Whose Head
Is It,
Anyway?

Once Clint stopped crying like a baby, he looked at me, really looked at me, and told me it was flattering. His hand went up to touch my head, and I blocked it like Bruce Lee. This was no longer his domain. That understanding was made two weeks ago when he walked all over the ultimatum that had been set before him. The conversation played in my head like we’d had it yesterday. It was the evening of my thirty-fourth birthday and I was feeling used up and old. It didn’t help that he had shown up late, and by the time he walked through the door I was ready for battle.

“Why do you want to get married now?” he had whined. “We’ve been together four years and all of a sudden it’s now or never. Are you pregnant?”

“No, I’m not pregnant, but I would like to be. I would like to start a family and be on my way to adulthood, but I’m too busy here playing house with you.”

That day, I’d put my foot down. I was tired of his excuses. First it was, “wait till I finish medical school,” then it was, “just let me pass the boards,” and after passing the boards it became, “V, let me get on my feet.” The way I saw it, he was never going to get on his feet as long as I was carrying him around like a small child.

Clint now stood in front of me with his shirt buttoned only halfway. I tried not to let the solid rippled mass distract me. “When did you decide to cut off all your hair?” he asked, slowly recovering from his shock.

I opened the bottled water sitting on the counter and took a swig. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s something I wanted to do for some time.” I took another swig. “It had nothing to do with you.”

“Damn, V. That’s kind of whack, ain’t it? You know you did it because you were mad at me. Did I hurt you that bad? You were trying to get back at me by cutting off all your hair. You know how many women would pay to have the hair you had? And then you go and cut it all off.”

“Excuse me. This is my head. If I wanted to do something to hurt you, I would’ve thrown that damned dog out the window, the one you forgot to take with you. That belongs to you. My hair or lack of, does not.”

“Sandy was your birthday present, remember?” Clint bent over and stroked the cocker spaniel’s shiny tan mane.

How could I forget, nothing personal, but Sandy was supposed to be a solitaire diamond in a small gold box. When he’d walked in carrying the large white cardboard box with holes punched in the top and a big pink bow, I became furious.

“Baby, I’m sorry. Let’s squash all this fighting.”

“We’re not fighting. People in relationships fight. We no longer have a relationship.”

“V, you need to snap out of it. Why does everything have to happen when you click your heels? Don’t I have any say?”

“You said all you needed to say when you walked out of here,” I reminded him.

“What was I supposed to do? Damn, you told me to get out.”

“I didn’t tell you to get out. That was a choice you made. Now I’m telling you to get out.” I opened the front door. “I’ll need the garage door opener back, please.” I held out my hand with the badly chipped Butter Frost polish. He wrestled the key chain remote off the rest of his collection.

“Thank you.”

“I need to get my car out,” he grumbled while following me to the front door. “How am I supposed to get my car out?”

“You should have thought about that before you stuck it where it didn’t belong.”

I slammed the door in his face and pressed the remote button to lift the garage up. I hugged Sandy and scratched behind her long brown ears. She licked my chin. I planted a kiss on the top of her soft warm head. “We’ll get through this, girl.”