by Sarah Price
“How can we help you ladies today?” a young woman behind the cash register asked. With her blue hair cut in a pseudo-punk style, she reminded Frances of a modern-day Cyndi Lauper, a throwback to the eighties. The nose ring and wrist tattoo helped to complete the transition into the twenty-first century.
Charlotte stepped to the side, making room for Frances to approach the check-in desk. With a nervous flutter of her hand, Frances gestured toward her hair. “I’d like a haircut.”
“A trim or . . . ?” The woman hesitated and waited for Frances to complete her sentence.
“Something different.”
“OK, then. Did you have something in mind?”
Frances swallowed and nodded her head. “I . . . well . . . I want to cut it all off.”
The woman blinked and glanced at Charlotte. “All of it?”
“Short. Very short.”
“I see.” But it was clear that she was taken aback by the request. Even she could tell that Frances was not enthusiastic about it. How could she be? After all, she had such beautifully thick, long hair. “Well, then . . . let’s get you situated; then you can tell me what you have in mind.”
Frances took a deep breath and followed her to the closest chair. It was burgundy, thankfully. Had it been gray, like the recliners in the chemotherapy room, Frances might have been tempted to run out of the salon. Instead, she sat down and let the woman put a cape around her shoulders. Once she’d snapped it, she spun the chair around so Frances could look in the mirror.
“How short were you thinking? Two, three inches?”
“One inch, maybe two at the most.”
The woman breathed a sigh of relief and laughed. “Oh! I thought you meant you really wanted your hair cut off!” Another laugh. “Two inches shorter isn’t so bad! You have such beautiful hair anyway!”
“No, I meant I only want it one or two inches long.” She fumbled in her purse and withdrew the wig to show the stylist. When she held it up for her to get a better look at, she was met with complete silence.
This was the moment Frances had wanted to avoid. She didn’t want to tell her story, didn’t want to see a look of pity on the woman’s face. She knew that this first time would be the worst. I just have to get used to the idea of people feeling sorry for me. She pursed her lips and exhaled. “I have breast cancer. It’s going to fall out anyway. I’d rather it be on my terms, not the cancer’s.”
“Oh.”
That one word said it all. It was soft and quiet, a moment of understanding that, despite Frances’s wishes, was filled with compassion, empathy, and alarm. Frances understood all of those emotions, especially the last one. How many times had she heard bad news about a friend or acquaintance? She remembered when she first learned about her friend Jane’s divorce and her neighbor Stephanie’s illness. She had not only been worried about them but also for a flash second worried that she, too, might one day face a similar problem. And then, after that feeling passed, Frances would hide a sigh of relief that it was someone else’s problem to deal with, not hers.
“I’m . . . I’m terribly sorry,” the young woman said.
“It’s OK,” Frances replied before quickly adding, “I’m OK with it. I just don’t want clumps of hair to fall out. That would be more shocking than cutting it off. So do whatever you can to make it look good. Chic, sassy, anything. Just keep it as short as possible.” She averted her eyes and stared at the floor, where long, dark curls from a previous customer lay scattered and forgotten.
The woman placed her hands on Frances’s shoulders and, despite her youth and outlandish looks, suddenly turned into a comrade. With an understanding smile, she nodded her head.
“You’ll look beautiful when I’m done with you. I have just the cut in mind. And if you want, we can save your hair to send to Locks of Love. Sometimes helping others makes it less . . . shocking.”
Frances could barely respond. She wished she had thought of that herself. Everyone was always talking about “paying it forward,” and donating her own hair was the perfect way to help someone else.
“That would be nice,” she answered, feeling a little bit better about sitting in that chair.
Charlotte sat down in the empty chair beside her and swiveled around to face her friend. “Don’t get all weepy-eyed on me now,” she proclaimed in a strong enough tone to make Frances almost laugh out loud. “I can think of twenty other things worse than getting a haircut, and I don’t think I need to remind you that cancer is one of them!”
