Only Twenty-Five

by Jennifer McCoy Blaske

  He walked me to my car. Josh faced me and took my hands in his.

  “Goodnight Meg,” he said softly.

  He leaned in and kissed me. It was the perfect kiss! Sweet and soft . . . lingering but not pushy. He rubbed his nose against mine and squeezed my hands before letting go.

  My car floated all the way home. Dinner was wonderful. . . . It was the best evening I’d had in a very long time.

  When I pulled into the lot at my apartment I bounded out of the car and literally skipped across the lot and down the walkway all the way to my front door. I didn’t care if I looked ridiculous. And I didn’t care who saw me.

  I threw open the apartment door and bounced up and down on my toes a few times. “I’m in love!” I announced to Pudding and Scooter. “Can you believe it?”

  They ambushed me and quite loudly announced that their dinner was late.

  “Yes . . . Yes . . . I know you guys are hungry. Sorry. Come on.”

  We went to the kitchen and I gave them fresh water and a can of food each. They began gobbling immediately.

  I leaped across my very small living room, arms outstretched. Then I took off my wig—my beautiful wig—and tossed it in the air. I caught it and twirled around a couple times before collapsing in triumph and laughter on the couch. I carelessly plopped the wig back on my head and it ended up backwards and crooked—with hair falling in my face. I laughed even harder.

  FIFTEEN

  Meg

  A few weeks later I was humming in class as I wrote the dates of some upcoming chorus events on the whiteboard.

  “Miss Caldwell, why are you in such a good mood these days?” Brooke asked.

  “Am I?” I chuckled. “Uh-oh. Does that mean I usually seem like I’m in a bad mood?”

  “No. It’s just that you’re different . . . somehow,” Brooke said.

  “You laugh more,” Lindsay added.

  “Yeah! That’s it!” said Brooke. “You just seem happy all the time. Even more than usual.”

  “Well . . . thank you girls. Glad to hear it.” I went back to my humming and writing.

  I had been feeling noticeably happier for the last few weeks. Josh and I were seeing each other regularly and every time we got together we had more fun. Of course I was in a good mood. Last weekend he took me to an indie bookstore I’d never been to. We browsed the shelves discussing old favorites—Little Women for me and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for him—and admitting our guilty pleasures. Mine was Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic Series and his was Lee Child’s Jack Reacher Series. William Golding’s The Princess Bride was on the Staff Recommendations shelf. Josh asked if I’d ever read it. I told him it’d been years since I’d read the book or seen the movie. He said we’d have to fix that right away so that night we cuddled on the couch at my apartment and watched it with Scooter resting against my legs and Pudding resting against his.

  Those were the kinds of things that made us both happy. Very happy.

  Come to think of it, practically nothing upsets me anymore. Like yesterday afternoon, when Craig Shaffalo was late to my eighth grade general music class, I normally would’ve bitten his head off. But I didn’t do that. He came barreling in five minutes after class started and let the door slam behind him. He ran to his desk and threw himself into his chair so hard that it slid across the floor and banged into Jeff Shutok’s knees. So then Jeff Shutok picked up his folder and whacked Craig on the top of the head. A few weeks ago I might’ve yelled something like: Craig, what the heck is wrong with you that you can never enter a room without disrupting everything and causing bodily injury to someone? But yesterday I just took a deep breath and said, “Craig, if you’re late, please at least try to enter the room quietly. And Jeffrey, there’s no need to overreact.” Then I calmly continued with the lesson.

  ***

  I didn’t realize until after I moved to my apartment that the library is only a mile away—there are sidewalks all the way too. When the weather’s good, and I’m in the right mood, it’s a perfect walk. In fact, it’s just the right amount of exercise and fresh air without being ridiculously time-consuming or exhausting. Assuming, of course, that I’m not hauling home hardcover versions of Gone With the Wind, Atlas Shrugged, and The Stand.

  When I woke up on a recent Sunday I decided to go to the library. I’d just finished Ruth Rendell’s short story collection—which of course wasn’t as good as her novels, but what can you do?—and I wanted to look for something else to read. It was such a pretty day for a walk and a great day for singing. Reading Time with Pickle seemed to fit my mood. I was so happy that I almost started skipping along as I sang. Almost, but not quite. . . .

  I turned the corner and saw the library. I always approached from the back and cut across the grass. This day I was in such high spirits that I playfully ducked under some trees, still singing. When I straightened up I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know what. Confused, I turned around. And there was my wig . . . swinging from a tree. Horrified, I quickly glanced around. Thankfully, most people entered the library through the parking lot or front entrance. As far as I could tell, no one got a chance to witness my hair being snagged by a branch and peeled off my head, only to be left dangling in the gentle breeze.

  I carefully plucked the wig from the branch. I shook it and ran my hands through it a couple times to get rid of the debris. Then I placed it back on my head and continued walking as if nothing had happened. Of course, I was no longer singing. All I could think was: What if Josh had been here? My second thought was: How long can I keep this up?

