Six Weeks, Shorter – 4 Years Later… (Part 2)

Previously…

Claire doesn’t ask why.

She never does.

I come back in from the hallway with my shoulders set, already braced. I still stop at the mirror—just long enough to pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe through my mouth until the tightness in my chest eases.

Not gone.

Just handled.

At the dining table, Claire looks up from her laptop. The inbox glow has pulled her into that focused, hard-edged version of herself—jaw set, attention locked. Then her eyes land on me and something in her shifts. Small. Real. The line doesn’t disappear. It makes room.

“Just answering a quick email,” she says. “After this—shall we make time for me to do something with your hair?”

It isn’t a question so much as a cue. A ritual.

We’ve been doing this for years. Ever since that anniversary night—reckless, laughing, a little drunk on freedom—when we buzzed and shaved each other’s heads and called it a clean start. We made hair into a language. Something that meant I trust you without either of us having to say it out loud.

Even when it grew back—long enough to hide behind—we kept the ritual. Curling wands. Diffusers. Clips. Bottles lined up on the bathroom shelf: heat protectant, mousse, shine spray. 

Claire learned what I liked. What made me feel sharper. What made her look at me like she’d just remembered she had teeth.

Sometimes it’s playful. Sometimes it’s precise. Sometimes it’s just her behind me, close, hands in my hair as if she’s already decided the shape.

I step closer and keep my voice light on purpose.

“Yeah,” I say. “You choose.”

I give her a quick wink because I know what it does.

Claire’s mouth doesn’t smile fully, but her eyes do. She closes the laptop with one clean click, like she’s shutting the rest of the world out.

“Come here,” she says, already pushing her chair back.

My chest loosens another fraction, because whatever I don’t say, whatever she doesn’t ask—this part is ours.

“Curly,” she says. “Big. Tight. Properly done.”

With that, she leads me out of the room

—

In the bedroom, she pats the space in front of the mirror.

“Sit,” she says, slipping into that mock stylist voice.

“Why, thank you,” I reply, and try to make it sound casual.

I sit. Claire stands behind me and lifts my hair at the roots with both hands, testing the weight. She lets it fall. Gathers it again. Fingers combing, pausing, combing—slow and deliberate.

She likes this. Making me look intentional. Putting shape on me that reads as chosen.

Tonight, the thought won’t leave me alone: this time tomorrow, there won’t be as much to touch.

I watch her in the mirror and the truth sits there, plain. She doesn’t know she’s holding this version of me for what might be the last time.

Her own hair is ruffled and shaggy—her usual, lived-in defiance. It’s been like that for some time now and I do often wonder when she will get an urge and come home looking different again.

She spritzes my lengths until they’re barely damp, then works product through with her hands. She picks up the dryer and diffuser and lifts sections at the scalp with her free hand.

Warm air, low noise, the steady rhythm of it.

“You’re serious,” she says, watching my reflection, watching me.

“I’m always serious,” I lie.

Claire gives a short huff. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’ve planned something and you’re pretending you haven’t.”

“I booked a meeting,” I say, like a line I can hide behind.

She leans in close enough that her breath warms my ear. “Sure.”

Then she goes back to my hair. Diffuser at the roots. Lift. Hold. Release. She builds volume on purpose, then switches to the curling iron—not because my hair won’t curl, but because she wants the curls to land where she wants them.

She works in sections. Wrap. Release. Let it cool. Alternates direction so it doesn’t fall into one heavy sweep. The iron clicks shut. The faint hiss of heat. The smell of product warming.

Claire knows where my hair wants to split. Where it frizzes if I rush. Where my scalp is tender. She knows what it does to me when she draws a curl forward so it brushes my cheek, when her knuckles graze my jaw and she doesn’t apologise.

I let my eyes close for a second.

“You’re enjoying this,” she murmurs.

“You know what this does to me,” I say.

“You can thank me afterward.” She teases with knowing implications.

When she’s done, she breaks the curls apart with her fingertips—careful, thorough—turning tight ringlets into a thick mass of defined coils. She fluffs the roots, lifts until the shape frames my face and shoulders, then steps to one side to check the balance. One curl adjusted. Another pulled forward. The surface smoothed just enough.

Finally, she stills. Her palms rest lightly at the sides of my head. Not pressing. Just holding.

