Gently, I place my hand on hers. ‘I’m glad I could help.’
A brief nod, then she examines my hair with lowered lids. I look at myself for a moment: rosy cheeks, delicate skin, big brown eyes, a slightly upturned nose.
As healthy as the woman next to me.
Still – twenty-five percent.
‘Okay, what can I do for you today?’ Lucy parts my hair to the side. Then she arranges it into bangs that fall diagonally across my forehead. ‘We could leave it a little longer, that would frame your face nicely.’
Involuntarily, my gaze jerks to the woman in the next chair. Her mane reaches down to her elbows. Gorgeous. ‘I’m starting my new job tomorrow, so short hair is more practical,’ I say, ignoring the tug in my chest.
Lucy pulls the stool over to her and sits down next to me. ‘You’re working again?’
I feel my cheeks start to burn. ‘Yes, I’m starting in the ER over at Halifax Harbor Hospital.’ Anticipation and despair, excitement and fear, hope and worry. All of it surges up in me when I think about how tomorrow I’ll slip on my white coat,loop the stethoscope around my neck, face the hustle of the emergency room and, after almost a year and a half off, finally do again what means the world to me: save lives, increase chances, give time.
A watery sheen covers Lucy’s eyes, and she wraps her arms around me. ‘My God, Nyla, I’m so happy for you,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘This is the beginning of a new life.’
I close my eyes for a moment. ‘Yes, a new life,’ I repeat, my voice thick.
‘You know what?’ She lets go of me and reaches for the brush again. ‘This is the perfect time for a change. I’ll just trim the ends and give your hairstyle a few pretty contours so your hair can grow out nicely over the next few weeks.’ Tugging now on one strand, now on another, she chatters away cheerfully. ‘In three-quarters of a year you’ll already have a cool bob.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘And then you can let your hair grow longer over your shoulders again.’ She fixes her excited gaze on me. ‘It will take time, but you’ll get your wonderful long hair back.’ I swallow hard. ‘Just imagine it.’ Lucy nods toward the mirror; I look at myself, and she talks about how my hair will grow, showing me with her hands how long it will be and by when.
Before my mind’s eye I gradually turn back into the person I used to be: a carefree one-percent person who has absolutely no idea what it’s like to be a twenty-five-percent person.
‘You could wear those elaborate braided hairstyles again,’ Lucy breathes wistfully.
Yes. I could.
‘That would be great, wouldn’t it?’ She folds her hands, her expression turning pleading. ‘Let’s do it, okay?’
Part of me is screaming such a loud yes that it drowns out even the music in the hair salon. But it does not drown out the memory.
Shaking, I let my fingertips glide over my parting. On to the braid that begins at my left temple and then leads back behind my ear. The strands feel silky soft and at the same time so strong, as if nothing could harm them. At my neck the braid winds forward, just like the one on the other side of my head. Centimeter by centimeter I follow its path until, level with my navel, the ends tickle my fingertips.
I’m sorry.That’s what Dr. Becker said, and also that it will grow back and that my health is more important than my hair. He’s right. I know that, and yet I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror with tears burning in my eyes. Little by little, my hair will fall out. This strong, thick hair that is as much a part of me as my heartbeat will gather in clumps on my pillow. On the floor. In the shower drain. On the headrest of the sofa.
They will be everywhere, just not where they belong.
I don’t need it. Not the way I need my heart, functioning organs, and strong muscles. It’s ridiculous to be so attached to it, ridiculous, in view of the seriousness of my illness, to waste even a single thought on the question of who I will be without it.
A tear slips from the corner of my eye. Damp and cold, it crawls down my cheek, my nose swells up, I can’t really breathe anymore.
The bathroom starts spinning around me, I lean against the sink and reach for the scissors. I open the blades, place one braid between them, close my eyes.
I feel the cold metal against my neck.
I squeeze shut.
A bright scraping. A dull sound.
My own sobbing.
I grope for the other braid, place it in the open scissors, squeeze shut.
The desperate scream that leaves my mouth drowns out every other sound. Beneath my closed lids, tears force their way out.
