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“I have a chew toy for my dog,” she offered. “Rawhide.”
“I’m good.” He settled back in the chair while she fastened the simple black cape around his neck, her movements efficient and no-nonsense.
This is why he’d come to her. This was the only salon he’d ever felt remotely comfortable in.
“Well? Do you know what you want?”
He wanted Brenda. But he didn’t need to cut his hair for her. He knew she liked his appearance just fine. But if he was going to meet her mother, that was different. He wanted to start off on the right foot with her, not as a prank. CeCe would just have to deal with it; he was reverse-pranking her.
But it wasn’t entirely about any of the McMurray women. It was him. He’d been using his beard as a crutch, as a shield, a safety blanket. He wanted to see what life was like without it.
“Definitely a shave.”
“All the way? I don’t recommend that.”
“Why not?”
“Your skin isn’t used to being exposed. It will be quite tender at first. We could cut it in stages.”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to make more trips to see Sunny. “No stages. Let’s just do it.”
She sighed. “I will give you some lotion. It might help the transition.”
She picked up a pair of scissors. Oh God, was this really happening? He balled up his fists against his thighs.
She handed him the flask, and he took another slug. “And your hair?”
“What do you mean?”
“Any special style? Layers? Buzz cut? Mullet?”
Now she was just torturing him. Were there really so many different styles of haircut? Why, for God’s sake? He took another long drink of gin. At this rate, he might have to book a hotel room in Braddock for the night.
“Just…short. I don’t fucking care. Whatever looks good with the rest of my head.”
She nodded decisively. “Leave it to me. I’ll decide as I go. Right now I can’t tell the shape of your head or face. When we get some of the weight off, we’ll know more.”
Bless her for taking charge. “Thank you,” he muttered.
“Final question. Do you want to face the mirror or away from the mirror while I chop off your hair?”
He drank from the flask again, and realized it was empty. “I owe you a bottle of gin.”
“No need.” She opened a drawer, and from among a jumble of blow dryers pulled out a nearly full bottle, from which she refilled the flask.
With that fortification, he relaxed. “I’ll watch.”
After all, this wasn’t just about hair. This was about becoming visible to the world as more than some kind of wildebeest.
She set to work, scissors and hair flying, like a small Korean Edward Scissorhands. Half-buzzed by now, lulled by gin, he watched layers of protection fall from his face.
As his hair got shorter and shorter, he saw his mother emerge. He had her cheekbones, he realized, and her eyes. Why had he never realized that before? Possibly because he spent zero time looking into a mirror. Her eyes had been a warm butterscotch brown, though very often bloodshot and bleary. His coloring was all Mom, who had dramatic black hair that she’d passed on to all her sons except Billy.
The last time he’d spoken to Mom, she’d been three weeks sober and antsy as hell. That had been a month ago, and he hadn’t heard from her since. Oh Mom.
He screwed the cap back onto the flask and set it on the counter with all of Sunny’s styling tools. This was why he usually stuck to beer or ale. Hard liquor brought back so many harsh memories.
After Sunny had made some progress on his hair, she announced that she was going to switch to his beard. “Then I will fine-tune,” she explained.
