“I need to cut off my hair,” she says, grasps a strand, and just cuts.
“Wait,” I say and grab her hand as I stand behind her.
“I need to,” she says, looking at me through the mirror.
“I know,” I say. “But let me do it.”
“You’re not stopping me?” she asks, incredulously.
“No,” I say as I take the scissors from her hand. “Why would I stop you from figuring out who you really are?”
A weak smile hushes over her face.
“So how short do you want it?” I ask casually.
“Short,” she says. “Like really short.”
“Okay,” I say, get a comb, wet her hair, and then cut. I am reasonably good at cutting hair because I have cut my own hair since I moved out of my parents’ house, much to my mother's displeasure.
I cut her hair in silence. I mind stepping on the wet hair on the ground, even with socks on, but I don’t want to interrupt the very intimate moment we have right now, so I swallow it down.
When I’m done, I comb her wet hair back. I look at her in the mirror.
She looks so different.
Strong.
Powerful.
Bossy.
And yet, this warmth in her eyes.
She stares at me, turns, grasps my face, and kisses me.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my lips, before she kneels down and lifts me onto her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, horrified of being carried, and try to get down by wiggling my legs up.
She grabs my ankle and removes the sock from my foot.
“I’m releasing you from the horror of stepping onto wet hair,” she says as she pulls off the second sock from my other foot.
I laugh.
She laughs.
And then she carries me to the bed. My bed.
She releases me on it.
Climbs into bed with me.
Her arm wanders around me.
And we just lie there.
Cuddling.
