by Marina Ford
“I should probably give my uncle a ring,” he says.
I’m a little disappointed that that’s where his thoughts go when he sees so much beauty, courtesy of moi.
“Your uncle?”
“My dad told him I was going to be in town, and I’ve got an army of cousins I should probably go and see while you’re at work.”
“Oh, sure, yeah, that sounds fun.”
Since it’s imperative he’s out doing something all day (because I will need the hotel room to put all my plans into action tomorrow), I got one of Chloe’s many friends to take him around some castle for half the day—I can’t show too much preparation or he would get suspicious. So I encourage the idea of cousins, while pulling him to me and towards the bed.
“Aren’t you tired?” he asks, returning my kisses and unbuttoning his shirt.
“Nah.” In fact, I’m electrified, restless, and in need of some activity to release all this excited energy that’s tingling in my muscles. I take his hand and push it down my jeans.
“Flatterer,” he murmurs against my cheek.
We fall asleep two hours later, naked. There’s nothing like hearing your lover sigh in contentment after you’ve exerted yourself for him using all the skills in your repertoire. Nothing like feeling him glow at your side, his hand holding your hand to his chest.
Everything goes calm inside.
Sometime in the middle of the night—maybe two or three in the morning—his phone buzzes. I jerk awake. He picks it up and goes to the bathroom. Weird.
I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the conversation is short and tense. It sounds like he’s reassuring someone. I lean back against the pillow. What the hell?
He comes back a few moments later, plugs his phone into the charger, and then lies down.
“Who was that?” I ask sleepily.
“Oh, sorry, did I wake you up?” He reaches for my hand again, kissing it and putting it where it was before, against his heart.
I’m tempted to get up and look at his phone to see who it was. But I can’t. He’s holding my hand.
“Seriously, Harry. Who’d ring you at this hour?”
A pause. “A client who’s moved to Australia and forgotten about time zones.”
I have more questions, but his eyes are closed and his breath is going steady. His pulse is a little raised against my hand.
I’m being paranoid. Paranoia has no place during a perfect engagement weekend. So I snuggle closer to him and force myself to think of tomorrow.
We have a peaceful breakfast at the hotel restaurant. Harry drinks his usual black coffee while checking the news on his phone, and I bask in how successful the Plan is so far. In fact, planning is not so hard, after all. I think I should do it more often. Harry is right when he says that planning makes everything easier because you’re prepared. That’s what was missing from my life—I’m never prepared for anything. But I will have a new life, soon. A life with Harry. Well, it will be largely the same, except I will be better. I will listen to him more, and I will plan (no more crappy PowerPoint failures—this time I mean business), and he will be happy with me.
I watch him as he frowns over the latest in politics, the referendum, elections somewhere. He cares about so many things, I sometimes wonder how he finds the time or the space in his brain to do it. When I look at the news, all it makes me want to do is take a nap. He knows the details of each party’s manifesto; he doesn’t just get pissed off with politicians who deny the veracity of climate change research, no, he reads scientific articles about climate change, and there’s a whole shelf in our flat dedicated to the subject, as though the future of the world depended on him being able to argue his case at a moment’s notice. He gave most of our savings (his savings, really) to the charities dealing with the refugee crisis, and then organised fun runs for his office to raise more money for the cause. He’s as close to a superhero as you can get nowadays, short of wearing a fetching cape.
When he hears me sigh, he looks up and smiles apologetically.
“Sorry, bad habit,” he says, switching his phone off. “Are you nervous about today?”
“Nah, it’s all right.”
At the beginning of our relationship, he used to come to every exhibition, and every show, because he imagined that’s what being a good boyfriend to me was. But soon we established that it’s not worth it. After I set my pieces up, I just wander around, answer questions, sometimes I sell a piece or two. It’s the dullest thing in the world for guests, which is why I never invite any.
“What time do you want to meet up?” he asks.
“I reckon I should be done by six. I’ll find a place for us to have dinner.”
