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“I didn’t realize that was a required question.” I frown.
“Well, there’s all this hysteria about pregnancy and hair dye, so I always ask to make sure you’re not possibly pregnant because there’s a general consensus that you don’t dye your hair until the second trimester,” she says.
“Well I’m on the pill, so …” I say.
“Okay, great, so when was your last period?”
“Hmm, let me see. I keep track of it, so let me go see when I last wrote it in,” I say, and I pull my phone out of my purse and look at my calendar. And start scrolling.
I scroll back to September, scan the calendar and realize there’s no entry for the week my period usually shows up.
“Huh,” I say and go back to August and see the same. I look back at July and see the dates.
“Um, July 28th,” I say. And when she just stares at me, I throw my head back against the chair.
“No. I’m not,” I say unequivocally.
“Why? Are you celibate?” she asks.
“No, but I’m on birth control,” I say, and it sounds more like a plea than a statement.
“Then that baby really wanted you to be its mama.” She points at my very flat stomach and shrugs.
“How can you sound so cheery?” I snap.
“’Cause I’m not the one who’s unexpectedly pregnant,” she says.
“I’m not pregnant,” I insist.
“Well, one way to find out.” She turns around and yanks open a drawer on her little stand of tools. She turns around and holds up a pregnancy test.
“Why in the world do you have pregnancy tests in your drawer?” I ask and stare at her wild-eyed.
“Ain’t I a hairdresser?” she asks impatiently. “Do you know how many times a week I see that deer-in-the-headlights look that’s on your face right now? I ask this ten times a day. Just go back to the bathroom and get it done.”
“No. I am not taking a pregnancy test just because I forgot to write down my period last month,” I say and put my hands up to ward her off. How is it possible for my stomach to feel heavy and flutter at the same time? My heart is racing, and my skin is tingling. I can’t even think straight.
“Okay, but I can’t color your hair today,” I say.
“Of course, you can,” I cry in desperation. This can’t be happening.
She sighs. “Let me be more deliberate with my word choice,” she says slowly. “I won’t color your hair today. Not unless you pee on that stick, and it’s negative,” she announces.
“Okay, fine. Don’t color my hair. I’ll get the cut and the blow out,” I say and watch her drop the test back in the drawer. I have a moment of regret where I think I should have just taken it, but I can’t do it.
Noé walks in with the mimosa on a small silver tray he’s carrying like it’s a tray of crown jewels.
“Good Lord, did you grow the oranges yourself?” she asks.
“So sorry, I had to run out to Randall’s to get the oranges. We were out,” he says and he drops the mimosa down in front of me. I pick it up and start to take a sip and my stomach grumbles. And I know I’m not pregnant. But I put it down because if I am, it would be very irresponsible to drink it without having proof. The thought of a baby—Hayes’s baby—inside of me makes me dizzy. But, at the trailing tip of the whirlwind of disbelief, panic, worry, doubt, and surprise is a bolt of joy.
Hayes.
His baby. I close my eyes and see a bundle with silky chocolate curls and glittering topaz hazel eyes.
“Come, let’s go back to the bowl,” she says and starts
to stand me up.
