The Wedding Guest (Part 2)

Previously…

For the first few days, the pixie felt like I’d made a joke and then had to stick with it.

Not because it looked bad. It didn’t. It looked… good, annoyingly. Clean. Sharp. Like it was on purpose.

It just felt strange. My hands didn’t know what to do. I kept reaching to tuck hair behind my ear and then remembering there was nothing to tuck. My ear was just there. Out. I kept catching myself in mirrors and doing a tiny double-take, like my brain needed a second to catch up.

Showering was the weirdest part.

There was nothing to wash. Nothing to condition. Nothing to squeeze out, wrap up, and wrestle into a towel. I kept standing there thinking, Surely that can’t be it?

But it was.

And then, somewhere around the end of week one, I stopped waiting for the panic that never arrived.

Instead, I started enjoying it.

Mornings became stupidly simple. I’d do my face, run my fingers through the top with a bit of product, and that was it. Me. Done. No hairdryer. No heated tools. No ten-minute debate with myself about whether I looked “better” with one side tucked back.

I didn’t realise how much time I’d been spending on that kind of thing until I stopped doing it.

And then I started styling it just because it was fun.

Some days I pushed the top forward so it sat softer. Some days I slicked it back and it made me feel more put together. Once, for no reason at all, I went for a slightly messy, piecey look and kept it because Tom looked up from his laptop and did that slow blink he does when he’s thinking something he’s not saying out loud.

“What?” I asked, instantly defensive.

He smiled like he’d been caught. “Nothing.”

“You’re doing the face,” I said.

“I’m not doing a face,” he lied.

I walked over and tilted my head so he could see it properly. “Is it bad?”

Tom’s hand lifted without thinking and brushed the side of my head. “It’s… really not bad.”

His fingertips stayed there a second too long, and I felt it straight in my stomach.

I stepped back before I made it weird.

I booked a follow-up with Leanne a week later.

Not because it desperately needed it, but because I liked knowing it was booked. It felt like I was making a decision twice: once when I cut it, and again when I chose to keep it.

Leanne called it a “freshen and reshape,” in that brisk, no-nonsense way she has.

I said yes before she’d even finished the sentence.

Four weeks after the wedding, I was out shopping on a Saturday doing the usual loop—half purposeful, half just killing time. I was standing in front of a rack of jumpers, holding one and trying to figure out if I already owned something basically identical, when I saw someone I recognised.

Eva.

I recognised her faster than I expected. Not because she was doing anything dramatic. It was her fantastic buzzed head that made stand out.

It had grown a little since the wedding mind, but it was still short enough that you couldn’t pretend it was “in between.” It still looked on point. It still made her face look open, like she hadn’t tried to soften herself back down.

My first instinct was to look away. Then I stopped myself.

I took a couple of steps toward her and hesitated, suddenly aware that approaching someone in a shop aisle is actually quite odd.

Then I thought of the wedding—of the room going quiet and Eva just walking anyway—and decided I could handle a bit of awkward.

“Hi,” I said.

Eva looked up, eyes flicking over me. For a second she didn’t place me. Then her face shifted.

“Oh—Tom’s wife,” she said, like she’d found the right label.

“Emma,” I said quickly. “I’m Emma.”

Eva smiled. “Emma. Hi.”

“I hope this isn’t strange,” I started, already regretting it, “but I just wanted to say… your wedding was gorgeous.”

Eva’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

“And you looked…” I paused, because saying it out loud always feels more embarrassing than it should. “You looked really good. As a bride. With the buzzcut.”

“Like myself?” she offered, amused.

“Yes,” I said, relieved. “Exactly.”

Eva laughed. “I’ll take that.”

I gestured at my own head, suddenly self-conscious. “Also—this happened since then.”

Eva’s eyes flicked over my pixie and she nodded immediately. “That looks great on you.”

The straightforwardness of it made something in my chest unclench.

“Honestly,” I said, and surprised myself by saying it, “seeing you kind of pushed me. I didn’t realise how much I was defaulting to the same safe thing until I saw you and thought, Oh. You can just… do that.”

Eva’s smile got smaller, more knowing. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s exactly how it felt for me too.”

We stood there for a second next to the jumpers, both of us aware we were having a sincere conversation surrounded by knitwear.

Then Eva nodded toward the front of the shop.

“Do you want a coffee?” she asked.

I blinked. “Now?”

Eva shrugged. “If you’ve got time.”

I did. I just hadn’t expected this.

“Yeah,” I said, a bit too fast. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

We found a café round the corner, the kind with wobbly little tables and a pastry display that makes you feel judged for ordering something sensible.

