Pretty Hurts (Left 1.50)

“Are you sure?” Her lips turn down at the corners.

“Positive.” I fix her with a stubborn glare and she yields with a quiet sigh.

“Okay. Thank you.” Reaching out, she grabs my hand and squeezes. “For everything.”

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for trusting me.” I grab a broom and begin to sweep up to allow her to have a moment to herself. I feel like I was a part of something bigger today. The woman sitting in my chair intrigues me, and I’m not sure what that means yet.

Chapter Two

Efia

I wanted the decision to shave my head to change things for the better. However, simply removing the remaining hair didn’t change my self-image issues … no matter how much I chant, ‘Its only hair,’ in the mirror. I’m in the grieving process for something I took for granted. When I look in the mirror, I see a stranger. Tears roll down my face, washing away the concealer and foundation that mask my pain on a daily basis. I grip the sink and bow my head.

It’s been a roller coaster ride the past few weeks.

I haven’t come out to anyone else, and every time I go to get my head shaved I feel like a fraud. What’s the point of going through the motions if I’m not living it? I never thought of myself as I coward, but I’m terrified of people’s reactions. Will they see the disease and not the person?

People are so superficial and fickle, and beauty is my business. What will I say when they ask me if I have cancer? My stomach churns. This process is soul damaging. Wiping away the tears, I straighten up. I have another appointment with Edgar today. It’s been a few weeks, and it’s time to see the progress and shave again. I reapply the concealer, a light bronzer, and deep red lip stain to add a pop of color to contrast with the black A-line dress with a heart-shaped bodice, and a black patent leather belt I’ve cinched around my waist. I find I’m more meticulous with my clothing now.

As if I can make up for lack of hair with being flawless everywhere else. It’s not healthy, but I’m coping the best way I can at the moment. I hurry out of the house and make the twenty-minute drive to Gilborn’s. I didn’t register just how damn cute the building was my first time here. The white brick structure has a vintage vibe outside and in. A red, white, and blue spinning barber pole is attached to the wall to the left of the doorway. A large circular sign with the word ‘Gilborn’s’ in blocky black letters is attached to the right side.

I pull into a parking space and climb out, grabbing my black Hobo bag as I admire the large glass window with bold black lettering that says Gilborn’s Barber Shop. It’s inviting and charming, much like its owner. I’ll never forget the kindness he extended toward me. He put me at ease, walked me through the haircut and made me laugh on a day where I felt a part of myself perish. My interested is piqued. I’m too much of a mess right now to do anything about it, but I’m not blind.

He’s incredibly handsome. His olive-toned skin is set off by dark eyes, ridiculously long eyelashes, and chocolate-brown colored hair he wears slicked back. He wears a short, neatly groomed beard that lends to his rugged, yet sensitive vibe. Any man who knows Nina Simone can’t have too much machismo. I like it. I reach the top stairs and the door swings open. It should be illegal for a man to make a white button down and a gray vest look that good. The sleeves of the button-down are rolled back, and I can see pops of ink.

“Good morning.” His voice is a dark roast coffee, earthy yet potent.

I can’t help but smile. “Good morning, Edgar, how are you doing today?”

“Better now that one of my favorite clients is here.”

“Oh, you are good.” I wave my finger at him.

He winks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” I say as I step inside after him.

“Do you want any coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot. It’s part of my morning ritual when I open.”

I admire the way the dark blue jeans hug his ass as he walks across the room and into the back.

“I’d love one, thanks,” I reply as I move to sit on his leather sofa. I sink onto the couch, and the cushion embraces my body. Funny how the man and his place set me at ease. Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s a barber and this is a place for hair maintenance. He’s seen all sorts of hair and scalps. Why would mine freak him out?

He returns with two white mugs with a mustache and red lips. I burst out laughing.

“Nice.”

“My sisters bought me a set when I opened the doors ten years ago.”

“You have sisters?”

“Two of them.” He sits across from me in the in the large black leather chair. “How did the new hairstyle work for you?”

“I saved a lot on conditioner,” I dead pan. He snorts. “It was … good? I don’t know. I’m still not used to being bald. I will say it’s growing on me though.” It’s true in a way. I don’t hate it as much as I did the first couple of days. Every time I caught my reflection in the mirror it’d been a shock to my system; now it’s just the way I look.

“It’ll take time to fully adjust to. Any scalp issues? Sometimes I know flaking can start up.”

“No, I’ve been careful to keep it moisturized. It sounds so odd saying that when I have no hair.”