The Wedding Guest (Part 5)

Previously

Tom stood in the bathroom doorway with the drawer half open, holding the last packet like it had personally offended him.

“We’re running out of razors,” he said.

It had been a week since I cleansed my pixie cut for a smoothly shaved head.

I looked up from the sink. My head was still damp from the shower, the skin clean and awake. I’d started noticing the small things now—how water felt, how quickly my scalp cooled, how my own hands kept going up there without asking.

“Already?” I asked.

Tom shook the packet once. “Already. There was only 6 in the pack.”

I ran my palm over the top of my head. There was a texture now if I went against it. Just the faintest of reminders that there despite how much I shave there, it’ll always come back.

I didn’t want it to.

Tom stepped closer and put his hand on the side of my head like it belonged there. Gentle, steady, familiar already.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m great.”

He looked at me for a beat, like he was checking I meant it, then his thumb moved once along my temple and he kissed the top of my head. Quick. Casual. Routine.

“I’ll grab more later,” he said, tucking the packet back into the drawer.

The way he said it—like razors were just part of the routine now—made something in me settle again. Not trapped. Not obligated. Committed.

When he left the bathroom, I stayed at the sink a moment longer and stared at myself.

It was funny. I’d thought being bald would feel like an event.

Instead it was becoming a way of living. A few minutes here and there. A choice I kept choosing.

And underneath that, a thought that had been circling since the first morning stubble:

There has to be a way to keep it smooth longer.

I didn’t do anything with it yet. I just let it sit there and get heavier.

My phone buzzed.

It was Eva.

Fancy meeting up for a Coffee later? she’d written.

I stared at it for a second, then typed back:

Yeah. What time?

Today. Lunchtime?

Okay. See you.

It’s weird, I don’t really know Eva still, but this mutual short hair sisterhood thing makes me feel like I do know her.

——

Eva was already sat down when I got there, coat on the back of her chair, drink in hand.

She looked up and her expression changed.

Not shock, because she’d known. More like her brain accepting it properly in person.

“You did it,” she said, quiet.

“I did,” I replied, sitting opposite her.

Eva’s eyes flicked over my head and then back to my face. She didn’t stare for long. She seemed to be choosing her manners.

“It suits you,” she said. It sounded like truth.

“Thanks,” I said. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking.”

“About what,” I asked.

She hesitated, then said it plainly. “Going bald. Again.”

I didn’t push. I just waited.

Eva took a sip of her coffee, eyes on the table for a moment, then looked up.

“I did it on the honeymoon,” she said, “Scott shaving it right down. I loved it. Then I let it grow because I thought I’d… done it. Like it was a one-off and that I’f probably just slowly grow it out, like it was just a bit a phase.”

I nodded once. I’d wondered.

“And it’s been four weeks,” she added. “Four, five. And now it’s at that stage where it’s just enough to be hair again and it’s annoying me.”

I smiled. “Because it starts being present again.”

Eva’s mouth twitched, like she hated that I’d said something accurate.

“Yes,” she admitted.

She watched me for a second longer than normal. “How are you finding it on show when you’re in public,” she said.

I exhaled. “The first bit is the worst. Then you realise people will look whether you want them to or not. It gets easier the minute you stop acting like you need to explain yourself.”

Eva listened properly. Not nodding along. Storing it.

“And Tom?” she asked, careful. Curious, but not prying.

My cheeks warmed because my body was apparently still incapable of acting normal about him.

“He likes it,” I said.

Eva lifted an eyebrow. “Likes it.”

I held her gaze. “A lot.”

Eva’s expression shifted into something small and knowing.

“Scott did too,” she said quietly. “He tried to be respectful. He didn’t manage it.”

I didn’t laugh. I didn’t make it a joke. I just nodded, because it was the same language in a different house.

Eva let out a breath. “I want that feeling back,” she said. “The clean part. The decision.”

“Then do it,” I said, simple. “The way you owned your buzzcut when you confidently walked down the aisle. What’s 10mm less on your head.”

