“Areyou sure you know how to do this?”
Reeve sits on the edge of a kitchen chair in front of my bathroom mirror Friday morning, clearly ready to bolt at any minute. We’re both due in class sooner than later, but Reeve and his superstitions are persuasive. I examine the photo on his phone, showing his haircut from last fall, some sort of modified faux-hawk.
“You know how many times I’ve cut my own hair?” I ask.
“With trimmers?”
“Eh. I cut my high school boyfriend’s hair like this a couple times.”
“How was his hair? As good as mine?”
“We all know that’s not possible.”
“How was his ...” He catches my eye in the mirror, playfulness dancing in his eyes. “Kissing?”
“Not even worth mentioning.”
“What a loser. Good thing I came along, huh?”
“You definitely shattered the mold.” It’s true. I’ve never dated anyone like Reeve. We’ve spent every night together since Saturday, and every morning I wake up thinking about thewords he said to me—you own me—and feeling like I’ve struck gold. “Are you sure this is the cut you want? It would look better if the sides were a little longer.”
“No, babe, it needs to be exactly the same. I got that cut on this exact day last year, and the rest of my season was fucking golden. Understand?”
“Yes, drill sergeant, sir. Should I start?”
“If you’re sure I can trust you.”
“That’s for you to decide. Is your season worth it?”
He grunts but sits back in the chair, submitting to me. Morning sun spills in through the half-moon window, making his hair glow beautifully. I run my hands through it, halfheartedly pretending I’m getting a sense for the length and texture, but really I just want to revel in the freedom to touch him. No one touches Reeve’s hair—it’s too precious to him. But he closes his eyes as I pull the strands through my fingers, and I feel a surge of happiness. I can’t believe he’s mine to touch.
“Are you sure you don’t get your hair highlighted?” His hair really is as stellar as he thinks it is: silky and sandy blond with better highlights than I’ve ever had, even back when my parents were footing my salon bills.
He scoffs. “Are you kidding?”
“Like you aren’t vain enough for highlights?”
“I am vain enough. I was also born with the world’s most perfect head of hair.”
I stifle a smile, admiring the way his chin juts out when he brags shamelessly. Funny how the things I used to find reprehensible have become the ones I can’t get enough of.
I set to work with the clippers. Reeve watches me in the mirror, not my handiwork but me. I don’t have my makeup on yet, and my own hair isn’t bothering to put on a good show in the face of Reeve’s superiority, but I’m not self-conscious. He doesn’t bombard me with shallow compliments like Samalways used to. Instead it’s in his eyes. When I’m with him, I know I’m beautiful.
I turn his head this way and that. Loving the way he yields to me and holds himself precisely where I want him. My eyes and fingers study the small details of his body, the smooth slope of his neck, and the baby-soft skin behind his ears. A deep sense of longing takes root somewhere inside me. I want this man to belong to me.
“Well?” I ask when I turn off the clippers.
Reeve takes my little hand mirror and examines his head from all angles. “Huh. It’s actually pretty good.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“Before you started, I was thinking about when I might get to my hair guy to fix whatever botch job you were about to deliver.”
I laugh. “Then why did you even let me?”
“I’ll take a chance on you any day.”
“Your risk paid off, didn’t it?”