“You’re such a good support,” Frances teased back, hoping that the threat of tears had passed.
With an exaggerated air of vanity, Charlotte glanced at her fingernails, perfectly manicured and painted a bright red, and sighed. “I know. That’s what friends are for, right?”
The stylist paused and looked over Frances’s head into the mirror, their eyes meeting in the reflection. “You ready?”
“No.”
The woman gave her an empathetic smile. “Your friend is right, I think, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, doing something good with your hair will help you feel better.”
Frances nodded and blinked her eyes, trying to hold back the tears.
Her hair. Her beautiful long blond hair. The color that Nicholas preferred, even if it meant frequent trips to the salon to touch up her dark roots. She hated the idea of having it shorn off, but she knew she had no choice. It was better to cut it on her own terms. At least there was something she could finally control.
The woman began to section Frances’s hair and clipped each one to the side. For a moment she had to shut her eyes so she couldn’t see what was going on. This is not happening. This is not happening, she told herself. But when she heard the first snip and felt the gentle tugging on her scalp, her eyes flew open and she began to cry.
For once, Charlotte dropped the bravado and stepped to the side of the chair. She reached down for Frances’s hand and clutched it tightly.
“It’s going to be fine, Fran. You can do this.”
Through her tears, Frances somehow nodded her head. She knew she could do this; the only problem was she didn’t want to.
Twenty minutes later, Frances walked out of the salon, her blond hair short and spiked in a sassy way and her long locks tucked safely in a plastic bag. The salon had refused to charge her for the haircut, which made Frances feel even worse. The last thing she wanted was to feel like a charity case. But when she realized that arguing was fruitless, she accepted the generosity of the hair salon with a forced smile that hid her tears while she secretly decided to make a financial donation in the name of Supercuts to the Susan G. Komen organization.
A vision of Mrs. Bentley crossed her mind. That was just how her mother had seen their dying neighbor: a charity case. And in her mother’s eyes that meant Mrs. Bentley was someone to be pitied, a tolerated burden at best. Just the condescending tone of voice that she had used whenever she brought a pan of lasagna or a chicken casserole to the Bentley house had been enough to embarrass Frances when she was a child.
They walked next door to the coffee shop. Frances sat down, the plastic bag still in her hand. She was staring at it, wondering why the locks looked so thin, when in real life, her hair had always been thick and full. Or maybe it’s just my perception.
“Here you go,” Charlotte said, handing Frances a coffee.
Shoving the bag of hair into her tote, she took the drink with her free hand. “Thanks,” she said.
“I like it.” Charlotte sat down across from her. “It’s really cute.”
Cute. At forty-two years old, cute was not what she wanted to be. Sexy. Refined. Sophisticated. Beautiful. Not cute.
“Nicholas is going to hate my hair,” she whispered.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “I hope that’s not the reaction you get when he sees it. I’m sure you both have more important things to think about than your haircut, which looks adorable.”
Frances hesitated. How could she confess the truth? Admit that she h
adn’t even told Nicholas yet? After thinking about it for a bit, she decided that, with Charlotte, a direct and honest approach was the best approach. Taking a deep breath, she looked up and met her friend’s concerned eyes.
“I haven’t told him,” she admitted.
“Come again?” An incredulous Charlotte leaned forward.
“Please, don’t make me repeat it.”
Shaking her head, Charlotte leaned back and studied Frances’s face. Her eyes clouded over, disappointment mixed with distaste. She scowled. “How is that even possible? I mean, you have cancer, Frances, not a broken fingernail!”
Frances rolled her eyes. “I know that I have cancer, Charlie. You don’t have to remind me of that.”
“It’s real simple, Fran. You wait until he walks through the door, and you say, ‘Hi, honey, I have cancer.’ The thing is that you have to do it before he asks you what’s for dinner or if you picked up his dry cleaning.”
