by Devney Perry
His lips press against mine, making my toes curl into the hardwood. He doesn’t touch me anywhere else, just his fingers against my chin and his lips on mine. Pure perfection. Sweetness I never would’ve guessed he had oozes off the man.
“Take care of her, sis,” he tells Lee.
“Promise,” she replies and gives me the biggest smile over his shoulder.
“Don’t wait up,” he calls out before he leaves.
“I hope you don’t mind I’m here. I can go now if you want,” Lee offers, giving me an apologetic smile.
“No.” I grab the empty teakettle off the stove and start to fill it. “Something to drink?”
“I’d love some.” She sits down, waiting for me to finish, and looks around my apartment in fascination.
“This place is really beautiful.”
“It was my dream to live here not so long ago, but now, it seems so unimportant.” I look around when I sit next to her. She’s right, though. It really is nice. “It’s just a place to live now.”
“No. That’s not true.” She touches my hand and purses her lips. “We all have to have something we love, things that keep us moving forward in life. There’s too much bad to pull us under if we don’t.”
I hadn’t thought about it that way. Things like my beautiful, modern apartment, my stellar shoe collection, and my insane wardrobe did keep me moving each day. Work is more than a paycheck, but it never hurt to treat myself. “True.”
“Did Bruno scare you earlier?”
“No.” I shrug, trying to give her a smile. “He panicked, though.”
“For a tough guy, sometimes he feels others’ pain a little too strongly.”
“He told me about Maggie,” I blurt out.
“He did?” Her eyebrows rise and her lips part.
I nod and hope she’ll tell me more. “When I was in the tub. He told me that we all need someone sometimes. He explained how you helped him through that time in his life.” The teapot starts to whistle.
“My brother exaggerates. I did help him, but I didn’t do anything more than anyone would do for someone they love. He was right by my side as I fought too. It’s what we do. Who we are.”
“You two are lucky,” I tell her as I grab the teacups. “Chamomile okay?”
“Anything is fine as long as you have sugar.”
I balance the tiny cups in one hand to carry the sugar to the table and set it in front of her. “I’m happy you’re here, Lee.”
“I told you to call me anytime, Callie. I meant it when I said it.”
I pour our tea and we girl talk for over an hour. She doesn’t mention cancer and neither do I. Eventually, the conversation turns back to Bruno, which has quickly become my favorite topic.
“So what’s he really like?” I ask her and sip the last bit of tea from my cup.
“He’s exactly what you think. Sometimes moody, but then again, we all are at times. He’s loyal to a fault. He’s dedicated to his work and loves harder than anyone I know.”
“What is his work, exactly?” I pry and hold my breath in anticipation that she’s going to spill a juicy tidbit.
She looks down at her glass, breaking eye contact with me for the first time. “It’s not my business to share, Callie.”
Damn. “It’s okay, Lee. I would never ask you to betray him.” She doesn’t help dispel any rumors I’ve heard about him and his “business.”
“He sure has taken to you.”
“I don’t understand that either. He won’t tell me.”
She giggles, her fingers wrapping together around the cup. “He’s difficult sometimes.”
“Do you know?”
“Again, it’s for him to tell.”
I slouch in my chair and feel defeated. “What good are you, Lee, honestly?”
“He’ll tell you when the time is right, babe. I promise.” She pats my hand and her face lights up from the giggles.
“I may die first,” I grumble.
“Bruno won’t let you. Before I go, I wanted to talk to you about your chemo. How do you think it’s going?”
“It’s killing me,” I admit. It feels like it is, at least. I don’t feel healthier or stronger, just ill and weak, but it is poison, after all.
“Then it’s doing what it’s supposed to.”
I give her a crooked smile. “Yep.”
“Be prepared for other side effects that may come along the way. How’s your hair?”
“It hurts.” Running a brush through it has become almost impossible. Every strand aches like it does when I wear a ponytail for too long.
“It’s probably going to start falling out soon.”
My fingers instinctively find a few strands and twirl them gently. “Oh, God.”
“It’s best to shave it before that starts happening. You’ll feel more in control.”
I haven’t felt in control in a long time. Shaving my head won’t help me feel any better, but it will remind me exactly what I’m going through. The thought of it all falling to the floor makes my chest tighten.
Every gold strand is pure perfection. Pin straight, shiny, and untouched blond that sparkles in the sunlight. Years wasted worrying about it being just right for it all to fall out and never be the same again.
“Will it come back the same?” I ask, still playing with the tips.
“Probably not. My hair was red before this,” she says, pulling on her ponytail.
“Really?” My eyes grow wide and I’m freaked out.
“Nope.”
I laugh nervously. “I see that being a smartass runs in the family.”
As I walk her to the door, I think about what she said. It is only hair. It isn’t who I am; it’s only a small part of me. People change their hair every day, and it will eventually grow back.
“Hey,” I call out. “Will it all fall out?” I touch my eyebrows and pray she says no.
“All of it,” she replies and glances down to my crotch. “All. Of. It.”
“Oh, fuck,” I mumble.
“Just think of all the time you’ll save shaving for a while.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“There’s always a silver lining as long as you’re alive.” She waves good-bye and walks out.