When she steps back, I barely recognise the outline.

My hair is huge—thick, glossy, controlled without looking stiff. Tight curls everywhere, piled high and wide, making my face look sharper by comparison.

“There,” Claire says, as she removes her bobble to free her hair.

I meet her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes move over me slowly, like she’s taking me in properly.

“You look like you could walk into a room and people would notice,” she says, quiet.

My mouth parts, then closes again.

“You’re good at this,” I manage.

“I know.” Her gaze drops to my mouth. “Turn.”

I turn.

She leans down and kisses me. Not hesitant. Not polite. Her hand slides into my hair, fingers sinking into the lift she built, and I feel my breath catch.

I pull her closer by the waist. She makes a small sound against my lips—pleased, approving.

When she breaks the kiss, her forehead almost touches mine.

“This is you trying not to say something,” she murmurs.

I keep my voice steady. “It’s me keeping it to myself.”

Claire’s mouth curves. “Same thing.”

She kisses me once more—slower—then steps back as if she’s choosing restraint on purpose. Her hands stay at my shoulders for a beat before she lets go.

We don’t talk about tomorrow.

We both feel it anyway.

—

We leave together the next day, because our schedules still overlap in the way they always have.

In the morning I take a shower, feeling my curls from the previous night melt away. I style my hair back into its default—long, glossy, straightened. The centre part clean. The lengths heavy and smooth as they fall past my chest. No trace of last night’s riot. Just that sleek curtain that makes me look more put together than I feel.

Claire drops me near town on her way to the agency. Before I can unbuckle, she leans across and kisses me again—slow enough to reset my breathing.

“Text me when you’re done,” she says.

“I will.”

There is a meeting today. Just not a work one.

Claire laughs, warm and distracted, and pulls away from the curb. Her copper hair catches the light through the windshield.

I stand on the pavement for a moment. Cold air in my lungs. A thin breeze teasing the ends of my hair, trying to lift what I’ve pressed into submission.

Then I turn toward the salon.

The sign in the window is the same. The warm glow inside is the same. When I open the door, the scent hits immediately—citrus, heat, clean product, the faint mineral edge of dye. The hum of dryers. The low murmur of conversation.

Roxy looks up from behind the desk and lifts an eyebrow.

Today she’s all herself—no styled version, no effort. Just the look that she inherited during her own grow out period. She held on to her baldness for a while, then paused at a grade 4 buzzcut, before settling with her natural, springy curls in warm copper, covering her ears at the sides and fuller at the crown, a soft rounded shape that frames her face. She looks bright without trying.

There’s something else too. Not obvious. Just a steadier, more careful way she moves. When she stands, her hand brushes her middle for a second—quick enough to miss if you weren’t looking.

“Nice and sleek,” she says, eyes flicking over my centre part and the lengths pinned into obedience.

“I made an effort,” I answer.

Roxy’s smile is small and knowing. She doesn’t ask why I’m here. She doesn’t ask what happened at home. She doesn’t ask why I’m dressed like I’m headed into a conference room.

“Your chair, awaits” she says, already moving.

The cape snaps around my neck, neat and firm. The mirror shows me as I am now: composed, controlled, fine.

Roxy stands behind me and gathers my hair at the nape in her fist. She holds it there, not tugging, just taking stock.

“You’re overdue,” she says.

“I know.”

She meets my eyes in the mirror. “You booked longer than a tidy-up.”

“I did.”

Roxy waits. She’s good at that—leaving space until you fill it.

I take a breath. “I want you to decide again.”

Her expression barely changes, but her tone does. More direct.

“Okay, so we’re doing this again” she says. “Just remember, don’t negotiate me halfway through.” She smiles.

“I won’t,” I say, and mean it.

She sets her comb on my crown and draws a clean line, dead centre. Practical. No ceremony.

“First,” she says, “I think we’re going to go short. Proper short. Clean.”

My stomach drops—not with fear.

With relief.

She clips up sections quickly, then steps around so I can see her face.

“I’m not taking you all the way today unless you ask,” she says. “I’m not here to push you into something you’ll regret tomorrow.”

“I’m not asking,” I tell her.

“Good,” Roxy replies, calm. “Then we do what’s right.”

She moves behind me again and resets the comb at my part, keeping it precise.

“Blunt bob,” she says. “Chin-length. One shape. No layers.”