“I can do that,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to think about—”
“No, no, that’s all right, I’ll do it,” I say, quickly. His eyebrows rise up in surprise. I clarify, “Orla told me of a cool place last time we spoke. Don’t remember the name, but I’ll find out and see if I can book us in.”
He agrees to this, but elicits a promise that if I’m too busy, I should just send him a text and he’ll take care of it. Siobhan calls him “Mr. I’ll Take Care Of It” in fond mockery. If I’m perfectly honest, it can get a little much sometimes, because his natural instinct is to assume everybody is a little bit incompetent and if he doesn’t have a hand in something, it will probably fall apart. Well, I think to myself, we’ll see about that, Mr. Byrne.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks.
“Oh, sorry.”
“I’ve never seen you look so smug.” He laughs. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I wipe the stupid smile off my face. Really, the last thing I need now is for my goofy face to betray me and spoil everything.
We part in front of the hotel.
“Good luck,” he says. “Let me know how it goes.”
“I’ll probably be run off my feet, so don’t expect any texts or anything.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet you in our room six-ish, all right?”
He smiles, and I know he’s thinking not to expect me before seven. Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we! His taxi is already waiting for him, so I watch him get in. We wave at each other like the sappy creatures we are. The cab merges with the traffic, and I head into town. I’ve a busy schedule to keep.
First, I have to buy a suit. All our relationship I’ve been trying to smarten up for him, because I know he likes it. Well, he says he likes my style, and never actually asked me to change anything about it, but I’ve seen the way he looks at suits: the way Chloe looks at ice cream sundaes, and the way my mother’s poodles look at my mother.
The problem so far has been that even the few times I’d procured a fancy set of trousers and a shirt to wear (one time for Siobhan’s wedding, another time for Harry’s grandfather’s funeral), they always get crumpled and stained within the first hour of me wearing them. It’s like someone put a curse on me. I try so hard to keep them neat and clean! Well, tonight I’m determined it’s going to be different. Tonight, I’m going to look so fucking sharp, he won’t recognize his own boyfriend.
I’ve saved up for the occasion, and though I didn’t have time to research places to buy suits (or, in fact, buy one before we got to Ireland), I have my phone on me, and a few minutes on Google produces all the information I need. The suit is going to make me look like one of those men in men’s magazines, which Harry pretends not to drool over. And it’s going to fit me, and it’s going to stay clean, goddamn it, if it’s the last thing I do.
The shop assistant, an elderly Indian man, is very keen to help me. I am open with him.
“I know nothing about suits, but I have to look like James Bond tonight,” I say.
The look in his face informs me that this is not the first time someone has tasked him with this. To his credit, he doesn’t give any indication that he’s tired of the dumbasses who do. We decide that black suits wouldn’t look good on me, what with my dark complexi
on, but that the grey and the navy blue would. In the end we go for the grey. He gives me different sizes to try on, because I haven’t the least clue what my size is—most of my clothes come from discount bins in Tesco, and they’re all either too large or too small. While I try them on, he brings an array of matching shirts, ties, belts, and shoes, and then comments dryly on the fact that Bond would probably wear matching socks. I ask him to find me socks.
When I emerge at last from the little curtained booth, I realise that with hair as long as mine, I look like a mafioso, or perhaps an undertaker’s son. But there’s time, and I can still pop into a hairdresser’s and get my hair done. Fuck it, I’ve got so much time in my Perfect Plan, I could get a manicure while I’m at it.
The price of the ensemble makes me gulp, but then I think of Harry, and how impressed he will be, and charge it all to my credit card. After all, a man gets engaged but once, right? Best to do it properly. Besides, even I have to admit that the suit makes me look good, minus the hair of course, and I think Harry will be both impressed and aroused by it, which really decides the matter.
The salesman packs it all up for me. “Keep the receipt, in case you want to return anything.”
“Sure.” I beam at him, though in my head I’m already thinking of the sharp new haircut I will get.
Chloe rings me as I leave the shop.
“So, have you done it yet?”