“Ha-ha,” Frances deadpanned. “I don’t know where you got the idea that he’s so narcissistic.”
“Narcissistic? More of an egotist!”
Running her middle finger up and down the side of the plastic cup, Frances felt the heat of her pumpkin latte, too hot to drink just yet. Suddenly, she wished she had suggested they stop for a glass of wine. “I really wish you’d ease up on him,” she managed to say, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m sure you do,” Charlotte quipped. “That would be fantastic to let up on him, because it would mean he finally got his act together and realized that, contrary to his personal beliefs, he’s not the center of the universe and you, in fact, don’t exist just to serve him.”
“That’s not fair.”
Leaning forward, Charlotte pointed at Frances. “No, what’s not fair is that you’re shoved into a corner and can’t even tell him that you have cancer! Let me guess. Work?”
“Work.”
Frances could tell that Charlotte was trying to keep her temper in check, trying hard to not explode. “When are you going to grow a backbone, Fran?”
“Stop. This whole thing is hard enough to deal with. I don’t need more reminders of what’s wrong from you.”
But Charlotte pressed forward. “A marriage is a partnership, Frances, not indentured servitude. What, exactly, has he done for you lately?” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Or, for that matter, ever?”
Part of Frances felt as if she needed to defend Nicholas, that Charlotte’s attack on his character was uncalled for. But as much as she wanted to pretend that Charlotte’s criticism was not true, she couldn’t deny that her friend’s brutal honesty stung. There was no salve for the wasted years of open wounds from the silent battles she’d fought.
“Look, we’ve talked about this before—”
“Too many times, I might add!” Charlotte shot back.
“When he finishes with that contract, I’ll tell him.”
From Charlotte’s expression, Frances knew that her words were falling on deaf ears. “It’s not like the time he blew off that appointment for your family’s holiday photo. Or when he spent the better part of the day in his office instead of mingling with your guests at your Labor Day barbecue.” Once again, she leaned forward and leveled her gaze at Frances. “You are starting chemotherapy on Thursday, Frances. Your husband should be there to support you.”
“I told you,” Frances said in a stern voice, hoping to put an end to the conversation, “I’ll tell him.”
“You should have told him already.”
Frances glanced at her cell phone to check the time. “I have to go, Charlie. I need to run to the grocery store and get dinner started.”
Charlotte made a disapproving noise deep within her throat.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she said as she stood up and grabbed her purse from the back of the chair. “I promise. As soon as I get the chance, I’ll tell him.”
“I can’t go with you. You know that, right?”
Frances leaned forward and kissed her friend’s cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
“You shouldn’t be going alone.”
Perhaps that was true, but Frances knew that she was going alone. It wasn’t worth feeling sorry for herself. “He promised to be home tomorrow night. I’ll talk to him then.”
“I’d bet you he’ll be late, but I don’t like cheating people out of their money.”
Frances laughed at her friend’s joke, even though she suspected Charlotte hadn’t intended it to be funny.
“What happened to your hair?”
Carrie stood in the doorway, staring at her mother with her mouth hanging open and her eyes large and wide. She hadn’t even stepped over the threshold.
Nervously, Frances gave a little laugh and lifted her hand to her short haircut. “Don’t you like it?”
“No!”
Andy walked up behind his sister and gave her a shove into the foyer. But he, too, stopped short when he saw his mother. “Whoa!”
Frances took a deep breath. The truth was that she knew it would take time to get used to it. For all of them. But it had been the only way she could deal with the reality of eventually losing her hair.
“You look”—Carrie said as she dropped her backpack and crossed her arms over her chest—“old.”
“Carrie!” Andy pushed her again.
“Well, it’s true!” she cried out in defense. “Why would you do that, Mom? Your hair was so pretty.”
Frances shrugged her shoulders. “Time for a change, I guess.”
