“Amy, come on, it’s hair,” Kane says, but even his face reflects regret as he contemplates my blonde mane.
“It’smyhair and I like it just the way it is.”
“Your hair will grow back and the color will grow out,” he informs me. “We have no choice but to change your appearance.”
“I’ll wear a wig.”
“I don’t have a wig. And a wig can fall off, which will raise questions.” He opens the cabinet under the basin, angling his body so his back isn’t to me. “I know Mel dyes her hair,” he mutters. “She must have something in here.” Searching the shelves, he pulls out a hair coloring kit, a plastic spray bottle, and a comb. Straightening, he stares at the items he’s lined up on the bath rim. His expression of dismay matchesmine.
After a long silence, he says, “I think I’ll get Jill for this.”
“No! I’ll end up with orange hair and a prison haircut.” I find it telling Kane doesn’t argue the point. “Please leave my hair alone. Haven’t you done enough to me?”
Irritation flares on his face. “Get over yourself. It’s hair. I have blue teeth. We’re both looking less than our best.”
He leaves the bathroom and returns with scissors and a bar stool, positioning it in front of the mirror. “Sit.” When I remain standing, he says, “Sit, or remain locked in your room.”
Battling to contain my fury at the sheer injustice of it all, I lower myself onto the stool. A ratty towel is dropped into my lap. “Put this over your shoulders.”
I jerk the towel in place and watch, fuming, as Kane fills up the spray bottle with water. “At least tell me you’ve cut hair before.”
He nods. “When I was eight and got chewing gum stuck in my hair. Does that count?”
Appalled, I stare at his reflection in the mirror.
“Relax, hairdresser humor.”
“It’s not funny.”
After spraying my hair with water, Kane drags a comb through my wet hair, his gentleness and patience as he tackles my knots taking me by surprise. For the next few minutes, he works in silence, standing so close that my awareness of him is acute. I hold myself still as the disturbing intimacy of the act begins to register.
“No need to look so nervous,” he reassures me. “I’m not planning on hacking away.” He squirts water on the ends of my hair. “Besides, cutting hair is not exactly rocket science.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s enough of a science if I’m charged hundreds of dollars for a haircut.”
He freezes, looking horrified. “That has to be a joke.”
“It’s not. It’s what you pay for a top-rate hairdresser.”
“No, it’s whatyoupay.” He shakes his head. “I have better things to spend my money on.”
“Like ski masks and getaway cars.”
We continue sniping at one another as he snips away, with me questioning his every move, punctuated by him berating me for flinching every time a hank of hair falls to the floor. Finishing at last, Kane puts down the scissors, positioning it well out of my reach. My long hair now hangs to just above my shoulders. Gone is my artfully layered cut,choppyis the kindest description for my current style. Yet even as I mourn the loss of my hair, I can’t help but notice that the new cut only emphasizes the catlike slant of my blue eyes and outlines my heart-shaped face even more.
I meet Kane’s eyes in the mirror and catch him frowning over his handiwork. I wonder if he too is surprised at the result.
When he speaks, however, his voice is brusque. “Let’s do the color.”
“What color is it?”
Kane glances at the box. “Mahogany. It’ll wash out after ten shampoos.”
Mahogany.I bite my lip, choking down my rage.
As I watch him attempt to wrestle the thin gloves onto his large hands, I don’t fight the smile that holds a bit of a gloat. My smile widens as he throws the gloves down in a fit of temper and stalks out of the bathroom, returning with large rubber gloves.
I refuse to help, hoping he’ll give up in sheer frustration, but through bull-headed determination, Kane works the color into my hair, scowling and muttering all the while, using paper towels to wipe away the spills. For the twenty-minute wait for the color to take, he leaves me alone in the bathroom after tossing a vegan cookbook my way.
