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That afternoon I unlocked the doors and took a short walk around the outside of the cabin. Of course, every rustle of the wind in the trees had me jumping but I forced myself to stay calm and finished my brief outdoor tour.
I finally feel like I'm settling in. I think.
I'm in the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror. I push my hair back and look at my face. Really look. No makeup. My own stubby eyelashes. Nothing to enhance my lips or brows. Just me.
Terrifying. Who is this looking back at me? And why does she seem as confused by me as I am by her?
Deep breath in. Gaze into my own eyes for three seconds, Deep breath out.
"Hi Alex," I whisper. "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you. I'm going to do better."
I gaze at myself some more. It's the hair. Well, the fake hair.
I dig into my scalp and run my fingers the length of it. My natural hair bleached to within an inch of its life and a lavender overlay, plus a buttload of extensions, all professionally installed with metal clips.
I feel frantic to get them out of my hair. This last fake item. Then I'll use the boxed hair dye which Nicco requested for me and go back to something closer to my natural shade.
How do I get them out? It's been ages since I've done more than shampoo my own hair and maybe hit it with a blow dryer or brush. I'm like a fucking show pony with people primping me from all angles.
Not now. Maybe not ever again. I don't know.
There's a million things I don't know at the moment.
And one thing I'm certain of.
This fake hair must go. Now.
I dig around in the drawers of the bathroom but they are disturbingly empty. I run to the kitchen and pull open drawers like a madwoman. Where are the fucking scissors? I pick up a long, sharp knife and consider using it. In a pinch, it'll work. I set it on the counter and then go into the living room where there's a desk.
Bingo! A nice pair of Fiskars just waiting for me. Perfect. I grab the orange-handled beauties and though I'm tempted to run to the bathroom, I remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Shade, admonishing all of us about scissor safety. So I walk. But fast.
Besides, the cabin is small. Twenty steps will get you from one end to the other.
Back in front of the bathroom mirror I dig into my hair and find the tiny metal rings where the extensions are attached to my natural hair. There's one on the left side just below my ear, I separate it from the rest of my hair and raise the scissors.
Do I really have the nerve to do this?
Yes, I do!
Snip. The first one comes away in my hand and I stare at it, then drop it on the bathroom counter.
What have I done?
I run my fingers through that area of my own hair. Me. Only me.
I snip out another. And another. With each crunching snip of the scissors, it's like stress and weight fall away from me.
In the mirror I check out my expression.
Is that a smile?
Snipping and pulling out the fake hair is almost like a celebration and I find myself humming while I continue with the scissors.
* * *
CALEB
After a few miles, I'm feeling better. Cruising down an old road, I look out and see my friend Caleb Jenkins in his yard. Yeah, we've got the same name. What can I say? It was popular back in the 90s.
