Chapter 22 #2
“Monty, my love, let me say it again. Who I have children with matters a hell of a lot more than how we get those kids. I’m a lot more concerned about the type of mother you will be than how you become one.” His thumbs rub up and down my cheeks, swiping away a few of the escaped tears.
The mother I am matters more, I repeat to myself. I don’t know how I let that concept go over my head with the mom that I have. With the adoptive one that Farrah has.
I don’t need to carry my child to know that I will love them no matter what.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing his palm.
“Don’t thank me. Just know that no matter what, I want at least one redhead.” He pats my cheek before letting me go.
“Well, I did freeze my eggs, so you might get a Black redhead.”
“Even better.” He runs his fingers over his own cropped ginger hair before sliding back onto the couch.
“If they have your complexion and freckles, they’ll be the prettiest little ginge out there,” he says, getting back to work.
He is moving faster, so every four I do, he does two. After the next few times he helps me, he might end up being quicker than me.
Once done, I get up to shower. Determined to get me to stay, Callahan bought the hair care products I usually use, so now I have no excuse.
Before I get in, I put pre-shampoo in to untangle the gunk in my hair. Combing slowly, I’m surprised by how much shedding was packed in there. With each pull, it seems like a lot is coming out. I look at my comb to see more hair in it than what should have come from that section.
When I run my hands through that part again, even more comes off until it seems like there is more hair in my hand than on my head.
Frantically, I start running my hands through the other parts of my hair to the same effect. Chunks come off with every drag of my fingers.
“Nooo!” I scream.
Callahan comes barreling through the door. I don’t look at him. I just keep pulling at my hair, screaming louder and louder as more and more comes off.
“Monty.”
I feel him grabbing at my hands, but I can’t stop. I keep touching my hair, watching as pieces start to litter my shoulder.
“Oh my god, no, not my hair. Not my hair.”
He pulls me against his chest, but it does little to muffle the sounds of my crying as I come apart in his arms.
Despite him holding me tight, I keep touching it. With each lump that falls, a cry eases past my lips.
Not my hair.
This cancer has taken so much from me, and now it steals the last piece that makes me feel like myself. The last part that solidified my identity. I don’t have dancing, I don’t have my sex appeal, and now I don’t have the one thing that always made me feel beautiful.
I start to fall to the ground, no longer able to hold myself up. But he catches me, keeping me against him while he rubs my back. His steady hands do nothing to calm me down, as I watch the last of my resolve shed from my scalp.
I don’t calm down for an hour. The whole time he holds me, the tears and panting are nonstop.
When he finally pulls me from the bathroom, I can’t look in the mirror. I can’t look anywhere but at him, even when he places me on the bed.
My hair.
My breath is shaky as I look down at my hands. Covered in the destruction of my last part of me that was holding it together.
His hands start brushing it off, and I watch as it piles on the ground. I fight the urge to touch my head and see if any is left. Instead, I close my eyes, hoping that will slow the release of my tears.
“Monty? Do you want to lie down?”
I can’t open my mouth. If I do, I may never stop wailing.
All my life, the thing I have always loved about myself is my hair.
The texture, the length, the beautiful brown color.
I’ve defined so much of myself based on how my hair looks.
Braids have always been my signature shield.
A protective style that protects every part of me.
Whatever someone thinks or says bounces off me with ease.
Having a mother who was so disappointed that my hair was kinky instead of curly, I learned young that the world would always hate how it looks.
But I didn’t. I love this defining feature that screams to everyone that I am Black.
Something my green eyes and freckles have always put a question mark at the end of.
Now it’s gone. Now I don’t have that.
“Monty,” he says again, making me open my eyes.
All that I can get out is a sob.
He pulls me back and lays me down on his chest.
“My hair,” I say out loud after repeating it over and over again in my mind.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. I’m losing my hair. This thing is taking something else from me, and I can’t…” I trail off, unsure of what I even want to say.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t get over this. I can’t feel like a woman with no womb and no hair.
I clutch at my chest as if to remind myself that those are still there. His arms and my hands seem to be the only things holding me together, which is probably why I lie that way until the sun sets. It’s only when we are swathed in darkness do I sit up again.
I can’t see if I have left more on his chest or if more has fallen onto my shoulders, which is probably for the best.
He grabs my hand and holds it tightly in his, reminding me that he is here. It helps to calm my breathing.
“I know I’m supposed to become a badass and shave it all off, but I can’t.” My words are shaky, and so quiet that for a moment I don’t think he hears me.
“You don’t have to.”
We both know that’s not true. I can’t go around leaving DNA everywhere, and I can’t handle watching it fall off slowly.
I touch my eyebrows to see if those are still there, and wonder when those might go too.
“Can you do it for me?” I turn to look at him, but can barely make him out.
“Of course, love.”
We get up and make our way back to the bathroom. Seeing the floor and sink, I cry out a little. I press my hands against my mouth to stop it from happening again.
Turning to face the mirror, I’m relieved when it doesn’t look as bad as it feels. I want to touch it, but I know that will only make more fall out.
Instead, I look at my eyes to see they are rimmed with red and puffy. My nose looks rubbed raw, and my lips poutier than usual. I look a wreck, and he is seeing it all.
He pulls out an electric shaver and comes to stand behind me, looking at me through the mirror.
“You sure about this?”
All I can manage is a nod, and he plugs it in.
I can’t watch him do this, so I close my eyes. I hear the buzz and hold my breath when I feel the first pass through.
I don’t know if I breathe the whole time while he slowly takes away my joy and pride. I don’t open my eyes until I feel his hand press over my head and touch skin.
When I look, I fall against him unable to hold myself up again. While I’ve always loved a bald baddie, I don’t know how to see myself that way.
We sit in silence for a moment while I take it in. Trying to find a bright spot in this dark sky, I fight to stay positive.
“I have a weird-shaped head,” I say, causing him to laugh.
This finally gets a smile out of me, that slowly dies when I look at the floor.
My damn hair was down to the dip in my back blown out, and all that length is gone. Gawd Damnit.
I wait for him to turn it off, but instead he slides me to the side a little bit.
“What are you doing? You have like five hairs on your head.”
“Yeah, but I got a beard.”
I gasp, but before I can say anything else he is already sliding it against his cheek.
Never having seen him without a beard, I don’t know what he will look like without it. They say a beard is make-up for a man. But how can I not find him attractive after all of this? I’m so touched that he would do this for me. Even if it will be back in, like, a month or two.
It only takes a few minutes for him to shave it down. Now he is taking a razor to get it to bare skin. I watch the whole time in awe of him. It’s not until he is finished that he looks at me.
His jawline is striking, square and sharp. Now I can see the way his cheeks pull when he gives me that smile of his. Without the beard, his lips look even bigger. I pull him down and kiss them.
He holds my face and kisses back even harder, backing me against the sink. His touch is hungry a reminder that he still wants me, even looking like this.
At some point I pull back to look again. Finally able to really take in my head. I can’t make myself like it, but the woman standing next to this man also doesn’t hate it.