Chapter 12
I don’t answer, shocked by the question, and also trying to feel my way through it.
I am a vain woman—I would never deny that. And yet, recent circumstances have forced me to let go of that vanity and just be ... who I am, with or without hair.
And maybe I thought the one good thing about planting myself out in the middle of nowhere for the summer would be the fact that no one here knows me, and that somehow it would make me feel less “different” without my hair—because they don’t have my old hair to compare to.
When I walk into the Last Chance Café or the market, they just see a woman with very short hair in a too-trendy hat—they don’t see Jessica Fox without her gorgeous mane.
Being an unknown quantity has made it easier for me here.
And, of course, as Sydney is fond of reminding me, many women choose to have very short hair or no hair. They’re not looking in the mirror feeling they’ve lost something or wishing they had it. I envy them because they’re ... free. So much freer than I feel right now.
But regardless of my internal thoughts, it’s too personal of a thing for Matt Cordray to ask of me in this moment. Too personal by far. What the hell is he even thinking to make such a request?
It’s likely the wine. It’s potent. We’ve each had less than two glasses and quite a bit to eat, yet I feel pretty loopy. Note to self: Scold Conrad for making such intoxicating wine and scold Jo for not warning me.
I guess it’s also the wine that makes my long-in-coming reply: “Why?”
“I like you and just wanna see you, that’s all.”
It sounds very honest—and makes me be honest in return.
“I don’t really ever let anyone see me without a hat these days.
” And it’s true. Not Sydney. Not Kevin—except for when I’m flinging a wig at him.
No one. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me anymore.
Yes, there were carefully curated pictures online in early treatment days, but that was .
.. a public service of sorts. A bravery I faked.
“It must be hard,” he says, “feelin’ that way.”
My stomach hollows at his words. He feels sorry for me not because of my lack of hair—but because I can’t bear to show it. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. And I instantly hate that pity, worse than I would hate having him think I look awful.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I say before really weighing it.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I’ll take my hat off right now ... if you retire yours. For good.”
He leans back in his rocking chair, lowering his chin, clearly caught off guard by the enormity of the ask. “Retire, you say.”
“Retire, I say.”
He grins. “So what you’re tellin’ me is—if I show you mine, you’ll show me yours.”
He’s obviously very amused with himself, but I just answer, “Pretty much.”
“You’re leavin’ at the end of the summer,” he reminds me. “What’s to keep me from puttin’ it back on after you’re gone?”
I shrug. Fair point. “Okay, just retire it for the summer. And I’ll live in the hope that by then you’ll realize it’s disgusting and should be burned. How’s that?”
He thinks it over for a minute. Then reaches up, plucks the worn cowboy hat from his head, and sends it sailing into the backyard like it’s a Frisbee. “Consider it retired for the summer.”
We face each other. Add a nearly full moon to the light shining through the back windows of the house, and I can see he’s sporting some serious hat head. But he doesn’t appear to care, and he still looks more handsome without it, even with his hair smashed down in weird directions.
All of which means it’s my turn.
I take a deep breath, followed by a bolstering sip of my wine.
Then I do what he did—fling my hat into the yard.
I feel naked. And ugly. More so than if I were with Sydney or Kevin. It goes back to my need not to let this man think I’m attracted to him when I look my worst.
But I try to face him bravely. If I see even an ounce of anything in his reaction that hurts me, I can just go back to not liking him. Which was maybe easier than having to do all this analysis anyway.
He tilts his head as he looks me over, then says, “It’s like I told ya, darlin’. You don’t need the hat. You’re beautiful just the way you are.”
I generally find Matt more laid-back than charming—but his words sound sincere, and not like he’s trying to put the moves on me, and charming it is.
So rather than argue the point, I meet his gaze and simply say, “Thank you.” I still feel sheepish, but it’s a better sheepish than I’ve ever felt without my hat up to now.
“Truth is,” he tells me, “I can’t even imagine you with ... ya know, a lotta hair, like you said.”
My hair has always been such a big part of me that this concept is hard to wrap my brain around. So since my cell phone rests on the small table between our rocking chairs, I say, “Would you like to see? What I usually look like?”
He shrugs. “Sure.” Though this seems way less important to him than seeing me without the hat.
I open the photos and scroll to an album of professional headshots I had taken last summer.
I’m wearing a hot pink but very tailored dress and full makeup, and my long blond locks fall in soft, wavy tendrils over my shoulders.
It’s almost startling to be reminded how different, how vibrant, how pretty I looked—like a knife to my heart.
“Whoa—that’s you?” he asks, leaning closer.
“Yep,” I say staunchly. Point proven. There’s no denying that I’m almost unrecognizable as the woman in the pictures.
Without even asking, he lifts the phone from my hand and starts swiping through photos, studying them closely.
