 |
| Image Credit: FreeImages.com |
A short story from Dave's past:
Washing Hair
Dave ran his hands through Emily's hair. It slid through his
fingers like silk, the light picking up slight differences in shade from one
strand to the next. Em sighed softly as he massaged her scalp, tugging on
handfuls of hair as he worked around her head.
He remembered when he first found the courage to wrap her hair in
his hands. Emily was regal and aloof when they met. He had been smitten by her,
the golden princess in his fairy tale. He made a fool of himself those first
few weeks, timing his work so he walked back and forth past her as she
practiced her cello.
Em had kept regular hours of practice at the orchestra's office.
Dave scheduled his work--a restoration of the Depression-era stage--around her
practice times. After a week, he got in enough chit-chat to feel comfortable
asking her out. The money he paid for lunch at the 5-star restaurant was the
best day's pay he ever spent. One date led to another; soon he felt welcome
when he called her for no reason. He had studied her hair back then, when they
sat together outside the orchestra entrance. Looking at her sunny locks gave
him something to do besides stare into her blue eyes like a bewitched
schoolboy.
Still, she held him at arm's length until one of their walks through
the art museum she loved. She had seemed distracted all day. She finally told
him it was her birthday. He congratulated her, and she began to cry. He
remembered the panic he'd felt at those tears, so strange in such a composed
woman. After a few sobs, she willed herself calm again. She explained she was
adopted, and didn't know her own real birthday. Some years it bothered her more
than others, and this year was hard because she could not afford the trip to
see her adoptive parents.
It took two week's pay, but they boarded a plane that evening. The
fresh tears the gift provoked were like a reward, a wall conquered. She laid her head on his
shoulder as the plane took off. He slipped his fingers through her hair
for the first time, then abandoned caution. He wrapped the thin smooth strands
in one hand, and cupped her chin in the other. He still remembered the
exhilaration when she let him kiss her as if she had waited for the moment as
long as he. When they reached her parents' house, he was introduced as her
boyfriend. They were married a few months later.
Now, he leaned into the familiar head of hair. He smelled the
perfume she dabbed on her hair and neck each morning. It was light and floral,
and suited her. He picked up her brush and ran it across his hand. The brush was
surprisingly heavy, and covered in mother-of-pearl. That was his Em. Even
mundane objects were beautiful in her world. Making furniture for her had been
his joy for the first two years they were married. He stood behind her and
watched her eyes in the mirror. He could see the doves he had carved along the
mirror's edge from the corner of his vision. Em loved detail in her furniture
and simplicity in her clothing, which like everything she said or did or
thought, he found to be perfect.
They say you never appreciate someone until you could lose them.
That wasn't true. He had known what a treasure she was the moment he saw her.
He still felt the same rush of gratitude each day that he had for the past six
years. She made the rest of his life valuable.
"Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two. . ." he counted off the
brush strokes.
She smiled at him in the mirror. "Are you going to count all
the way to one hundred?"
He smiled back. "Only if you want me to." She shook her
head, and he went silent. The only sound was the soft whoosh of the brush
against her hair. "How long has it been since I told you that you're lovely,
amazing, and beautiful?"
"At least an hour." She reached behind her to touch his
cheek with her hand. "I probably need to wash it now."
"I want to help."
She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. "Come on,
then." She turned to face him, and he undressed her, studying her body
carefully as he did every time he got the chance. She stood quietly in front of
him, and when his eyes met hers she tousled his hair as if he were a small
child.
He began to unbutton his shirt. "That's right, lady, I'm
getting cleaned up, too." She smiled again, her lips tight together, but
said nothing. He finished undressing, and walked behind her into their shower.
He stood under the shower head and directed the spray of water
towards her. He washed her with the soft cloth--face, breasts, belly, arms,
legs--and rubbed his hands along the soapy lines to rinse her off. She turned
her back to him and leaned her head back. He washed her hair slowly, squishing
the mass of suds through his fingers, then rinsing it all away.
"There's no need to use so much shampoo, really."
"Let me enjoy this. We have plenty of time." She touched
his hands in her hair and leaned against him for a minute. "Like the
bottle says, 'lather-rinse-repeat.' It's important to follow
instructions." When he was sure her hair was rinsed squeaky clean, she
tried to turn towards him, but he held her shoulders so she couldn't move.
"We still need conditioner." The bottle of conditioner
was in front of her, and he enjoyed the chance to brush against her to reach
it. He took as long as he could to work the satiny cream into her long hair
from top to bottom, and kissed her neck playfully a few times. She pressed his
face against her ear. He laid his hand on her belly for a moment, thinking of
the baby they had hoped would grow there. Then he quietly rinsed her hair.
He wrapped himself in his towel, then held out hers as if to a
young child, embracing her with it. She sat on the edge of the tub, and he took
another towel and dried her hair slightly. He took a deep breath.
"Are you ready?" She nodded, and looked down. He tried
to make his voice upbeat. "We don't have to do this now. . .we have a week
before you go in, and even then you can wait."
"I'm ready." Her voice had an edge to it, and she shook
her head. "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to be kind. Will you still
think I'm pretty?"
"You are, and always will be, the most beautiful woman on
earth." He felt tears forming. "We'll get through this, Em. I will be
here, no matter what." He held her shoulders. Her skin was chilly, and he
wrapped his arms around her to warm her. She shrugged him off. "You could
go to a salon? Have a nice day out."
"I couldn't bear that. Going in normal, and all those people
watching, telling me I'm brave, and leaving some bald freak." She touched
his lips to still his disagreement. "That's how I would feel. Let's get
this over with. I'm afraid my scalp will get sore if I wait until the treatments
start to shave it. Maybe my skin can toughen enough and I can try a wig. I need
something I control. There's precious little about my body I control now."
He heard the strain in her voice from holding back the tears and the anger at
the surprise life had thrown them.
His own anger surged. They had done everything right. They had
taken care of their health, skipping the desserts she loved and getting up at
dawn to run even on chilly mornings. He had loved her with all he had, careful
not to take her for granted. How could the doctor with the dull eyes stare at
his desk and rattle off words like ninety percent mortality--then hurry off to
his golf game?
Dave's shoulder slumped. He laid his hands on her head for a long
moment as if in blessing, then turned to the sink. He had laid out scissor and
clippers, and a razor. He had never shaved anyone's head before. He gathered up
her golden hair into a ponytail, trying not to remember how her hair had been
pulled up at their wedding, or how it looked fanned around her in bed. He
wrapped a hair band around them. The scissors felt ridiculously heavy as he cut
the ponytail and held it, limp and dead and already sliding apart in his hands.