My breath catches.

“Centre part stays,” she adds. “It suits you.”

The scissors hover near my shoulder.

And the question I’ve been sitting on since last night rises anyway—travel, heat, clippers, bleach, the sharp freedom of it. The only time I’ve ever been blonde was when Claire buzzed and bleached my head on a trip and that was gone within the week.

“Can I ask something?” I say.

Roxy doesn’t stop working. “Ask.”

“How quickly could I go properly blonde?”

This time, she does pause. Just enough to answer properly.

“Proper blonde?” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Two visits,” she says. “Minimum. We can lift you today, but you don’t get to pale without paying for it somewhere. Hair, scalp, or time. I prefer time.”

I nod. It’s what I expected, and still it steadies me.

Roxy goes on, measured. “Today we cut first. Then we lift you toward honey for this bob. Warm. Clean. Expensive. Next appointment, we go lighter.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Good,” she replies, and gets to work.

The first cut changes the room. The sound is sharp and final. Hair drops to the cape in a heavy, dark sheet.

My throat tightens.

Roxy doesn’t hesitate. She takes the length up quickly. The weight I’ve carried for years slides off in minutes. My neck feels air where it hasn’t felt air in a long time.

She checks both sides, combing down, cutting to a blunt line. No softness. No apology. The perimeter becomes deliberate. The sides come to rest at my jaw, grazing the line where bone turns to throat. The back lands tidy at the nape.

“How does that feel?” she asks.

“Exposed,” I admit.

Roxy hums once. “Good.”

She takes me to the basin and washes out loose hair, resetting my scalp after the cut. Her fingers are firm and methodical, not rushed. The water is warm. The pressure is steady.

Back at the chair, she towel-dries, sections clean and fast.

“Right,” she says. “Honey.”

She mixes what she needs. Gloves. Bowl. Brush. The smell shifts—chemical edge under the salon’s clean citrus.

She applies it efficiently, keeping my centre part neat, working through the lengths with a plan. When she’s done, she sets a timer and pulls up a stool.

“We wait,” she says.

My phone buzzes in my lap.

Eva.

The first message is practical—timings, vendor details, whether the florist can shift an installation by a day. I answer quickly, neat and professional.

Then another message comes through right after.

Eva: Can I ask you something personal?

My fingers hover.

Eva: About when you were bald. If that’s okay.

My heart thumps. Steady but loud.

Roxy stands to tidy her station. She moves with that careful steadiness again. A mint tea sits by the till. She takes a sip, then sets it down like she’s thinking about it. She gives me privacy without making it obvious.

I return to typing.

Me: It’s okay. Ask.

Eva: Did you choose it? Or did it happen to you?

I stare at the question. It’s so blunt it feels kind.

Me: I chose it.

Eva: Was it scary?

I think of clippers. The first pass. Cold air on bare skin. Claire’s hands, careful.

Me: At first. Then it felt like relief.

A pause. Then:

Eva: I keep thinking about what you said. About not waiting.

My throat tightens.

Me: You don’t have to wait.

Eva: I’m trying to believe that.

I lock the screen before my face can show too much.

Roxy comes back, checks the timer, checks my hair, then leans on the counter for a second like her legs are arguing with her. She notices me watching and lifts an eyebrow.

“What?” she says.

“Nothing,” I answer too fast.

Roxy’s mouth flattens in a way that’s almost a smile. “Sure.”

She reaches for a product bottle, pauses, and sets it down again. Then she exhales through her nose, quiet, like she’s had to do that a lot lately.

The mint tea. The carefulness. The quick hand to her middle earlier.

I swallow.

“Can I ask you something,” I say, “and you can tell me to mind my business?”

Roxy looks at me in the mirror. “Go on.”

“Are you pregnant?”

For a beat, she doesn’t speak. Her face stays steady, but her eyes shift—something unguarded.

“Twelve weeks,” she says.

The words land with quiet weight.

I look at her properly.

“Congratulations,” I say, and I mean it.

Her shoulders loosen by a fraction. “Thanks.”

Then she nods once, brisk, and steps back into motion. That’s how she does things: accept, file, continue.

When the timer goes, she takes me to the basin, rinses carefully, then mixes toner with the same calm she’s used all morning. The honey settles into something warmer and cleaner.