Eva’s mouth formed a smile “Well that’s sorted then.”

We talked about normal things after that—work, weekends, nothing heavy—until the conversation ran out naturally instead of being forced.

When we stood up to leave, Eva paused.

“When I do it,” she said, “I’ll tell you.”

“Okay,” I replied.

It wasn’t a promise between best friends yet.

It was something quieter.

——

Two nights later, my phone buzzed while I was on the sofa, Tom’s leg under mine, the television making noise neither of us was really listening to.

Eva’s name.

I did it again.

I sat up, heart jumping.

Tom glanced at me. “What?”

“Eva,” I said. “She’s shaved it again.”

Tom’s eyebrows lifted. “Already.”

My phone buzzed again.

EVA: Scott did it. We opened a bottle of wine and then it happened. He couldn’t stop touching my head. And then… yeah.

I stared at the message, smiling like an idiot.

Tom watched my face. “Good ‘yeah’?”

“Very good ‘yeah’,” I said.

I typed back:

ME: You okay?

EVA: I feel unreal. I forgot how right it feels.

I didn’t ask for a photo. It felt too intimate. Too soon. Like I was reaching for a level of closeness we hadn’t earned yet.

Instead I sent:

I’m glad.

EVA: 😂. Lunch Saturday? I think our men are having a work catch up that afternoon.

I answered:

Yes.

——

Saturday came with the kind of bright-but-grey weather.

I was putting my coat on in the hallway when my phone buzzed.

A text from him.

West London with Scott. Match first. Pub after. Don’t wait up.

I stared at it and felt my mouth soften.

He’d started saying things like that like it was normal. Like we were people with separate plans and then we came back together.

I typed:

Have fun. Don’t get too drunk.

Tom replied:

No promises.

I snorted quietly and put my phone away.

——

Eva was already sat down when I arrived, a small glass of wine in front of her, hands wrapped around it like she was anchoring herself.

She looked up and this time there was no pause.

She’d done it. Properly. Clean.

No announcement. No fishing for reaction. Just… there.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I replied, sitting opposite her.

There was a beat where we both looked at each other and I felt the newness again. The fact we were still learning what the edges of this were.

Eva broke it first, lifting her glass slightly.

“I ordered,” she said. “Hope that’s alright.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, and lifted mine.

We clinked glasses. Small sound. Clean.

“I feel lighter,” Eva said after a sip. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… lighter.”

“I know,” I said.

Eva’s gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again. “Scott,” she started, then stopped, like she wasn’t sure how much she wanted to say.

“You don’t have to,” I said.

Eva nodded, relieved by the permission. “He liked it,” she said simply. “A lot.”

I felt that familiar tight warmth in my chest.

“I’m happy for you,” I said.

Eva nodded once. “Thanks.”

We drank, talked a little more easily now. Still careful, but warmer. I was able to get up to order another round when I had an idea.

I turned Eva and suggested we could try a change of scene.

“Ok. Where are you thinking?” She replied

“I was actually thinking of going to the Second Look, there’s a wig at the salon I want to buy” I said. I don’t think she expected that suggestion

“A wig? How much have you had to drink?” She laughed.

“I want to surprise Tom when gets home, and also surprise myself a little” I said, adding “you might want something to”

This must have stirred a thought because Eva necked the last of her wine, and picked up her bag.

“Come on then” She enthused

I quickly finished my wine, paid, and we left together.

——

The salon was quiet when we approached Leanne at the desk.

She looked up as we walked in, and her expression went straight to amused.

Not shock this time—recognition. Understanding. Quiet, dry approval.

“Two of you,” she said.

Eva lifted her chin a touch. “Hi.”

Leanne’s eyes swept over Eva’s head and back to her face—quick, respectful.

“You’ve done it as well,” Leanne said, bright with approval.

Eva nodded. “Yeah.”

Leanne looked at me. “You’ve started something.”

We laughed.

