Jaw ticking, I turn away from the mirror and grab my hairbrush from where it sits on the counter. When I run it through my brittle hair, I don’t expect to see the mass of strands fall onto the countertop in front of me.
My hairbrush stills.
My hands shake.
My breath stops.
Slowly, I reach out and pick up the large chunk. Blowing out a rough breath, I force my gaze upwards to see a section of hair that’s thinner than ever.
When I turn my head, I see my scalp. Burning hot tears well in my eyes as I stare. “Oh my God.”
The brush drops onto the floor with a loud crash, the plastic clattering against the hard floor. I don’t care. Instead, I focus on my head and how thin my hair has gotten. I’ve noticed more and more meet my shower drain, but usually ignore it. Women lose around fifty to one hundred strands per day. I looked it up.
I’ve had to unclog my drain once a week, to clean off my pillow with the countless strands that greet me in an unwelcome way every morning. I tell myself it’s no big deal.
It’s just hair. But hair is everything. It’s a way to express myself, to hide, to feel pretty. Without it, who am I?
Stepping away, I drop the hair onto the counter and carefully play with what remains on my head. My scalp hurts today. Usually it’s a dull pain that I can tolerate as long as I don’t play too much with it. Today is different, like I’ve slept with my hair in a tight ponytail all night. Eyes watering all over again, I try hiding the bald spot, but nothing I do seems to work.
Cam calls my name from outside my bedroom. Did I lock my door? I never do. Will she come in? She never has.
The knob turns.
“Emery?” Cam says again.
Do I pretend I’m not here? I swallow my pain and brush away my tears and take a deep breath. “B-bathroom.”
I’m not sure why I say it. Maybe if I said nothing she would have walked out. Part of me needs her though.
Needs a maternal figure.
Because mine didn’t leave a message on the anniversary of my sister’s death.
Cam’s knuckles wrap against the open door before she peeks her head in. Her eyes note the hairbrush on the floor, which she bends down and picks up before seeing the hair on the counter.
“Emery?” Her voice is quiet.
I meet her gaze with tear-filled eyes.
“Oh, sweetie.” She reaches out and takes my hand, brushing her thumb against my skin. I don’t pull away or wince, because I need her warmth and comfort right now.
“I don’t know how to fix it…” My voice cracks when I turn and show her what I mean. She gently brushes hair over the spot before realizing what I’ve already concluded.
She gives me a soft smile. “How about you and I go to my favorite salon? The girls there can try giving us advice on how to cover it. Maybe you could do a new style.”
Us not me.
Cam wants to do this together.
It causes a tear to slip through the blockade I try trapping it behind. She wipes it away with her thumb and pulls me in for a gentle hug, rubbing my back in circular motions.
When I was little, Mama used to run her fingers through my hair. It soothed me anytime I had a fever or cold and needed Mama’s touch. My body would ease into hers as she sang to me. She wouldn’t stop playing with my hair until I fell asleep, and she wouldn’t move an inch even when I was sure her arms had gone numb.
I want that Mama back.
I want someone to play with my hair without it hurting or falling out.
But for now, I’ve got Cam.