Chapter Three
I AM STANDING in bare feet, gripping the basin in one hand. With the other I pull at strands of blonde hair along my parting – I do not need to use the bathroom mirror in front of me. My fingers detect subtle textural differences, dropping those that feel too smooth, too regular, gently tugging until one strand remains between thumb and middle finger, a strand slightly thicker than all the rest, and therefore from experience more likely to be a darker shade, a strand punctuated by coarse ridges suggesting the beginnings of a fracture, a place of weakness. Prepubescent cats for a week I can just about cope with. I pull, absorbed in the friction between my fingers, skimming the bumps, soothed by the monotony. Dylan, actively gay and my oldest friend, suddenly (Yes! All right, Matt, not over-night, but you know what I mean) acquiring a lifetime commitment to children he’ll raise as his own is altogether different. I take the shaft of hair in my left hand, inching my way along it with my right, scoring it with my thumbnail, enjoying the resistance between hair cuticle and finger, making the hair curl like scissors scrolling ribbon for a parcel. If I increase the pressure just slightly, I’ll hear the hair snap at its point of tension, split ends feathering into existence.
Instead, tonight I pull the strand right out of my scalp. I feel the root tear from its follicle, feel the small bead of pain, see the bulb’s creamy globule of oil wobble in the air as I exhale. The planes of my face in the mirror are harsh yet strangely passive, my untugged hair flat and closely cropped (I am going through a vague Mia Farrow phase). I am aware of a fierce ache in my upper arms.