“Well, you’ve got here just in time. Caira’s donating hair,” she added, pointing to her sitting under a cape with a full curtain of curly hair.

I thought I’d go over to say hi.

Caira looked up at me and her smile was bright but tight around the edges, like she was holding herself steady.

“Wow,” I said, dropping my voice instinctively. “This is amazing of you—donating all of this hair.” I wanted to say beautiful hair, but thought best not to as prevent potentially adding any regret on her part for shedding those lovely curls.

“I know,” Caira laughed, and it came out half-laugh, half-exhale. “But it’s for a great cause. Turning it into a wig for someone who deserves it makes it worth it.”

“I heard Leanne was putting ideas in your head about getting it cut when I was last here, but this isn’t what I imagined.” I said.

Behind her, Becky the stylist was already gathering the curls back and started to straighten them. Not roughly. Efficiently. The irons gliding through the curls with a kind of respect, leaving smooth, straight ribbons in their wake.

Becky, with her own hair buzzed on one side, began to section off Caira’s hair, looping an elastic bobble around each small section of Caira’s hair, with each pull snugging the ponytails tighter. Caira’s shoulders rose with a breath she didn’t quite let go of.

“Ready?” asked Becky, not dramatic—just kind.

Caira nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah.”

The scissors were big, and were slid into position above an elastic band, blades opening wide. For a second, everything in that corner seemed to hush—not the whole salon, just us. Like the sound had stepped back to watch.

Then: snip.

And just like that, with no resistance, Becky was brandishing a thin piece of hair in her hand. She placed it the trolley beside her with the care of something valuable, and then continued this process for another 15 times.

With each snip, Caira’s hair transitioned from a full head of long, straightened hair; to a rough pixie cut.

“Whoa,” Caira managed, eyes wide when she finally acknowledged her reflection in the mirror.

The mirror caught everything: the exposed line of her neck, the new lightness at her shoulders, the stunned little smile trying to form and failing. Her hand twitched under the cape like she wanted to reach back and check, but she didn’t—maybe because touching it would make it real.

I stood watching from across the salon

“Still you,” I murmured, because it was the only thing that seemed worth saying.

Caira blinked hard and then laughed again—this time more like disbelief. “It feels… weird. Like my head’s… smaller.”

Leanne had drifted over without making a fuss, leaning against the station next to us with that dry, approving look she got when something actually brave was happening in her orbit.

“Welcome to the club,” she said lightly, and it landed exactly right—normalising, not minimizing.

Becky didn’t stop there. The remaining hair was dampened, combed down, sectioned. The rhythm returned: comb, clip, snip. Caira watched in the mirror with the intensity of someone watching a door close—fascinated, a little mournful, and unable to look away.

Her straightened curls were gone now, but Becky was careful to keep softness. She sculpted the sides in close, clean lines, tapering around the ears so the shape sat neat instead of severe. The top stayed longer, textured, worked into something that could still move—something that didn’t feel like punishment for being practical.

As the pixie emerged, you could see Caira’s face changing in real time. Not because her features were different, but because she was meeting them again. Her eyes looked bigger. Her cheekbones suddenly had nothing competing with them. Her smile—when it finally landed properly—looked more confident than it had any right to this early.

The Becky dusted the nape with a clipper for a tidy finish, then ran a little product between her palms and worked it through the top with quick, light fingers. No fuss. Just enough lift to make it feel intentional.

“Okay,” said Becky, stepping back. “Have a look Hun.”

Caira stared at herself like she’d been introduced to someone new who felt oddly familiar.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, and then she laughed—clearer now, full-bodied. “That’s… that’s actually really cute.”

I felt my hand relax on her shoulder without even noticing.

Leanne tilted her head, assessing the silhouette like she was cataloguing it for future persuasion.

When it was finished, Caira was beaming—properly beaming, the kind that made the whole cape look like it couldn’t contain her.

And Leanne, as if she were commenting on a paint colour or a new chair cover, said casually:

“It looks nice cut like that.”

