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"Interesting, isn't it?"
"Yes."
> "When would you want the hairdresser?"
"Tony, I didn't say I wanted to have it done. I don't know."
"You see how beautiful your grandmother was in light hair, and your mother as well. What do you think?" His eyes burned with excitement.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"All this therapy and medicine and solitude can be very boring." He looked about. "Oh, let me do it," he pleaded. "Let me hire the hairdresser. You should feel pretty, like a beautiful young woman again and not like an invalid."
I smiled at his exuberance. It would be nice to feel pretty again. I looked down at the photographs. I imagined that having my mother's hair color when she was about my age would make me feel close to her again. She looked so happy there on the beach.
And my grandmother Leigh . . there was something wildly beautiful about her. The light hair suited her complexion, but would it suit mine?
"Well? What do you think?" he pursued, hovering over me like someone on pins and needles.
"Oh, Tony, I really don't know. I've never thought about dying my hair another color. It could turn out horrible."
"If it doesn't suit you, I'll bring the hairdresser right back to restore your hair to what it is now."
"Maybe after the service, Tony. I don't want to dote on myself right now. Thank you." I handed the photographs back. He was disappointed but nodded with understanding.
"What about this dress?"
"Drake should be bringing me something appropriate. I included a black dress of my own on the list." "Won't you at least try it on?"
I saw how much it meant to him and began to wonder myself how I might look in it.
"I will."
"I'll send Mrs. Broadfield right in to help you. After you have it on, call me," he added, rushing out before I could say another word. I hadn't meant I would try it on right this moment, but he looked as excited as a child on Christmas morning. I couldn't see denying him. A moment later Mrs. Broadfield appeared. She didn't look happy about it.
"It's not necessary to do this right now, Mrs. Broadfield, if you're busy with something."
"If I were, I wouldn't be here." She took the dress of the bed and looked at it a moment. Then she shrugged to herself and came around to help me sit up and slip off my nightgown. After she and I got the dress on me, she helped me into the wheelchair so I could see myself in the largest wall mirror.
Because I was seated, it was difficult to appreciate what I looked like in this dress, but I did think it made me look older. I hadn't taken much care with my hair since the accident, and now that I put on something other than a nightgown, it made me more aware of how terrible I looked. My hair looked dirty, stringy, greasy. The black dress brought out the paleness in my face and the fatigue in my eyes. I nearly burst into tears seeing myself.
Mrs. Broadfield stood to the side, her arms folded, watching me like some bored saleswoman in a clothing store. Helping me on with a dress was obviously not part of what she considered to be her nursing duties. I didn't hear Tony reenter. He stood just inside the doorway, staring. After a moment I felt his eyes on me and turned toward him. His face was enraptured, twisted in that strange smile I had been seeing more and more of lately. Mrs. Broadfield said nothing. She simply left the room.
"Oh, Tony, I look so terrible. I didn't realize. My hair is disgusting. No one said anything, not Drake, not you, none of the servants."
"You're beautiful. You have a beauty that can't fade with time or illness. It's immortal. I knew that dress was right for you; I knew it. You'll wear it, won't you?"
"I don't know, Tony. I won't like myself in anything, so maybe it won't matter."
"Of course it will matter. I'm sure that your mother will be smiling down and thinking how beautiful her daughter has become."
"But my hair," I repeated, holding up a straggly clump and then dropping it with disgust.
"I told you . . . let me send for a hairdresser right away. Look how horrible you feel because of your appearance. I'm not a physician, but I know if we don't feel good about ourselves, we don't improve. In fact, we can get sicker and sicker."
How persistent he was, and yet what he was saying made sense. Was I wrong to think of my own looks at a time like this? Then Tony said something that convinced me.
"Luke hasn't seen you since you were in the hospital. I'm sure he expects you to look somewhat improved."