Making a face, Carrie started to walk down the hallway toward the kitchen but not before she added another quick cutting remark over her shoulder. “Dad’s going to hate that.”
One, two, three. Frances began to count under her breath.
“Don’t listen to her, Mom,” Andy said as he placed his hand on her shoulder. “It’s just different, and that’s not a bad thing. We just have to get used to it.”
She managed to smile at him. It was always Andy who calmed her down when his sister was acting out. Her daughter’s verbal arsenal knew no level of restraint. For as long as she could remember, Carrie had had a sharp tongue with no inner sense to curtail her snide remarks or insulting observations. If she became a lawyer, she might do well. Otherwise, she was going to learn a tough lesson later in life when the rest of the world would make her realize that her brutal honesty crossed the line of appropriate social behavior. Frances just hoped she was around to pick up the broken pieces when her daughter learned that lesson.
For once, the house was quiet. After the kids finished their homework, Andy asked if he could play basketball with some of his friends and Carrie went outside to skateboard. Frances was relieved to have this downtime, a time to think and plan how, exactly, she was going to tell Nicholas.
She sat on the sofa, nursing a chilled glass of chardonnay. She didn’t normally drink unless she was out with Nicholas or Charlotte. Tonight, however, she needed to muster the courage to finally tell her husband the truth. She thought the chardonnay would help calm her nerves.
It was almost eight o’clock when she heard the front door open. She easily identified the heavy footsteps as belonging to her husband. He dropped his briefcase on the floor in the foyer and exhaled loudly.
“Nicholas? I’m in the living room,” she called out.
At first, there was no response. Thinking he hadn’t heard her, she stood up, carrying her wineglass to the doorway. She was surprised to see him standing there, glancing down at his cell phone with a concerned look on his face.
“Nicholas? Is everything all right?”
He looked up at her, and his eyes fell from her new haircut down to the glass, a momentary frown crossing his face before he returned his attention to his phone. “Yeah, just work.” He looked back at her face. “You cut your hair.”
“I did.”
He made a noise, almost a grunt, but said nothing further. No comment, whether good or bad, about the change. Instead, he walked away from her, heading toward hi
s office.
“I wanted to have a word with you,” she said, trying to stop him from retreating.
“Did you pick up my dry cleaning? I have an early meeting tomorrow and want to wear that blue pinstripe.” Without waiting for an answer, he reached down for his briefcase and started to head upstairs.
“In your closet,” she answered. “Nicholas? Did you hear what I said? I need to talk to you.”
He sighed and stopped walking, but didn’t turn around. He had been avoiding her even more ever since she had shown up at his office that night. “Fran, I’m exhausted, and Jeff just e-mailed me some files I need to look over. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
She pressed her lips together. Another delay? “It’s important, Nicholas.”
“So is my meeting. You know, my work? The thing that keeps a roof over our heads and food on the table? Unless, of course, you don’t believe me again,” he snapped.
She knew that he was still sore with her, upset about her showing up at his office. In hindsight, she should have waited. Now, however, he was throwing another delay into her plans. “Nicholas,” she said, softening her voice. “When? When can we talk? I haven’t had time to talk to you in weeks.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said. “Whatever it is can wait, can’t it?” He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he continued moving, his phone ringing and his attention diverted to answering it.
Alone in the foyer, Frances shut her eyes and took a deep breath as she realized that, whatever her intentions, sharing the news would have to wait.
CHAPTER 9
Frances stood in the doorway to the dining room and assessed the table. Between the linens, the china, and the floral arrangement that she’d carefully placed as the centerpiece, it was just the way she wanted it: a perfectly set table.
Growing up, whenever her mother was entertaining at home, she would focus as much energy on setting the table as she would on preparing the meal. To Frances, it often seemed as if her mother’s culinary efforts took a backseat to the oohs and aahs she expected regarding her finely crafted table. Once it was set, she would stand back and admire it as if it were a work of art and not a place to enjoy a meal and share family memories.