Clearly he’s starting to understand how radical the change is and how much I’ve lost. I wait patiently, taking some solace in the fact that he’s seeing how attractive I used to be, even if it’s surely making him realize that, by comparison, I’m not as beautiful as he thought a minute ago.
Finally, he hands the phone back to me. I turn it off, set it down.
He looks over and says, “Your hair was real pretty, darlin’.”
It’s the most awkward compliment I can imagine getting, yet I manage a quiet “Thanks.”
“But ... your face kinda got lost in it.”
“Huh?” I murmur.
“And your face is ... you. I like you better this way. I can really see you—I can see your eyes, I can see your smile. You have a nice smile.”
I’m slightly stunned and back to wondering if he’s just trying to make me feel good, even if out of kindness.
Which, in this case, is perhaps just a nicer, more palatable word than “pity.” I respond with brutal, unmeasured honesty.
“I can’t see it that way. I loved my hair.
I think I looked a thousand times better with it. ”
Clearly thinking it over, he scrunches up his nose a little, and says, “Maybe that’s just habit? What you’re used to? But hey, if not, it’ll grow back, right? Over time.”
I nod. “Right.” Some women have told me their hair was never the same after chemo, so that’s a worry I carry, but I don’t bother sharing since, somehow, I already feel shallow enough here.
“I’m just sayin’,” he tells me, “that you got nothin’ to feel uncomfortable about if you don’t wanna plop a hat on your head every second of the day. I get the sun-protection part. But otherwise, you look pretty great without it.”
“Well,” I answer softly, “I appreciate that. And maybe I’ll ... try seeing it that way the next time I look in the mirror.” I know myself well enough to realize that’s a lie, but it’s the only gracious reply I can think of at the moment.
That’s when he glances at his watch and says, “It’s after ten.”
I’m surprised. “Wow, really?”
“I should take off—early shift tomorrow.”
“I guess we forgot to look at the lost-and-found stuff,” I muse.
“Maybe talkin’ was nicer. Another time soon, though?”
“Okay,” I agree.
Matt swallows the last of his wine as we both get to our feet, then he ventures into the yard to retrieve both our hats.
When he returns to the porch to hand me mine and our eyes connect, I see mischief in his gaze and something more I can’t identify.
“I’d offer to walk you home, but we’re already here,” he says.
Then he gives his head a speculative tilt. “Do I get a goodnight kiss?”
Where on earth did that come from? That potent wine, I suppose. I simply flash a wide-eyed look of contempt.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he tells me on a soft chuckle.
“You take it correctly,” I confirm.
After which he leaves the porch again, this time starting across the yard. Looking over his shoulder, he calls, “By the way, that was flirtin’.”
I leave the dishes in the sink, a little tired from ... everything. The wine. The intense conversation. Matthew Cordray’s compliments.
It’s hard not to think he’s just sweet-talking me.
But on the other hand, if he doesn’t find me attractive, why would he be flirting?
I know for some men the nearest available vagina will do, but if he’s that kind of guy, there’s always Joy Lynn.
I scrunch my nose as I head to the bedroom—the idea of them together bugs me worse now.
Though maybe them having some kind of relationship is just a figment of my imagination.
Wine is jumbling all my thoughts together nonsensically. And after I change into pj’s, I walk into the bathroom to wash up and I peer into the medicine cabinet mirror hoping I see ... what he sees. What he said he sees. That my eyes and smile are all I need to feel good about myself.
I try to see it, I really do.
Despite those aspirations, however ... despite the soft, optimistic touch of hope that warmed my heart when he called me beautiful ... all I can see looking back at me is a hollow, damaged version of the woman I used to be.
I can’t help it—I’m the woman who loves her hair and makeup and jewelry and wants to be pretty, my version of pretty, not some settled-upon version that people tell me is okay.
I fall into Mabel’s fluffy white bed not wanting to think anymore, feel anymore.
I even find myself reaching over to the nightstand for my old teddy bear, Edgar.
It’s silly, I know. I’m a grown woman. But he reminds me of my mom and dad, and there are moments in life when hugging him feels like the closest I can come to hugging them .
I don’t want to think about my hair, or my scars; I don’t want to think about Matt’s losses or his kindness or his flirtation or what on earth he thinks is going to happen between him and a woman who is obviously not in a good place in her life.
I don’t want to think about all the lost things in the spare bedroom that no one cares about anymore.
I’m ready to float away in those clouds—they’re comforting, and they kind of hold me up, keep me afloat.
A man I accidentally found myself thinking of as handsome tonight told me I am beautiful without my hair.
But if I can’t see it that way myself, maybe it doesn’t count for much.
Sleep feels like a welcome escape from a confusion I didn’t expect to feel even an hour ago.
Maybe whatever was making me hold Matt Cordray at arm’s length up until tonight was an instinct I should have kept following.