“You know,” I tell him, “I’m in a bit of a conundrum.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
Luckily, I’ve always been pretty good at thinking on my feet.
“Well,” I start, “I’ve got another favor to ask, and I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about it.”
“I brought you home, didn’t I?” he asks, having gotten the exact wrong impression of what I’m about to ask him.
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“I’m wondering if you might be willing to help me wash something,” I tell him and coyly run my fingers through not-my-real-hair.
He licks his lips and says, “I bet I could help you out with that.”
“Great,” I tell him, and give my wig a tug, handing it to him.
Now, all I can do is hope that the guy doesn’t have a fetish for bald chicks. If that’s the case, I might just have to let him throw me a bone. After all, he would be breaking a whole lot of stereotypes, and I think that kind of chivalry is worth rewarding, even if he looks like a barrel-chested Doc Holliday.
Fortunately, his eyes having become nearer to perfect circles than one would think possible, I think I’ve made the right move.
“You know,” he says, “I should really get back to the bar. My buddies are waiting for me, and I’m supposed to be the designated driver.”
I fake dejection and say, “I can smell the alcohol on your breath.”
“Yeah,” he says, “it’s not a hard and fast rule, but I am the driver.” As he’s making his way out the door, he turns back to look at me standing here, wig in hand, and he says, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “I understand.”
With that, he opens the door and walks out.
I laugh a little as I toss today’s hair on the arm of my couch, and I sit back, flipping on the television.
I’ll be honest, though; as impressed as I am with my own quick thinking and the masterful way I was able to scam a ride home with absolutely no payout, the reality hits me that that man with the stupid curling tufts on his face decided I wasn’t up to his standards.
Sure, my various pieces work well enough, but they’re not who I am.
Who I am right now is a woman who’s about to start another round of treatment, and whatever hair I would have left right now, if I didn’t bother shaving it all, would probably be gone not too long after it.
This is who I am, and even the dirtbag from the dive bar was put off by the fact.
Chapter Four
Round Two
Jace
It’s already been a long day, and it’s about to get even longer. Today is the day that Grace comes in for a checkup, and assuming all is well, to get her next round of chemo.
I don’t know what to do with her; I really don’t.
She comes into the office at around 4:30, and at first, we both try to pretend that we’ve never met outside this hospital.
It doesn’t last.
“So, how’ve you been?” she asks.
At first, the question seems innocuous enough, but the way her brow is rising and falling, it’s clear enough she’s not asking to be polite.