Caira’s eyes flicked to her in the mirror—sharp, amused, newly bold.

“That’s all I get?” she said. “Nice?”

Leanne’s mouth twitched. “Don’t get greedy.”

But there was warmth in it. Pride, too—quiet, unmistakable.

And on the trolley beside them, the severed ponytails sat like a receipt for what Caira had just done: proof of the weight she’d let go of, and what it was going to become for someone else.

It did. It suited her. But part of me was wishing she’d shave it all off. She had the most amazing shaped head for it.

As I stood pondering such a moment, I felt Eva tugging me gently toward the wig stand by reception.

Leanne laughed, then turned back to us. “Bored of the bald look already.”

Eva was looking in particular at one wig. “This long and bronde piece. I really like how I used to have my hair—back when I had hair.” She gave a small chuckle.

Leanne tilted her head. “And how far back was that, then?”

Eva’s expression softened. “When I got engaged. Scott adored that style-well that was until he discovered me with shorter hair”

Something warmed in Leanne’s face. “Sounds lovely.” she said.

Then she looked at me.

“And how about you, Emma? Anything interest you” Leanne asked.

I didn’t bother pretending to be modest. “I’d like something that’ll make Tom’s brain stop working for a minute.”

Leanne laughed once. “Lovely. That helps.”

She reached over and gathered two wigs.

Eva’s first.

Long, bronde, styled cleanly. Familiar—but better than memory.

Leanne fitted it with quick hands, adjusting it properly so it sat right. Eva watched herself as it settled into place, and her face went still for a beat.

“Oh,” Eva said quietly.

Leanne nodded once, satisfied. “There.”

Eva blinked fast, then let out a small laugh—like she was embarrassed to feel anything.

I didn’t tease her. It didn’t feel like we were there yet. I just said, “It looks good.”

Eva met my eyes in the mirror and nodded. “Thanks.”

While Eva looked at herself again—still, thoughtful, like she was putting a memory back on—Leanne stepped closer to me and lowered her voice.

“You alright?” she asked, casual.

“Yeah,” I said. Then, quieter, “Can I ask you something?”

Leanne’s eyes sharpened slightly. “Go on.”

I kept my voice low, careful. “Is there… anything that actually slows growth. Properly. Not just me shaving constantly.”

Leanne held my gaze for a beat, reading me.

“There are things,” she said. “But you need to be careful, because it’s still skin. And some options are medical, not cosmetic.”

My chest tightened with interest.

Leanne continued, still quiet. “We can talk about it properly another time. I’ll point you in the right direction. Just don’t start putting random stuff on your head because you saw it online.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said.

Leanne’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

Eva turned then, catching the tail end of us standing too close.

“What are you two whispering about?” she asked, half-joking—cautious.

“Nothing exciting,” Leanne said smoothly. “Scalp maintenance chat.”

Eva accepted that with a nod and looked back to the mirror.

Leanne clapped her hands once, switching back to normal volume. “Right, here’s your Emma.” she said as she then held mine up that she’d chosen.

Blonde. Short. Sharp. A short platinum pixie cut with closely taper-looking sides and back. it was longer, heavily textured on the top styled into soft, tousled spikes. It was edgy and voluminous. It looked slightly wicked even before it was on me.

“This,” Leanne said, pleased, “is going to make you look more than a bit troublesome.”

“Perfect,” I replied.

She fitted it quickly—adjusted, settled, made it sit like it belonged. It transformed my face instantly. It made me look like I’d made a decision and didn’t care who approved of it.

Eva stared at me in the mirror.

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

Leanne folded her arms. “Exactly.”

Pleased with our temporary appearances chosen, we went to the desk and paid, because we had to be responsible adults for at least one part of the afternoon.

“You two look like you’re going to stir a bit of chaos for men tonight.”

“That’s the plan,” I said.

“Before you go,” Leanne added, already reaching for her coat behind the counter, “I’m heading off too. I’ve got to go cut my friend’s hair.”