“Yeah,” I mutter as I close the door. Waxing wouldn’t be a thing I’d have to do again for a very long time.
What I think of as a problem, Lee thinks of as a timesaver. Funny how we view the world differently when going through the same thing.
Change Is Coming… Ready or Not
Bruno climbs into bed just after sunrise. I haven’t slept a wink without him by my side. I kept replaying everything Lee said and the things he’s told me. Over and over again they go through my mind, but I still haven’t made sense of any of it.
“Hey,” he says, tucking me under his arm when he pulls me against his side.
“I missed you,” I blurt out without thinking.
He kisses my forehead, letting his lips linger on my skin. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”
“It’s okay. I just couldn’t sleep after Lee left.” I bury my face into his chest and sigh. “I’m so exhausted.”
He pulls me closer and strokes my back. “What did she say that had you so spooked?”
“She said I should shave my head.” My voice sounds muffled by his skin.
“I’m sorry, Cal.”
“It’s okay. It’s only hair.”
“I’ll help you,” he offers and breathes deeply in my hair.
“Smell it now because it won’t be there later.” I kind of laugh, but I really want to cry at the thought of being bald. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Cal, I told you about doing shit yourself.”
I push back and glare at him. “This is something I have to do myself. Okay?”
He nods and digs his fingers into the strands. “It’s only hair.”
“I know.” I relax into him and fall asleep while he rubs my back.
; I don’t remember my dream, but I wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding. Looking over at the clock, I realize I’ve been sleeping for over ten hours. Bruno hasn’t stirred and has his arm wrapped around me. Slowly, I inch out of bed, lifting his arm and slithering underneath until my feet touch the floor.
I know what I have to do before he wakes up. I have a spare pair of clippers in the linen closet my ex-boyfriend left behind.
Standing in front of the mirror, I start to cry and the tears begin to fall, plopping on the counter like large raindrops dropping from the sky.
My hands shake every time I raise the clippers to my head and I chicken out. The thought of voluntarily cutting off my perfect blond locks is beyond terrifying. I’ve spent years making my hair just right, but I know it won’t last for long.
Inevitably, it’s going to fall out. I can’t do anything to stop it. Even though I prayed I would be one of the lucky ones who wouldn’t lose my hair, it’s already started to thin.
“You can do this,” I tell myself in the mirror, wiping away the tears. “It’s only hair.” My voice cracks on the last word.
I have two choices: put the clippers away and wait for it to fall out in clumps, or get rid of it and take control of the situation.
I’ve always liked being in control and being in charge of my fate. I think that’s why I’ve been single as long as I have. Because being with someone means giving over control and losing a piece of myself along the way.
This is my shot to be in charge, to make my cancer my bitch. I have to do this. Cutting my hair is the first step in gaining the upper hand.
I wipe my eyes again, blinking a few times to clear my vision before I lift the clippers to my hair and turn them on. “It’s my choice,” I whisper and look myself straight in the eyes. I knew it would be hard, but I hadn’t expected the amount of gut-wrenching anxiety I feel.
We judge each other by our looks. Oftentimes, we don’t even realize we’re doing it. Hair is something people see from afar and start their appraisal. It’s ridiculous. Women spend hundreds of dollars trying to make their hair perfect to meet some unrealistic sense of beauty.
I’m guilty of it.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to run the razor through my hair and watch it tumble to the floor. Slowly, I push the clippers through my hair, starting at the left side near my ear. But when the first lock of hair falls before my eyes, the tears start again and my vision blurs.
“I can do this,” I whisper again, continuing to give myself a pep talk.
Why is this so difficult? It’ll eventually grow back—I’m not lopping off an arm; it’s only hair. But it has become part of my identity, and I’m losing another piece of myself.
Of my own free will or not, I can’t stop my hands from shaking. Gripping my hair, I hold it out and try to keep the clippers steady as I pass them over my skin. As a handful separates and is sitting in my hand, I can’t help but look down, transfixed.
In the grand scheme of things, it’s unimportant. It doesn’t make me, but I still love every inch of it.
Everything spins out of control.
Everything.
Being a self-proclaimed science nerd, I’m used to control. Working in a lab, I conduct every step in a certain manner, in a particular order, and I thrive on that type of rigor. But cancer has everything jumbled in my brain.
A war is going on inside me. Between cancer and myself. But there’s another one too. A balancing act, a tug-of-war of sorts that has become a constant battle. I want to fight. I wish I were a tough girl, ready to kick cancer’s ass, but my mortality stops me. Maybe even a little vanity too.
Paralyzed.
Frozen.
I feel that way most days now, and today is like every other. Like time moves along and I’m an observer, not taking part in any way—just sitting, watching the world move by, and I can’t touch it.
I need to stop mourning my life and start living it. Nothing is easy anymore. But being a passive viewer isn’t for me.
I can’t let it kill me.
Not just my body, but my spirit too.
Basically, I’ve become part of the walking dead. No, not like a zombie, but I have myself buried while I still walk the earth and I am doing nothing to stop the thing I fear most… Death.
