth head while talking to somebody beside him. Claudia caught me watching. She smiled.
The production kept her shaved through winter. She bought silk scarves for cold days and had two wigs made, one a polished brunette bob and the other longer and softly layered. She wore them when she chose, then removed them at home. When filming ended in early spring, I expected her to let the shadow appear. She did not.
We met for coffee one afternoon. Claudia arrived wearing a patterned head wrap and large sunglasses. After sitting down, she unwound the scarf. Her scalp was freshly shaved.
“You’re keeping it.”
“For now.”
“You did that this morning?”
“Simon did the back.”
She moved her palm once over the crown.
“I let it grow for nearly a week.”
“And?”
“I hated it.”
“Was it the stubble?” I commented.
“No. More the assumption.”
“What assumption?”
“That I was going to grow it back.”
She folded the scarf beside her cup.
“A few people assumed what I was going to do next when the shadow began to appear. They started discussing crops and how quickly hair grows.”
“And you didn’t want it to.”
“No.”
There was no uncertainty in her face.
“I miss my old hair sometimes,” she said. “I miss having it done. I miss how it moved.”
“But you don’t want it back.”
“No.”
She touched the smooth centre of her scalp.
“Missing something is not the same as wanting to return to it.”
Over time, our friendship remained dry, affectionate and uncomplicated. We still met when Kevin and Simon were away. Claudia asked my opinion on scarves and wigs. I told her when one made her look like somebody’s wealthy aunt. She told me my hair was becoming respectable.
Mine kept growing. I stopped having the sides taken so close. The dark roots became part of the colour. The front loosened, the hair around my ears lengthened and the nape feathered farther down. I still thought about the clippers. But wanting something did not require doing it. I let my hair grow.
——
By the following summer, it was confirmed that Simon was being transferred to Monaco, and Claudia would be moving away. At first, people mentioned that another English club was interested. Then a French team with plenty of money. Finally, the deal was agreed with Monaco. Claudia had resisted the idea at first of moving abroad. Simon moved as soon as the contract was completed, while she remained in London to finish an acting job she had already accepted.
The science-fiction show, which Kevin and I tuned into watch every Sunday night, had brought her more opportunities. Not fame, but enough that people returned her calls and remembered her name. An agent in France believed she could work there.
“I’m beginning to come around to the idea of moving,” Claudia said over lunch one afternoon.
“You were determined to resent it.”
“I suppose it was the idea of learning the language.”
“And now?”
“I’ve seen the apartment that overlooks the harbour.”
She laughed. She wore a cream silk blouse and a deep-blue scarf threaded with gold. My hair had grown into a soft pale-blonde feathered crop that covered most of my ears. Claudia studied it.
“You look softer.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
She loosened the scarf and removed it. Her scalp was smooth.
“So the bald head is staying put?”
“I’ve become quite attached to it.”
“It suits you.”
“I enjoy the ease.”
She retied the scarf with practised hands. It no longer looked like concealment. It was simply part of how she dressed.
——
Before she left, we met once more. The same café. Different weather. Claudia arrived in an expensive deep-blue head scarf that Simon had bought her. We talked about packing, agents, Simon’s contract, French lessons and whether she would write to me. I preferred written communication to the telephone. She insisted she would. I believed her, though I was not sure what distance would do to the rhythm between us.
Outside, beside the waiting car, she hugged me. Then she kissed my cheek. Carefully, but without awkwardness.
“Write,” she said.
“You too.”
“I will.”
She smiled.
“Look after that hair.”
“I’ll try.”
“You won’t.”
“Probably not.”
“I know you better now.”
And with that, She got into the car. I stood on the footpath and watched it pull away.
For a moment, I thought about her kitchen. The extravagant curls she had worn for their final evening. The first heavy section in my hand. The rough pixie. The path of the clippers. Her smooth scalp beneath my palm. She had asked me to change her because she trusted me. Everything after that had belonged to her.
——
When I returned home, Kevin was in the front room with the radio on and the newspaper open across his knees.
“How was she when she left?”
“She put on a front, but it’s obvious she is still nervous about this move.”
I sat beside him. Kevin put his arm around me and ran his fingers lightly through the feathered hair at my nape.
“Simon said we could visit them there once they’ve settled down there”
“She said something similar. That’s definitely going to be something to look forward to.”
He smiled. I leaned against him and looked around the room. The curtains had finally been replaced. Our books filled the shelves. My agency papers were stacked beneath the lamp, and Kevin’s boots were beside the back door where they had been since our first week. The house no longer felt temporary. Neither did the city.
Kevin turned my face towards his and kissed me. The newspaper slipped onto the floor as I moved closer. His hands settled at my waist, then beneath my blouse. There was no caution in it.
—-
Later, I took a shower and washed my hair. I couldn’t help but notice how long it was getting as I slicked it back off my face. My mind drifted to how Claudia was embracing her bald look, and how she was now keeping it shaved. I wasn’t sure I could pull off such as daring and brave look, but I was beginning to wonder where I would go with my hair over the next year or so.
I walked out of the bathroom and into our bedroom. Kevin smiled as I climbed into bed and positioned my head against his chest while the radio continued quietly in the other room. The bedroom window was open slightly to the summer air. My hair was still damp and flattened on one side. Kevin brushed it back from my face.
“It’s getting long,” he said.
“It barely covers my ears.”
“That’s long for you.”
I lifted my head.
“Are you complaining?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He smiled and pulled me closer.
