Wed 2 / 11 2015
Sounded like a bee. Not your mellow, benign, honey bee. But, a carpenter bee. Big, thick- bodied, black. Sinister. Loud. Threatening.
Louder, and when the head of the clipper passed over the mastoid bone behind her ear, it intensified.
Vibration, tingling, ever so slight, reaching her jawbone. Making itself felt in her molars. Clipper head, now passing over the crown of her skull. Buzz, fading slightly. The first golden locks of her hair dropping, dragging across her face, feathering over her breast, down to the floor.
Shining, bright, against the black of an oil stain, one of many, spotting the garage concrete.
Hated hair. Curly kinky wavy. Unruly. Brassy. Disobedient.
Hated hair. Hated no longer. Oh! Stop. Bring it back. I love my hair. Now.
The locks falling, ever faster now, as her husband’s hand became surer, warming to it’s task. Reluctant task. But one he’d accepted, understanding. Her. Perhaps for the first time in years, understanding, recognizing her need, powerful, undeniable. For the first time in years, she caught a glimpse of the man she had married.
Still her hair fell.
Had she had that much of it? Apparently. Now clinging to her chest, littering her thighs, blanketing the oily floor, it was everywhere. Everywhere but on her head.
No more buzz. Rick had turned off the clippers.
It was done.
Tip of her tongue, exploring. Finding a stubborn lock, stuck by the tracks of her tears, in the corner of her mouth. Tongue licking, tasting salt tears, before dislodging the silken stowaway.
Her crying eyes, lifting, searching, locking on Shane’s.
Shane’s eyes leaking too. Red rimmed. From crying. From the chemo.
Almost as frightening as it’s target. Almost as destructive. Devastating. Ravaging.
Destroying cancer cells.
Beautiful Shane. Forever friend. Confidant. Soulmate.
Shane’s magnificent raven tresses, ongoing source of
fierce envy. Bitch!
Tresses lying: shotgun shattered crow’s wings, strewn around Shane’s swollen ankles.
Her perfect features: puffed, bloated, distended. Hovering, iridescent, glowering, over her tortured throat. Throat firmly lodged in the skeletal grip of a ruthless malignancy.
Sounds from the tortured throat, fighting their way over swollen lips. Lips, no longer ruby red enticements. Dry, cracked, words . . . from dry cracked lips.
baby. You didn’t have to. Oh, baby.
Sure I did, hon. Couldn’t let you have all the fun.
Large angry bunches. Patches of sallow scalp shining, helter-skelter, in mockery of what had been. Shane: shoulders slumped, fingering remaining wisps, shrugging,
It’s hideous. Shit. Bad enough I gotta die. But, like this?
Maybe. If. You. Shaved. It.
Yeah. Shaved it. At least it’d be uniform.
Fuck you, hon. Shave it. Why don’t you shave yours?
Done deal. Just like that.
Lena and Shane. Friends, right. Tight. Got
your back, sisters. In each others arms. Scalps shorn. Shining. Cheek to cheek,
tears mingling, stronger than blood. Hugging, laughing, sobbing.
Rick, an awed observer. Seeing something in
Lena, something he’d never
noticed before. Perhaps not bothering to look had had something to do with it.
Maybe he’d give it a better shot. Try a little harder.
Damn. We. Look. Hot.
And they did.
Five years later:
alone. Rick’s shot hadn’t been much. After the moment had faded, so had his
intentions. Lena handling it. Well.
No longer . . . curly kinky wavy. Unruly. Brassy. Disobedient.
Now . . . straightened. Styled. Gentler shade of blond. Gentle.
Finishing touches. Lunch date. Doorbell.
Look at her. Damn it . . . Shane, magnificent, as always. Lustrous raven’s wing mane, flashing sunlight. Face tanned, lean, radiating strength, confidence, joy.
Shane. Gorgeous. Bitch! Queen of the survivors.
embrace. Hugs, kisses, laughter.
What’s it been, hon, year? Year and a half?
Downtown. Side by side. Dudes lookin. Double-takes. Lots of em.
Shane, girlfriends. Got your back buddies. Always.
Stopping before a mirrored window: stylin, vamping, posing, laughing. Shane to
We. Look. Hot.
And they did.