Yes, I started treatment, but other than that, the internal fight I always thought I had has fizzled away. Maybe cutting my hair will be the first step in gaining back the control I need.
I turn over my hand, letting the pieces of hair fall to the floor in a tiny pile. I stand there, staring at my hair and thinking about how crazy my life has become.
I wish I could say that my tiny little pep talk makes it easier—that I can shave my head without a care—but it’s not true. Each pass of the clippers is like losing a small piece of myself.
When I finish cutting away the first side, leaving myself a long, floppy Mohawk, I stare at myself and wonder if I could’ve pulled off the punk-rock look in the eighties. Nah, I would’ve been the worst rocker girl ever.
I realize what’s going to bother me most about not having hair. It screams chemo patient, as the Sinead O’Connor look is no longer in vogue. The barrage of questions will gut me; I’m not sure I’m ready for them. I haven’t hit the point where I’m comfortable enough talking about my illness without bursting into tears.
My face has changed too. Even with only two rounds of chemo, it shows. The dark circles make my eyes seem withdrawn and make me look older than I am. My skin doesn’t shimmer like it used to, the luster wiped away by the poison inside me. Leaning forward, I stretch the skin of my cheeks. What else is it going to do to me?
I don’t see him, but I feel his presence. Goose bumps dot my flesh as I see his eyes watching me in the mirror.
He opens the door fully and invades my privacy. “Callie.”
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.” I hear the distress in my own voice. I’m not mad, but I thought I could finish this before he woke up.
He moves behind me, keeping his eyes glued to mine in the mirror. “I reached over and you were gone. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
I can’t hold back. I sure as fuck am not all right. I start to speak, but all that comes out is gibberish. I lift the clippers and show him, muttering about how I can’t do it. Pointing to the ground, my inability to stop crying garbles my words. Louder and louder, I cry. I don’t know what I’m saying, but he seems to understand.
“Shh. It’s okay.” He wraps his arms around me with a pained expression. “You shouldn’t do this alone.” His strength envelops me and makes me feel safe.
I stand in his arms, shaking while he consoles me. The way he holds me gives me more strength and serenity in a world overshadowed by my fear. I bury my face in his chest, listening to the familiar beat of his heart, and close my eyes. Slowly, my breathing comes back to normal as my tears dry.
“Let me help you,” he murmurs into my hair as he strokes my back.
I look up at him, my eyes still glassy and burning. “I should do it myself,” I murmur, unable to stop my trembling chin.
His eyebrows draw together and his hand stops. “Why?”
I shrug, because I don’t know, but I feel it’s my cross to bear.
“I shaved my sister’s head. I’ve had a lot of practice on my own head too. Let me do it.” He kisses my forehead, his soft lips scorching my skin. “You just stand there and feel what you need to feel, and I’ll do the rest.” The kindness in his eyes is evident. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was more to it than just him being nice. I’m kind too, but he looks at me with such softness and adoration that I no longer want to do it alone.
I nod, not bothering with words because I fear I’ll start crying again. My face is already puffy, my nose clogged, and I can’t take much more without feeling total exhaustion.
When I turn around and watch him in the mirror, I wait for him to make a face. Something to indicate how hideous I really look. I feel
it. The Mohawk look isn’t a good one on me. I don’t feel like myself as I stand there before him. His face never changes, just radiates softness as he picks up the clippers and touches my shoulder before starting.
“I’m ready,” I tell him and watch his face, not looking at my reflection in the mirror.
It’s easy to look at him longer than I would any normal person. He’s handsome and no longer scares me with a single look. I know the other side of Bruno. He isn’t a wordsmith, but he says what he needs to and leaves the rest up to the imagination.
When he raises the clippers, I close my eyes, waiting to feel them against my skin. The sound of them moving through hair, distinct and unforgettable, causes me to look. They aren’t going through my hair, but his.
“I don’t want to be left out,” he teases before buzzing a line down the center of his head.
I’m enthralled by the gesture with my mouth hanging open. Men can get away with a buzz cut, me…not so much. But his willingness to cut away his beautiful brown hair is so sweet I almost break down again. I bite my lip, unable to look away as each pass of the razor strips away a little more and it falls to the floor.
In a few short minutes, his lush locks turn into a buzz cut. He drags his hand back and forth, clearing a few stragglers that haven’t fallen to the floor. I smile at him in the mirror and wonder where he came from and why didn’t I know the real him sooner.
He makes it seem easy. Freeing almost.
“Ready?” he asks, holding the clippers next to my head and looking at me with nothing but adoration in his eyes.
I nod and swallow the last bit of anxiety I have before closing my eyes. Watching is the scary part. With him doing it for me, I don’t have to be a witness to the event. I can deal with the aftermath. I have no other choice.
Gently, Bruno runs the clippers along my scalp, taking his time and not missing an inch. Every once in a while, he runs his hand across the tiny hairs left behind and my eyes roll back in my head. My hair had become painful, but at this length and under his fingers, it makes my toes curl. Not sexually, though. But goose bumps crawl across my skin and my body moves toward the sensation, wanting more.
Moments later, the clippers stop and both of his hands are moving across my scalp. My body sways, following his movement instinctively.