“No, this evening,” I say. “Why?”
“I just thought maybe you thought the better of it. I’ve been sending you vibes. Did you receive anything?”
“No, weirdo, and stop spoiling my perfect day.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve got a suit now—a proper one, with cuff links and a tie and everything. And shoes. And a fucking belt. That’s right, I said a belt.”
“Wow,” she says, singularly unimpressed. “A belt, you say? You mean that thing prisoners use to hang themselves with? Very apt.”
“Shut up. I’m going to a hairdresser now. I’m cutting my hair.”
“Your hair?” she sounds astounded. “That wasn’t part of the Magnificent Plan, was it?”
“It is now.”
“Joe . . .”
“Why are you calling me? Are you trying to spoil this for me?”
“No, actually. Just calling to check on you. Turns out it’s a good thing I did. Don’t do anything to your hair. Just go and tell that man how you feel.”
“My hair doesn’t go with the suit. It’s got to go.”
“Who cares about that stupid suit, you maniac?” She laughs. “Harry won’t care. He always gazes at you like you’re art anyway. It’s the most annoying thing in the world.”
I feel a little warm under my collar. He does? I want to ask. It only determines me on my course. “I’m doing it. I’m going to look like James fucking Bond. That’s right.”
She groans. “That misogynistic, imperialist—”
“I’m going to do it!”
She sighs, resigned. “Let me know when it’s done, so I know when to put on my black clothes.”
“You’re lucky I love you, weirdo.”
When we say goodbye, she says “good luck” once more, and I know she means it.
The first salon I pass is closed, but two blocks down there is one with enormous posters of beautiful people in the display window. With my heart in my throat, I enter.
The hairdresser, a chipper Irish girl, ruffles through my hair with her fingers and asks what I want.
“Er, I—I don’t know,” I admit. “Honestly, I never cut it.”
She smiles. “Never?”
“Well, I cut it to keep it this length, when I remember to, but I don’t, er, cut it short. Ever.”
She ruffles my hair again, interested. “Are we cutting it short now?”
I feel an enormous gulp in my throat.
The Elders kept insisting my mum cut my hair short.
“I’m proposing today,” I tell her. She meets my eyes in the mirror and beams.
“Aw,” she says. “Then we have to make it special. Does she not like your hair?”
“Oh, er, no, he—he does.” She looks surprised and then, giving me another glance, stops looking surprised.
I’ve seen his ex-boyfriends. I’ve seen the men he fancies, the celebrities he thinks are hot. None of them have hair longer than a few centimetres. Not one. Except for me. Now, I don’t mind being different from the lot he’s liked/dated before. That’s fine by me, because I mean to keep him, so they can all go and suck it. But I’m different from those guys in every way. And it would be nice to conform to at least one standard of beauty Harry holds. One thing I could point at and say, That’s why he wants to be with me.
I show the hairdresser what I want—the sort of cut that would be sharp and sexy and amazing, and knock Harry off his feet: buzzed short at the sides and a styled pompadour on top. The model I point to in the magazine she offered me for inspiration looks really hot.
The girl’s chatty. Which is good, because as she plugs in the clippers, I start getting nervous. It’s my hair. It takes ages to grow back. My lovely, lovely hair. My long, signature hair. My ponytail. When she switches the clippers on, it’s like I’m at the dentist’s and she’s about to drill into my teeth.
I swallow, hard, but try to smile encouragingly at her, because she starts eyeing me with apprehension.
“Yer sure you want to do this?” she asks.
“Oh yes, totally.”
Last thing I need is for her to get nervous. Still, when she puts the clippers to my skull, I have to close my eyes. Think of Harry. Think of Harry. Think of Harry. I can’t think of Harry. I think of my hair, and of prison, and of belts, and of the bracelets I got for him. No, not bracelets. Shackles. That’s what they are. Shackles. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. The sound of clippers diving into hair. The feeling of my locks falling down onto to my shoulders. The feeling of cool air tickling the now bare skull around my temples.
