“We should inspect the area once again,” Hunter conceded. “One doesn’t leave a trap without good reason unless they were protecting something.”
Our conversation continued until the day gave in to the evening, and the sun touched the horizon. By now, the water in the barrel was at its perfect warm temperature, so I excused myself to shower.
While standing under (limited) heated happiness, I blindly searched for the shampoo bottle and squeezed more than I should have. Reality washed over me as I massaged my scalp: Hunter’s bottle was half full, and mine was nearly empty. Soon, I’d run out. We had one extra, but in all this time, not a single boat had passed us, and at this rate, it wouldn’t be enough for both of us. My knowledge of what natural resources were used for personal hygiene was restricted. I have seen coconut or avocado masks for sale, but those weren’t for cleaning but for improving hair condition. Could I use eggs or mangos? Mom used lemon to clean the kitchen. If applied just once a week, the acidic juice wouldn’t damage hair, would it? I cursed under my breath, turned the water off, and reached for my bikini, knowing what I had to do.
In the kitchen, holding my unsure gaze in the mirror, I untied my wet, messy bun, gripped my hair at the base of my neck with determination, and brought scissors to it. I didn’t want to do it. All my life, I had had long hair. What if I didn’t look good? Phill scorned women with hair cut above their shoulders. I needed a good forehead slap. His opinion shouldn’t matter anymore, but somehow, it echoed somewhere deep inside, quieter but still there. What would Hunter think about it?
My mom had constantly experimented with haircuts, and my father had worshiped her even if she didn’t pick the right style. When I was in high school, she arrived home with an unflattering blonde pixie cut that washed out her stunning features. I had covered my mouth with my hand and said, “Are you having a midlife crisis?” but my father didn’t say a word, only gave her their regular hello kiss and a pat on her butt as if nothing had changed. Standing on a tropical island with the knowledge that their beautiful and uncomplicated love ended too early broke my heart.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Hunter carried logs and dropped them on an elevated stand.
I looked over my shoulder. “A makeover.”
“Why?”
“If I cut it as short as yours, we might make the shampoo stretch for an extra few weeks.” I recollected hair back into one thick bundle. Water drops ran down my back.
“Okay.” He brushed off bark bits stuck to his shirtless, sweaty torso and approached me. “Let me do it.”
My eyes met his in the mirror. “Are you a barber?”
“Are you?” He removed the scissors from my grip, his fingers brushing over mine. “It’s probably easier if I do it.”
I dropped my arms at my sides. Hunter stood behind me, his eyes heavy with some emotion I couldn’t understand. He hesitated. “I might do a terrible job.”
“It doesn’t have to be a work of art.” I shrugged one shoulder, knowing I could avoid the mirror at least for a few days.
He ran his fingers through my hair, lightly tugging it, making me roll my eyes from pleasure, as shivers raced down my spine. “Are you sure?”
I gave him an encouraging smile with a nod. “Hair isn’t teeth. It will grow back.”
Hunter chuckled. “Tell that to anybody bald.” He untangled strands into three parts and brought cold metal up. “Any hairstyle in particular you would like? Mohawk? Mullet? Buzz cut?”
“Not any of those, please.” I laughed. “Just make it short like yours.”
I pinched my eyes shut when the scissors touched my shoulders. The blades came together, snipping my hair. Once. Twice. Several times more. Soon, a heavy weight I didn’t know I carried fell away from me.
“These are not the best ones to cut with,” Hunter said, almost to himself, brushing something off my back. “Is it good enough? If you like it, I’ll try to even it out.”
Swallowing my apprehension, I shook my head, the hair ends skimming my shoulders. “Shorter.”
“Shorter?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s sit down.” He gently gripped my shoulders and guided me backward to the picnic table. We straddled the bench, Hunter behind me. He continued his task, lifting and trimming parts of my hair. Once in a while, his arm bumped my shoulder, or he would take hold of my head and level it straight, correcting my posture. “Stop pushing your head against my hand like a cat,” he said, a smile in his voice. But it was impossible to control because each time his fingers ran over my scalp, his transcendent touch sent me into complete bliss, and I wanted to moan.
“It feels so good when you do that.”
“What? This?” He massaged my scalp, pressing his fingertips into my skin, releasing delicious swirls inside me.
“Hunter.” I moaned.
He coughed. “Don’t say my name like that,” he said in a low, husky voice. “Please.”
I stifled a laugh and let him continue his work. Several moments later, he asked me to turn around and face him. I did as I was told. Leaning, he reached out but then pulled back. “That won’t work. Scooch closer.”
I looked down at the three feet between us, our legs barely touching. “There isn’t any space.”