We both ordered coffee anyway and sat by the window.

“How’s married life?” I asked, because it felt like the normal question.

Eva pulled a face. “Scott still leaves his socks in places that make no sense. So. The same.”

I laughed, and it loosened something. It felt easy with her. Like she wasn’t trying to be anything.

Eva took a sip of coffee, then said, quieter, “I didn’t expect the hair to matter as much as it did.”

“In what way?” I asked.

She stared at her cup for a second, thumb rubbing the cardboard sleeve.

“It sounds dramatic,” she said, and rolled her eyes at herself. “But it felt like I needed to step out of the norm. Does that make sense? Like I didn’t have to keep toeing the line with myself and my appearance, so nobody would be uncomfortable.”

That hit me hard enough that I swallowed.

“It didn’t read as dramatic,” I said. “It read as… calm.”

Eva smiled. “Yeah. Calm is the word.”

I nodded at her hair. “So I can see you’ve kept it regularly maintained?”

Eva’s mouth twitched. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, already wanting the answer.

Eva leaned back slightly. “On honeymoon, I got Scott to shave it.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Bald?”

“Bald,” she confirmed. “Properly bald. Smooth.”

My stomach flipped before my brain could catch up.

“And you liked it?” I asked.

Eva laughed. “I loved it. I felt weirdly peaceful.”

She glanced at her reflection in the window. You could see the growth now—soft stubble, a little longer in places.

“It’s been four weeks,” she said, “and it’s already long enough to annoy me. Which sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t,” I said, without thinking. And I meant it.

Eva looked back at me, more open again. “I keep thinking about doing it again. I miss how it felt.”

I nodded slowly. Not because I was weighing it up for her.

Because my mind was already moving ahead.

It wasn’t about copying her. It was just… I wanted to know.

Outside the café we had that small, awkward moment where you both smile and neither of you knows whether to hug.

Eva solved it by doing a quick, friendly hug anyway.

“Message me,” she said when we pulled apart. “If you ever want… I don’t know. Moral support.”

I laughed. “You might regret that.”

“I won’t,” she said, easy, and then she was gone.

I stood there for a second holding my empty cup, then finally found a bin and walked back to my car.

By the time I sat down, my mind was made up.

I was getting a buzzcut.

The only question was whether I wanted Leanne to do it—with her calm, professional hands and no fuss—or whether I wanted Tom to do it at home, where it could be private and slightly ridiculous and ours.

—-

By the time I got home, I still hadn’t decided.

But the thought sat under my ribs all evening.

We had tea. We talked about normal things. Tom told me something about someone at work. I responded in the right places. I kept touching the side of my head, like I was checking something was still there.

After we’d washed up, I went upstairs and laid everything out on the bed.

Clippers. Guards. Towel. Cape. Oil. Mirror.

It looked mildly unhinged. Like I’d watched one too many videos and decided to become a different person overnight.

I stared at it, heart thudding—not panic. Just nerves and excitement tangled together.

Then I called Tom upstairs.

He appeared in the doorway, saw the clippers, and stopped.

“…What’s happening?” he asked, half laughing.

I didn’t give myself time to build up to it. If I did, I’d turn it into a speech.

“I want a buzzcut,” I said.

Tom blinked. “Tonight?”

“Now.”

He came a step closer, eyes flicking between the kit and my face. “What. Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

“What length are you thinking?”

“A Grade two,” I said.

Tom’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s short.”

“I know.”

He hesitated for a second, like he was trying to choose the best version of his reaction.

Then he asked, quieter, “And you definitely want me to do it?”

“I do,” I said. Then I admitted what I’d been circling all day. “I think I want it to be you.”

Tom’s face softened.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Come here.” As he pulled me in for a hug.

I sat on the edge of the bed and tucked the towel around my shoulders. Tom plugged the clippers in and turned them on. The hum filled the room and my stomach flipped.

He picked up a guard, squinted at it, and held it up.

“This one’s two?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, trying not to laugh.

Tom clipped it on, tested the clippers again, then looked at me properly.

“Last chance to change your mind,” he said.

“I’m not changing my mind,” I said, too fast.

He smiled. “Alright.”

His hand rested on the top of my head first, just for a second. Then he placed the clippers at my crown.

“Ready?” he asked.

I took a breath. “Ready.”

The first pass was a shock.

Vibration, noise, and then the odd feeling of air on skin. Hair slid down onto the towel in soft little piles.

Tom lifted the clippers and stared at the strip he’d made.

“Oh my god,” he said quietly.

