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“I’m tired of my hair in my face,” he says, pushing his front pieces behind his ears.
“How short were you thinking?”
“I trust you.”
“How about a mohawk?”
“As long as it’s green,” Jackson jokes. “Just make it look good. I have every faith in you.”
“I’ll make you so good-looking.”
“Because I’m a hag right now.”
“You look like a hermit mountain man.”
“Just the look I was going for.” That day he asked me to cut his hair, he put his hand on my shoulder, and waves of sensation flared in my torso.
That’s how I ended up knocking on his door on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
That morning, I straightened my hair so I could wear it down. I decided on a big sweater that reaches my knees, black leggings that have faded to a dull gray, and my favorite sneakers with a hole that has gotten larger so I can see my sock. I really need a new pair and have almost bought new ones twice, but my heart beats too fast thinking about replacing them.
I bet the first woman Jackson dates will be sleek and elegant, with naturally bone-straight hair and high cheekbones. In my mind, she is tall and slender, but still has boobs and a butt. A woman with poise and a college education.
Whoever he chooses with be the opposite of me.
I parked at the side of the garage to avoid detection, but Jackson promised me his mother would be preparing for Thanksgiving so she wouldn’t notice. I climb the stairs to Jackson’s studio and knock.
I shiver as he opens the door, the warmth enveloping me like a hoodie fresh from the dryer. We’ve reached the time of year where I’m always cold—my hands and feet like ice blocks, and I wear multiple layers so I don’t shiver. I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a tank top underneath the sweater.
“Cold out there?”
I let out a “brrr” as I walk in. He barely looks at me as I walk into his living room. His hair is down, reaching his shoulders and his beard is trimmed, cut close to his jaw.
“Did you…trim your beard?”
He rubs it and smiles, the gleam of his teeth bright. “I did. Does it look good?”
“Better than good.” I meant it. This will be harder than I thought. “You’re going to look like a whole new person.”
“The bum look is out.”
“You look great now. You’ll just have shorter hair.”
I walk in, smelling leather and coffee. There’s bottles of bourbon and whiskey on a silver cart next to his cabinets and a large TV in the corner of the room. His living room is small but decorated. There’s a Woody Finch Brewery poster I’ve never seen before and black-and-white photography on the walls of different places in Goldheart, including the mine.
My eyes trace the dark grooves of the mine’s outline as I feel him walk up behind me, close enough to feel his body heat.
“Mom invited you and your grandpa over for Thanksgiving, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “I can’t wait. I was stressed on what we were going to do. I don’t know the first thing about Thanksgiving food. I hope we won’t be a burden.”
“There’s more than enough. My mom loves inviting people over. It’ll be great.”
“Will you be there?” I ask.
Jackson grimaces. “My mom might murder me if I don’t go. I don’t know. Maybe if there’s lots of bourbon.”
Jackson has been making great strides toward participating in life, but there’s moments he retreats and backslides. It’s hard to know when it will happen. The only consistency I have noticed are our walks with Jacques. He always goes to those. Other things are hit or miss.
