Page 3 of 32 Days in May

I stare at my partially sheared head. A golden dust covers my cheekbones and the curve of my top lip. I didn’t have a razor strong enough to survive the task of making me feel alive, so kitchen scissors had to do.

But, you see, I’ve encountered a real problem.

I can’t reach the back of my head.

And, out of a real fear of being hog-tied and tossed away into a padded room, I, in a moment of true lucidity, know I cannot phone a friend.

Instead, I head out into the world with one-quarter of my hair still attached to my head. It hangs out of the back of my baseball cap like a beaver tail.

The hair salon I go into, at random, is staffed by a bunch of young, tattooed women also wearing hats. They stare on in horror.

The hairdresser does her best, God bless her.

She smooths and styles my now pixie-cut curls with mousse and high spirits.

“Oh my God. Babe, you look like Drew Barrymore.”

I blink back a single, fat tear.

She is lying. I look like John C. Reilly.

Tuesday, May 2

My body celebrates my new hair-free lifestyle with a little torture.

Everything itches, burns, aches.

I was supposed to head to work with Soph, to sow watermelon seeds in the hothouse. Instead, I lie supine on the living room floor.

My body is exhausted but my mind is frantic, craving adventure.

What if I took the bus to Atlantic City? What if I got my bike out from the shed and rode it down to Brambleberry and went thrifting? I brought my sneakers—what if I just tried running like I used to?

It’s nice to want to do stuff again. The world is my oyster, et cetera.

I fall asleep on the floor and wake up to rain on the balcony sliding doors.

Soon after sunset, my phone dings twice. It’s my sister, Liv. She’s sent me another job posting. Director of Growth Marketing and EMEA Advertisement for Big Evil Emporium, LLC.

Six figures!!!!!! she’s written to accompany the link.

I know now something I would have never been able to admit before: I would sooner eat dynamite than be the director of anything.

Wednesday, May 3

Doctor’s appointment.

I have to drive on to the mainland from Evergreen. I’m currently living in my parents’ Shore house. Generational wealth in the form of a duplex next to a sandwich shop. Privilege in the form of a robust savings account accumulated after eight years in advertising. I’m unemployed, unmoored, and next to a body of water. I’m basically a Kennedy.

The doctor’s office is freezing.

I pull my cardigan on and make a comment to the empty room about how I shouldn’t have worn sandals, then I feel ancient. Gone are the days of being goose-pimpled and silent. Thirty hits and you’re chasing down every manager, leaving one-star reviews on Yelp, begging the world to care about you the same way they did when you were twenty-two and fine with freezing your nipples off.

“Nadia, my dear. How’s the hydroxychloroquine?”

“It’s not doing anything.”

“It can take some time to kick in.” Dr. Antoniou folds his large hands and rests them on an equally large knee. “I can increase your dose. But you are looking a lot better.”