Eva’s eyebrows lifted. “At home?”

Leanne nodded. “She’s just had a baby. She can’t exactly pop into the salon.”

“Who?” I asked, because Leanne had friends in every corner of London.

“Roxy,” Leanne said, like the name should mean something, “She actually runs a salon not far from here, but can’t bring herself to let one of her colleagues loose on hair just yet.”

I didn’t know her, but it did sound familiar.

Leanne slipped her coat on and pointed at us with two fingers.

“Don’t ruin the wigs,” she said.

Eva smiled. “No promises.”

Leanne rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too, as we headed for the door wearing our new wigs

Eva with long bronde hair that made her look like a memory she’d decided to keep.

Me with a raunchy, blonde, short, sharp tousled spikes that made me feel like I should be getting away with something.

—

I checked my phone as we walked out.

Another text from Tom.

Game’s finished. Pub now. Scott’s buying first round. Love you.

I stared at the last two words longer than I needed to.

Then I typed back:

Have fun. Love you too.

——

On the pavement, people noticed us. It was a different kind of attention.

And I realised, walking beside Eva, that I liked the difference.

The wig was fun because it was removable.

Eva touched the ends of her bronde wig once, softly—like she was checking it was real.

“I can’t wait to see his face,” she said.

“Same,” I replied.

She glanced at me. “Are you keeping yours on when you walk in?”

I pictured Tom in a pub somewhere in East London, just finishing watching the late game, already thinking about coming home.

“I’ve got time,” I said. “I’ll decide.”

Eva nodded, and we did that slightly awkward goodbye again. Not cold. Just new.

Then we went our separate ways.

—

When I got home, I didn’t take the wig off.

I kept the blonde crop on while I hung my coat up and kicked my shoes off. I caught myself in the hallway mirror and felt my mouth twitch.

It was ridiculous.

It was also excellent.

Tom didn’t come home straight away. The match and the pub would take as long as they took.

I made tea, sat on the sofa, and let myself enjoy the idea of his reaction—the confusion, the laugh, the hands.

When the key finally turned in the door, I stayed where I was.

I heard him come in: the soft thud of his shoes, the quiet clink of keys in the bowl.

“Babe?” he called.

“In here,” I replied, calm, like nothing was happening.

Tom walked into the living room and stopped. His eyes went straight to my hair. Then to my face.

Then back to my hair again, like his brain couldn’t decide which part to trust.

“What the—” Tom started, then cut himself off and let out a laugh he couldn’t seem to help. “Emma?”

“Yes,” I said.

Tom took a step closer, still staring.

“Where did you—” He stopped, then tried a different question. “Why have you got hair?”

I shrugged. “I got bored.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed—probably the drink, probably the whiplash. “You did not get bored.”

I didn’t answer. I just watched him.

He sat next to me on the sofa, and reached up without thinking and touched the top of my ‘blonde spikes’.

His fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second, like his hand had learned one thing over the last few days and this wasn’t it.

Then his palm settled—warm, full—and his gaze dropped to my mouth and lifted back to my eyes.

“You’re a tease,” he said, and his voice had gone lower.

I smiled. “I know.”

Tom swallowed. His hand stayed there.

Then I reached up, hooked my fingers under the edge, and lifted the wig off in one smooth motion.

Bald again. Clean. Honest.

Tom’s face changed instantly—relief first, then something darker underneath it.

He stared at my scalp like it was the only thing in the room.

“Jesus,” he said, quiet.

I held the wig up. “Surprise.”

Tom’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t laugh this time. He stepped closer and put his hand on my bare head again, slow and sure, like he was putting something back where it belonged.

“How was lunch?” he asked, but his eyes didn’t move.

“Good,” I murmured. “Productive.”

His thumb slid along my temple.

“And you,” he added—voice rough, like it was both a statement and a hope—“are not growing it back.”

I didn’t bristle. I didn’t argue.

I leaned into his hand and smiled, because the answer was already true.

“I’m not,” I said.

To Be Continued…