  No matter what I did for the rest of the day those two questions wouldn’t stop plaguing me. I wanted to brush my worries away, just as I’d done with the leaves and twigs that stuck to my wig. I reminded myself that everything was going really well. I loved my job. I was beginning to appreciate Madison a lot more now that I had someone to share it with. I was seeing a great guy who was cute and funny and liked a lot of the same stuff I liked. Why ask for trouble? Why waste precious time worrying about things that weren’t a problem?

  After a couple days I thought those worries finally gave up and went away for good. Several days later I discovered what sneaky little buggers they really were. Instead of going away they’d simply taken up permanent residence in my subconscious.

  SIXTEEN

  Meg

  When I got home from school I took off my wig and set it on the dresser. I went into the bathroom and studied my reflection in the mirror. It was hard to look at myself with no wig, no hat, no hair extensions.

  I had to accept that this was “me” now. The me I’d known for all these years was essentially gone. And she was never coming back. Even if I wore the most beautiful, expensive wig in the world that was even nicer than my natural hair, it could never be the same. The days of growing my own hair out of my head were over . . . permanently. And that was sad.

  I realized the fact was that I had to grieve. It might sound melodramatic to use such a serious word as grieve when talking about the loss of dead strands of keratin and fibers and whatever it is that hair is made of. But as superficial as hair seems, the reality is that it’s intimately associated with people’s perceptions of themselves, their identity. I mean, everyone knows that a bad hair day can easily end up being a bad day. Well imagine knowing that you’re going to have bad hair days for the rest of your life . . . unless you put fake hair on your head. The me that had a full, normal head of hair was gone forever. And her loss had to be acknowledged. My thinning hair didn’t change who I was inside. But I couldn’t pretend that everything was the same . . . or that it didn’t matter. Something had happened, it couldn’t be fixed, and it made me very sad. And that was okay.

  I’d spent so much time over the last few months dealing with this problem—analyzing the hair loss, wanting to prevent the hair loss, studying the progress of the hair loss, and desperately trying to hide the hair loss—that I felt like androgenetic alopecia was a sinister villain trying to wre
ak havoc on my life. I was constantly cowering and running from it. It was in control . . . and I’d been a mere slave to its whims.

  I leaned forward and looked menacingly into the mirror as I opened the drawer under the sink. I wanted to make sure that the invisible foe trapped inside me would get the message.

  “I won’t be your slave anymore. Do you hear me?” I raised my lip and sort of snarled as I held up my scissors. “There’s one way I can take back control. And I’m not afraid anymore.”

  I slowly straightened up and took a deep breath. With trembling hands I lifted a strand of scraggly hair and cut it off as close to my scalp as I could without risking injury. I tossed the hair into the toilet and worked my way around my head, carefully clearing one section at a time. Clip. Clip. Clip. It felt oddly . . . satisfying. The Sinéad O'Connor-look was certainly not what I ever would’ve chosen for myself. But under the circumstances, I had no choice. I set the scissors down on the bathroom counter.

  “Almost there,” I said softly. It was one thing to cut your hair. I mean, I’d never gotten nearly this much cut off before, and I wasn’t usually the one doing the cutting. But I was used to having my hair cut with a pair of scissors. The next step was going to be harder. It didn’t feel like a normal thing to do.

  I slid my shirt over my head and put it on the counter. Then I grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around my neck and shoulders. Kneeling down beside the tub, I winced at the hard bathroom tiles. I rolled another towel up and put it under my knees. I turned the water on, adjusted the temperature, and leaned forward. I felt grim, like I was assuming the position for execution. I splashed water on my head before plunging it under the tap. It felt so pleasant that it was tempting to just stay there and put off doing the dreaded deed. But I knew I had to brace myself and just do it.

  I sat up on my heels for a moment, water dripping down my face. I sprayed shaving cream into my hands, lathered it up, and rubbed it onto my head. So far so good. It just felt like I was shampooing my hair and it was cut really short.

  The next part wasn’t so easy. I rinsed my hands, picked up the pink razor I’d put on the tub earlier, and leaned over. I began carefully shaving my head. The longer hairs could be stubborn against the blade, sort of pulling and making me go over the area a few times. And the scraping noise was definitely creepy. It felt strange and completely wrong to be using a razor on my scalp. But I couldn’t stop now.

  “No rush,” I told myself. “Just take your time. This is sort of a rite of passage. A decisive moment. A door you’re passing through to a new way of life. Don’t rush it.”

  That seemed to work. I took my time gently gliding the razor in different directions at different angles, periodically feeling my head with my fingertips to see if I’d missed any spots.

  After I’d shaved everything and double-checked to make sure my entire head was smooth I leaned under the tap and let the warm water flow over my bald scalp. Watching the foamy water spiral down the drain was like watching my pain wash away. It felt symbolic . . . and liberating. I was finally in control. And that was definitely empowering.

  When I felt sufficiently physically and emotionally cleansed I sat back on my heels and pulled the towel over my head. I stood up slowly and walked over to the mirror.

  I whipped the green towel off my head. It was very strange seeing myself with a completely bald head. But it wasn’t quite as disturbing as I thought it would be. I looked more masculine, for sure. At the same time, I looked almost elegant in a way. I’d been worried that I would look really sick—like a dying cancer patient—but strangely, the opposite was true. I inspected my reflection in the mirror from all angles. I definitely looked less sick with a completely bald head than I did with unevenly thinning hair.

