Thanks for the Memories

American man’s mouth hangs open at the sight of my hairdresser with a large pair of scissors and ten inches of hair dangling from his hand. He turns to his and grabs the scissors before he makes another cut. ‘Do not,’ he points, ‘do that to me!’

Mullet man sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘No, of course not, sir.’

The American starts scratching his left arm again. ‘I must have got a bite.’ He tries to roll up his shirtsleeve and I squirm in my seat, trying to get a look at his arm.

‘Could you please sit still?’

‘Could you please sit still?’

The hairdressers speak in perfect unison. They look to one another and laugh.

‘Something funny in the air today,’ one of them comments and American man and I look at one another. Funny, indeed.

‘Eyes back to the mirror, please, sir.’ He looks away.

My hairdresser places a finger under my chin and tips my face back to the centre. He hands me my ponytail.

‘Souvenir.’

‘I don’t want it.’ I refuse to take my hair in my hands. Every inch of that hair was from a moment that has now gone. Thoughts, wishes, hopes, desires, dreams that are no longer. I want a new start. A new head of hair.

He begins to shape it into style now and as each strand falls I watch it drift to the ground. My head feels lighter.

The hair that grew the day we bought the cot. Snip.

The hair that grew the day we picked the nursery paint colours, bottles, bibs and baby grows. All bought too soon, but we were so excited … Snip.

The hair that grew the day we decided the names. Snip.

The hair that grew the day we announced it to friends and family. Snip.

The day of the first scan. The day I found out I was pregnant. The day my baby was conceived. Snip. Snip. Snip.

The more painful recent memories will remain at the root for another little while. I will have to wait for them to grow until I can be rid of them too and then all traces will be gone and I will move on.

I reach the till as the American pays for his cut.

‘That suits you,’ he comments, studying me.

I go to tuck some hair behind my ear self-consciously but there’s nothing there. I feel lighter, light-headed, delighted with giddiness, giddy with delight.

‘So does yours.’

‘Thank you.’

He opens the door for me.

‘Thank you.’ I step outside.

‘You’re far too polite,’ he tells me.

‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘So are you.’

‘Thank you,’ he nods.

We laugh. We both gaze at our taxis queuing up waiting, and look back at one another curiously. He gives me a smile.

‘The first taxi or the second taxi?’ he asks.

‘For me?’

He nods. ‘My driver won’t stop talking.’

I study both taxis, see Dad in the second, leaning forward and talking to the driver.

‘The first. My dad won’t stop talking.’

He studies the second taxi where Dad has now pushed his face up against the glass and is staring at me as though I’m an apparition.

‘The second taxi it is, then,’ the American says, and walks to his taxi, glancing back twice.

‘Hey,’ I protest, and watch him, entranced.

I float to my taxi and we both pull our doors closed at the same time. The taxi driver and Dad look at me like they’ve seen a ghost.

‘What?’ My heart beats wildly. ‘What happened? Tell me?’

‘Your hair,’ Dad simply says, his face aghast. ‘You’re like a boy.’

EIGHT (#ulink_7efa60ce-4c70-5cb8-9501-9e1020fbece3)

As the taxi gets closer to my home in Phisboro, my stomach knots tighter.

‘That was funny how the man in front kept his taxi waiting too, Gracie, wasn’t it?’

‘Joyce. And yes,’ I reply, my leg bouncing with nerves.

‘Is that what people do now when they get their hairs cut?’

‘Do what, Dad?’

‘Leave taxis waiting outside for them.’

‘I don’t know.’

He shuffles his bum to the edge of the seat and pulls himself closer to the taxi driver. ‘I say, Jack, is that what people do when they go to the barbers now?’

‘What’s that?’