12

HUNTER

Hunter walks into the bathroom and takes the scissors from the cabinet under the sink. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his hair. He grips the scissors, considering what to do.

Short on top? Yep.

Long at the sides? Too girly.

Straggly bits at the back? Mullethead! No-one at school would have the guts to call him that.

He puts the scissors down on the sink and turns on the cold tap, filling the basin with water. He ducks his head down and scoops water over his hair. The water runs down his back and makes him shiver. He looks again in the mirror. Wet streaks of hair stick to his face, like a gargoyle.

He grins. Now that’s a hairstyle. But he can’t go to Walter every five minutes to wet his head in order to maintain the look. Not even Sarah would allow that.

He opens the bathroom cabinet, reaches for a fine-tooth comb and runs it slowly through his hair. He picks up the scissors again and starts cutting: a snip here and there, even to uneven, long to short, wet to dry. What does it matter? His hair drops into the basin, floating on the surface of the water. After a few minutes of careful snipping, he looks again in the mirror. One side of his fringe is longer than the other and a strand of hair tips over his right ear while his left ear sticks out, like a clown.

‘Uuuummm,’ he says. He snips away the long fringe and considers the options. ‘Too clunky on top.’

And there’s still the back to do. He opens the cupboard beside the bathtub and picks up his dad’s old shaving mirror. Holding it behind his head, he can see what the haircut looks like in the bathroom mirror.

In one word?

‘Gross.’

He sighs. What now?

He remembers the time a few years ago when he was beginning swimming lessons and he’d somehow paddled into the deep end, away from his group. When he put his feet down to touch the bottom, there was nothing but water. Water and rising panic. He kicked and flapped his arms against the surface of the water, wondering why he couldn’t scream. He went under, gulping water before resurfacing and spitting it out. He wanted to yell, but still no voice would come. He flapped and grabbed at vacant air and felt the water filling his ears and nose. Why couldn’t he shout?

He reached one arm high into the air as the rest of his body went under. And that’s when his mother dived into the pool. She reached him with a few strokes. With her arms circling him, he felt weightless. His breathing settled immediately as she kicked and floated, with him in her arms, to safety. He could smell her perfume mixing with the chlorine. At the side of the pool he gripped the bar and noticed his mum was wearing a dress, soaked and clinging to her body. The water streaked her make-up. Her dark hair shone in the sunlight.

‘Are you okay, dear?’ she asked.

Hunter nodded. He stretched his legs and stood up in the pool. His mother touched his cheek with her long fingers. They stood in the pool, looking at each other and the din of splashing and laughing children faded away. After a few moments, they both walked slowly through the water to the steps at the shallow end and got out of the pool. His mother’s dress dripped as they walked back to his towel. Hunter noticed she was shivering, even though it was a warm afternoon.

The next time they visited the pool, his mother arranged for a different instructor. A gruff old woman who tolerated no nonsense and never took her eyes off her students. Hunter’s mum came to every lesson. She wore the same dress, every week. A private joke, between Hunter and her.

He stares once more at his hairstyle reflected in his dad’s mirror. He hates it. He picks up the scissors and starts snipping, not caring where he cuts, just taking off as much hair as he can. He’s back in the pool, and every snip is one more paddle, one more stroke to safety. Or further into the deep end? Hunter reaches to the back of his head and snips blindly. He feels the tickle of hair against his neck as it falls to the floor. He keeps cutting until his fingers can no longer grip the locks of hair on the back of his head, until there’s nothing but awkward stubble. He grabs at tufts of hair around his ears and cuts wildly. He doesn’t stop until there are no more locks to cut.

Hunter notices he’s breathing heavily, like that day in the pool, short sharp gasps that aren’t enough to fill his lungs. He drops the scissors on the floor and looks into the mirror. A grinning bowling ball stares back.

‘Ha!’