It’s not so bad, I tell myself. It’s quite freeing, actually. And hair grows back, anyway. In a year or two, this will be but a memory. Now it becomes easier to think of Harry. I imagine him laughing at me, but being secretly delighted with the change. I imagine how touched and happy he will be, and how much he will laugh later, when the lengths to which I went to for tonight will become apparent to him.
“It’s not so bad, is it?” the girl says, seeing me relax. “I’ll make it look a treat, I promise, and I—ahchoo!”
She sneezes, violently, with the clippers still against my scalp, and her hand slips and runs over the top of my head. A long strand of deep-brown locks falls over my forehead, down my face, to my lap. My eyes are wide. Her eyes are wide. We freeze, the clippers still buzzing.
“Oh,” she falters. “Oh no.”
Her eyes slowly travel to meet my own in my reflection in the mirror. I don’t know what to say. I want to scream, but this day is going to be fucking perfect, so I can’t scream. People don’t scream when they are having the most perfect day imaginable, right?
“Sorry?” she says, in a squeaky, meek voice, with that hint of a tremble that informs me she is ready to burst into tears any moment.
“It’s all right,” I say. My voice is strained, but I try to smile. “It’s fine. Really.”
Three of her colleagues rush to her side, eyes wide, horror in their faces.
“Oh no, what happened here?”
“Are you all right, sir?”
I assure them I’m perfectly fine. The girl is hyperventilating. There’s a bald spot on the top of my head.
“Ah . . .” One of the older women casts a critical eye over me. “I don’t think we’ll be able to do anything with that. Shall we shorten the rest?”
I contain myself. I do not scream, No! Leave that bald hole on the top of my head like I’m a fucking medieval monk, why don’t you, Edwardina Scissorhand!
“Sure,” I say, placidly. “That . . . that’s probably wise.” For t
he benefit of the girl, who is shedding copious tears now, I add, “It’s been a chore to wash, anyway. Really, it’s all for the best.”
So then her colleague makes me bald.
There’s a large audience by this point; they all try to be positive. “Oh doesn’t he look handsome,” they say. “Like a young Barack Obama!” they gush.
I tip them, generously, because I’m running out of money, they just ruined my perfect day, and all my days for the next year or so, and so that deserves special recognition.
I’m numb with shock.
I walk out of the salon and immediately feel the chill on my head. Walking past shopping windows is an exercise in dealing with panic attacks, because every time I glance at my reflection, I feel like jumping in shock, horror, and disgust. Briefly, I consider a wig. Then I realise that it’s already one o’clock, and I still have to iron the suit and shirt, and then make a booking at the restaurant for tonight. A part of me wants to delay the proposal, for maybe another year or two when I bear a resemblance to me again. But I’m here now, and I went to great lengths to make this happen tonight, and one trigger-happy hairdresser isn’t going to change this!
With renewed determination, I head back in the direction of town, where the restaurant is. In an effort to keep my cool, I pull up my hood to hide my head both from general view and from the cold. Still, my nerves are a wreck and when I arrive at the door of the restaurant and see how nice it is, with an elegant stone-framed entrance in a red-brick Georgian style terrace hotel, I lose some of my courage and think of drawing back. I’m not a fan of fancy restaurants, but Harry is, and now that he has a bald boyfriend, he really deserves it more than ever. So I pull down my hood, run my hand along my skull, shudder at the feel of it, and then head in. The waitress who stands at the little counter with the reservations book open smiles politely when she says there are no tables available today.
“None at all?” I ask. “Not even later in the evening? Or earlier?”
“I’m sorry. We have bookings from weeks and months ago, sir.”
I know this isn’t personal, but now that I’m hideous, it feels personal. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman except I’m no longer pretty. I feel like curling back into my coat, hissing at the lot of them, and dramatically crying: A pox on all your houses! But I leave like a normal person. It occurs to me after all that Orla does have a lot of contacts in the city, and she could get me a table either at this or at another equally good restaurant.