I laughed once, breathy. “Keep going.”

He did.

Slowly, carefully, like he was trying not to mess it up. He kept checking with his palm, smoothing over the bristle to feel for uneven bits. He took ages around my ears, and I could tell he was terrified of nicking me.

Halfway through, he paused what he was doing.

“Everything ok” I asked.

“Sorry, no yes everything’s fine. Just need to take my shirt off. Didn’t realise how much of your hair was going start landing on my top.” He said with a chuckle.

I started laughing properly, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“You should have provided my with an apron,” he muttered, but he was laughing too.

That made it easier. It felt like us again, not a big dramatic moment. Just a very strange domestic thing we’d probably make jokes about later.

When he finished, he turned the clippers off and the quiet felt huge.

Tom brushed loose hair from my shoulders, then held the handheld mirror up so I could see.

Grade two all over.

Even. Close. Neat.

My face looked more there. My neck looked longer. My ears were fully out. I looked like I couldn’t hide behind anything anymore.

I stared, waiting for regret to kick in.

It didn’t.

What I felt instead was relief. And this steady satisfaction that surprised me.

Tom watched my face like he was trying to read it.

“Well?” he asked as he put his t-shirt back on, attempting to appear casual and failing.

I touched the side of my head. The texture made me swallow.

“I really like it,” I said.

Tom exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ages. “Thank god,” he breathed, then laughed at himself.

“I knew you were nervous,” I said.

“I was terrified,” he admitted. “I was genuinely considering calling Leanne.”

That made me laugh again—soft and relieved.

Tom stepped closer and ran his hand over my head, slow, like he couldn’t help it. His touch made my stomach flip again. He noticed and smiled like he’d caught me.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “So. Still you.”

“Still me,” I said. “Just… less hair.”

He kissed me, quick and warm, and it was enough to settle me.

Afterwards, Tom started clearing the bed like he was tidying up a crime scene—folding the towel, shaking hair into the bin, wiping the clippers with the little brush like he’d watched a tutorial once and was determined not to ruin them.

I went into the bathroom and checked myself again under the light, turning my head left and right. Touching it. Not to check for mistakes. Just to feel it.

When I came back, Tom was sitting on the edge of the bed, guard still in his hand, watching me carefully.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Really. I like it.”

He let out a breath and nodded. “Good.”

I sat down opposite him, cross-legged.

“I should tell you something,” I said.

Tom tilted his head. “Go on.”

“I ran into Eva today,” I said. “In town. In a shop.”

“Scott’s Eva?” he asked.

“Yeah. Buzzcut Eva.” I smiled a little. “I nearly didn’t say anything because it felt weird, but I did. We ended up getting coffee.”

Tom’s eyebrows lifted. “You and Eva had coffee.”

“It wasn’t a whole thing,” I said quickly. “It just happened.”

He nodded, amused. “Alright.”

I looked down at my hands. “She said the hair mattered more than she expected. Like it made her stop negotiating. Stop softening herself.”

Tom’s expression shifted—quiet, attentive. “Yeah. I get that.”

“And then she told me she have Scott shave it for her on their honeymoon,” I said.

Tom blinked. “Bald?”

“Bald,” I confirmed. “She loved it. Said it felt peaceful. And now it’s grown out enough to annoy her and she misses it.”

Tom looked at my head again, and the dots connected in his face.

“So you came home and…”

“Yeah,” I said. “I just wanted to know what it felt like. Properly. Not as a ‘maybe one day.’”

Tom reached out and ran his hand over my scalp, slow. “And?”

I swallowed, because the touch still did something to me. “And it feels right.”

Tom smiled, softer now. “You should message her.”

“I might,” I said. “She told me to, for moral support.”

Tom leaned in and kissed me, quick and warm. “Do it. Tell her you did it.”

I nodded, grabbed my phone, and for the first time all day the decision felt finished—like it could finally settle.

I opened a new message and stared at the empty box for a second, thumb hovering.

Then I typed: You were right. It matters. I did it.

I didn’t overthink it. I hit send before I could.

Tom watched me, then reached out again and ran his hand over my head like he still couldn’t believe it.

“Still happy?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. And then, because it was true, I added, “I feel weirdly proud.”

Tom huffed a quiet laugh. “You should.”

I shifted closer, my newly-short head against his shoulder, and let the quiet come back in.

The house made its normal noises around us. The bin was full of hair. The clippers sat on the dresser like they’d always lived there.

And the thought that kept circling wasn’t dramatic.

I wanted this, so I did it… And that was enough.

 

To Be Continued…