  I went into my bedroom and grabbed my wig from the dresser. Surprisingly, it was much easier to put on and more comfortable to wear now that I had a smooth scalp.

  SEVENTEEN

  Meg

  After work on Wednesday Josh drove us to downtown Madison. It wasn’t the most cosmopolitan place in the world, but it was quaint and fun with some interesting shops, restaurants, historic homes, and a theater company. Occasionally there were buskers and local art shows.

  We ordered gyros at a Mediterranean restaurant. Josh told me funny stories about his roommate which led to him talking about some of his roommates from college. And then I told him how I met Katie and what a great roommate she’d been. We also talked about college classes and awful professors and some of the funny things our students did. After dinner we walked hand in hand through the streets, looking at antique furniture and hand-painted pottery. We couldn’t have asked for a better evening.

  Josh drove me back to school around eight. He walked me to my car and kissed me good night. I was as happy as could be, without a care in the world. . . . Until he moved his hands to my cheeks and began slowly sliding his fingers toward my hairline. Without even thinking, I put my hands against his chest and pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” Josh was obviously startled. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” I was a bit shocked myself. “I . . .” I panicked because I was terrified that his fingers would get too close to my wig. But I couldn’t tell him that. I just couldn’t!

  What would’ve happened if he felt it? How would he have reacted? If he’d started touching my head there was no way he could’ve missed the lining around the edges, the thick ear tabs on the sides, or the mesh underneath the hair. Then I would’ve had to tell him everything. What guy wants to know that his girlfriend is visibly balding? That she shaves her head in the shower every morning? What would he think of me?

  It was ridiculous to think that he would never touch my head or run his fingers through my hair. How could you possibly have a physical relationship with someone and expect them never to find out that you’re wearing a wig? And what if we stayed together? What if we got married? Sure, it was hard to picture right now, but wasn’t that the eventual progression of a relationship, if things continued to go well? How would that work? What kind of marriage would that be? Would I always have to come up with reasons why I couldn’t go swimming or ride a roller coaster? What if we were out and the wind blew my wig off? What if we were in a car accident? How exactly was I supposed to live with somebody and hide the fact that I shaved my head and wore a wig? Would I have to wear the wig to bed every night? Would I always have to run into the next room to change clothes? How stupid was that? How possible was that? Even if we never got married, how much longer could I take the strain of always being on guard? Always wondering if I was safe from detection? For heaven’s sake, I’d pushed him away while he was kissing me. How much more obvious could it be that this wasn’t working? I was only kidding myself if I thought I could keep seeing him and keep my secret.

  It wasn’t fair to Josh to stay in a relationship that was a lie. And I knew he wouldn’t want to stay in this relationship if he knew the truth. That left only one thing to do.

  Josh touched my arm. “Earth to Meg. Hello. Are you in there? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry Josh.” I avoided his eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just . . . I mean, I really like you, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I . . . I just don’t know if this is working out. The two of us, I mean.”

  He stared at me. “What are you talking about? We just had a great night. Did I do something to offend you? What is it? Tell me, please.”

  I blurted out the only thing I could think of. “Well . . . you know, we’re teachers. We work in the same school. It’s probably not appropriate for us to be in a relationship. What if the students found out?”

  He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “What if the students found out? Who cares? Did someone tell you that there’s a school rule about teachers dating each other? I’m pretty sure there isn’t.”

  “No, nobody said anything like that.” Part of me wanted so badly to just yank my
wig off right then and there and tell him everything. But the idea of him seeing me like that, and the thought of the look he’d probably get on his face, made me physically ill. “It’s just . . . it’s just me. I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship right now.” At least that was true. But it made me wonder if I’d ever be ready for a relationship. Maybe when my hair grew back? In other words, never . . . “I’m sorry, Josh,” I whispered. “I really am.”

  I slipped into my car and drove away. I felt like a horrible, horrible person. But what other choice did I have?

  EIGHTEEN

  Josh

  The next morning I was mad at everything. I was mad when all I got from the box of Apple Jacks was eight and a half lonely pieces of cereal. I cursed out loud on the way to work when the car in front of me was going too slow and made me miss a yellow light.

  When I got to work I was mad when I saw one of those stupid emails from Mrs. Kirk telling us that the theme of the week was “courage” and we needed to plan a lesson around it. “Yeah, I don’t plan my lessons around your contrived BS,” I said to the computer as I pounded the delete button.

  And then, I got mad at Dawn Patterson. . . .

  It was the end of my fourth period class. Sixth graders were coming to my desk to collect their assignments. They had to write alternate endings for the book When You Reach Me. As I was grading the assignments a couple days ago I was pleased at how creative they were. But now, as I was passing them back, all I could see was how sloppy some of them were. For reasons that made no sense, it irked the snot out of me.

  “You need a heading on your paper, Dawn,” I snapped as she came to my desk.

  Dawn was a quiet girl with big brown eyes and short dark hair. She looked down at her paper. “But Mister Hartter . . . it does have a heading.”