Back at the chair, she blow-dries the bob into shape—pulling it smooth, directing everything inward at the ends so the line curves under and holds. No fuss. Just control in the finish.

She warms a small amount of serum between her palms and presses it over the surface until the hair catches the light.

“Alright,” she says. “Look.”

I look.

A blunt, chin-length bob with a clean centre part. The line unbroken. The nape neat and exposed. The colour isn’t full blonde—not pale, not dramatic—but the lengths are lifted into a warm honey tone that softens the dark and glows under the salon lights. Roots still read brunette. The overall effect looks intentional.

Compact. Clear.

The person in the mirror looks like me, and also like someone with fewer places to hide.

“It works,” Roxy says, simply.

I nod. My eyes sting briefly. Not sadness.

Something truer.

Roxy unclips the cape. Cut hair slides off in a dark pile onto the floor. Cold air touches the back of my neck and the underside of my jaw.

“You want it sharper?” she asks, meaning the line.

“No,” I say. “This is right.”

Roxy’s eyebrows lift, pleased. “Good.”

At the desk, I pay. Book the next appointment before I can overthink it.

“Six weeks,” Roxy says, as she taps it in. “Then we go lighter. Properly. Safely.”

I nod. “Six weeks.”

Roxy slides the receipt toward me. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

Outside, the cold air hits the back of my neck and I flinch once, more surprised than anything. The wind skims the ends at my jaw but can’t undo them. The centre part stays clean. The bob holds its shape.

It feels good.

—

At home, the first thing I do is shrug off my coat and let it drop where it drops. I don’t go to the mirror. I don’t need to.

My hair moves when I move now—light, responsive, swinging at my jaw and settling back into its tucked curve.

Claire is in the living room, phone in hand, pacing mid-call. She ends it the second she hears the door.

She turns.

Her whole face changes.

She doesn’t speak at first. Her gaze goes straight to the centre part, then down the clean curve of the bob, then to my nape where hair no longer hides anything. She swallows. I see it.

“Oh,” she says, quiet. “You cut it.”

“I did,” I answer. “And I started the blonde.”

Claire crosses the room too fast for someone who is usually controlled. She takes my face in both hands, thumbs at my jaw, holding me still like she needs to be sure.

Her eyes flick over the honey tone in the lengths, then back to the line at my chin.

“It’s so short,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that isn’t shock. It’s interest.

“It’s clean,” I say.

Claire’s hand slides to the back of my head. Fingers settle at my nape, testing the new access, the new line. She doesn’t tug. She just holds.

“It makes you look… direct,” she says.

I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

Claire’s gaze drops to my mouth. “Show me.”

“I’m right here,” I say.

“You know what I mean,” she replies, and kisses me.

Not a greeting. Not a question. Her mouth is on mine with immediate intent, and the new cut changes it. Her hand stays at my nape. She can hold me closer without searching.

I kiss her back hard enough that she has to brace.

She breaks the kiss only to breathe, forehead nearly touching mine.

“This is why you didn’t tell me,” she says, rougher now.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

Claire’s mouth finds my jaw, then my neck, then my mouth again. Her hand keeps returning to the back of my head, steadying me. Not force. Contact. Decision.

We make it to the bedroom with less talking and more intent.

After, we lie tangled in the quiet, the room cooling around us.

Claire’s palm rests on my stomach. Her fingers drift to my jaw, then to my hair, smoothing the tucked curve once as if she can’t resist checking that it’s still there.

“You look like you’ve come back to yourself,” she says.

“Maybe,” I murmur. “Or maybe I finally stopped hiding.”

Claire stays quiet. Her thumb moves slowly, grounding.

On the bedside table, my phone lights up.

Eva.

I don’t touch it.

Claire shifts closer until her shoulder presses into mine. The screen goes dark again.

“So,” she says, voice light, eyes sharp as she gently brushes some of my hair behind my ear. “Are we doing this again?”

I don’t answer right away.

I touch my now exposed neck. I feel how the cut changed the way Claire touched me, how quickly she hooked into it, how she couldn’t stop returning to it.

Then I look at her, and she’s watching me like she already knows.

“Yes,” I say.

And in the silence that follows, my scalp tingles—not with fear, not with doubt—just the clean awareness of what comes next.

Six weeks isn’t far away.

to be continued…