“Well, I did freeze my eggs, so you might get a Black redhead.”
“Even better.” He runs his fingers over his own cropped ginger hair before sliding back onto the couch.
“If they have your complexion and freckles, they’ll be the prettiest little ginge out there,” he says, getting back to work.
He is moving faster, so every four I do, he does two. After the next few times he helps me, he might end up being quicker than me.
Once done, I get up to shower. Determined to get me to stay, Callahan bought the hair care products I usually use, so now I have no excuse.
Before I get in, I put pre-shampoo in to untangle the gunk in my hair. Combing slowly, I’m surprised by how much shedding was packed in there. With each pull, it seems like a lot is coming out. I look at my comb to see more hair in it than what should have come from that section.
When I run my hands through that part again, even more comes off until it seems like there is more hair in my hand than on my head.
Frantically, I start running my hands through the other parts of my hair to the same effect. Chunks come off with every drag of my fingers.
“Nooo!” I scream.
Callahan comes barreling through the door. I don’t look at him. I just keep pulling at my hair, screaming louder and louder as more and more comes off.
“Monty.”
I feel him grabbing at my hands, but I can’t stop. I keep touching my hair, watching as pieces start to litter my shoulder.
“Oh my god, no, not my hair. Not my hair.”
He pulls me against his chest, but it does little to muffle the sounds of my crying as I come apart in his arms.
Despite him holding me tight, I keep touching it. With each lump that falls, a cry eases past my lips.
Not my hair.
This cancer has taken so much from me, and now it steals the last piece that makes me feel like myself. The last part that solidified my identity. I don’t have dancing, I don’t have my sex appeal, and now I don’t have the one thing that always made me feel beautiful.
I start to fall to the ground, no longer able to hold myself up. But he catches me, keeping me against him while he rubs my back. His steady hands do nothing to calm me down, as I watch the last of my resolve shed from my scalp.
I don’t calm down for an hour. The whole time he holds me, the tears and panting are nonstop.
When he finally pulls me from the bathroom, I can’t look in the mirror. I can’t look anywhere but at him, even when he places me on the bed.
My hair.
My breath is shaky as I look down at my hands. Covered in the destruction of my last part of me that was holding it together.
His hands start brushing it off, and I watch as it piles on the ground. I fight the urge to touch my head and see if any is left. Instead, I close my eyes, hoping that will slow the release of my tears.
“Monty? Do you want to lie down?”
I can’t open my mouth. If I do, I may never stop wailing.
All my life, the thing I have always loved about myself is my hair. The texture, the length, the beautiful brown color. I’ve defined so much of myself based on how my hair looks. Braids have always been my signature shield. A protective style that protects every part of me. Whatever someone thinks or says bounces off me with ease.
Having a mother who was so disappointed that my hair was kinky instead of curly, I learned young that the world would always hate how it looks. But I didn’t. I love this defining feature that screams to everyone that I am Black. Something my green eyes and freckles have always put a question mark at the end of.
Now it’s gone. Now I don’t have that.
“Monty,” he says again, making me open my eyes.
All that I can get out is a sob.
