“Well, shit, Bo,” he said. “Ain’t too bad.”
“Can I cut your hair next, Daddy?” I’d asked.
“Maybe after a few more beers,” he said, chuckling as he kissed me on the top of my head.
There were a few nights like that when I was little. Where we’d all be laughing and talking and being nice to each other. Maybe even eating dinner together. Like I imagined the other families in town did. They’d only last for so long, though. Then, usually, both my folks would end up getting drunk and yelling at each other. But they started out good, at least.
Most of those good nights ended when Daddy left.
I spit some of Agnes’s hair onto the floor and keep cutting until I’ve given her a shoulder-length bob. It ain’t as pretty as before, but it ain’t terrible. “Turn around.”
She does.
“Close your eyes.”
She does.
I use my fingers to comb her hair in front of her face. I take a few careful snips. The scissors are dull, so they don’t cut quite right. But I manage to give her bangs. Long ones that stop just above her eyes. They ain’t even, but they’re good enough. She don’t look like the same clean-cut girl no more. Not at first glance anyway.
“Done.”
She steps away from me and looks in the mirror. I don’t know how much she can see, but the look on her face tells me she ain’t thrilled. She runs her fingers through the strands around her face and sighs. I wait for her to say something. Maybe make a joke. But she stays quiet.
I swallow. “All right. My turn.”
“What?”
“You gotta cut my hair now.”
“Bo, I can’t,” she says.
“Yeah, you can.”
“I’m blind.” She says it like I’ve done forgot.
“It ain’t gotta be pretty.” I put the scissors in her hand.
“What if I cut off your ear?”
“You won’t.”
“But your hair,” she mumbles. “It’s how I recognize you.”
“I should’ve cut it off forever ago. It’s always in the damn way. And you’ll find another way to recognize me. Just do it, all right? I wanna get out of this shithole.”
“Fine.”
I use both hands to smooth my hair back into a ponytail and hold it in one fist. “Cut the whole thing off.”
“Okay.” She steps closer. Her left hand slides along my face and neck. Eventually, her fingers settle over mine, gripping the ponytail while she chops at it. My hair is thick and wavy, and it takes a while to chop off the whole thing. When she’s done, I feel almost dizzy with the loss of all that weight.
I take the scissors from her and look in the mirror while I even up the sides a bit. When I’m done, it’s all I can do not to cry. Despite everything I said before, I hate this. My hair was a pain, a mess, but it was the only thing about me that was pretty. Now it’s choppy, cut to my ears, and I look like a little boy. Short and skinny and awkward.
I ain’t gonna let Agnes know how upset I am, though. She’d feel guilty, even though I’d asked her to do it.
“Not bad,” I lie. “If we get caught, at least we’ll have some killer mug shots.”
She smiles, but just barely.
I ain’t used to this. To her being so distant. It’s got me scared, but I don’t got the nerve to ask her about it. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “All right. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We walk out of the bathroom, leaving piles of golden, red, and black hair on the floor.
I spent the next two weeks waiting for Bo.
Waiting for her to walk into English class. Waiting for her to come down the sidewalk, past the church, on Sunday morning. Waiting for her to say something—anything—to me.
I was always watching for her, keeping an eye out for that golden mane of hair to come around the corner. I saw her almost every day, but we didn’t say a word to each other for two weeks.
Then, on a Friday afternoon, I’d decided to spend my lunch period in the library. Christy was out sick, so I didn’t have anyone to sit with. Besides, I had a research paper due in World History
“Can I cut your hair next, Daddy?” I’d asked.
“Maybe after a few more beers,” he said, chuckling as he kissed me on the top of my head.
There were a few nights like that when I was little. Where we’d all be laughing and talking and being nice to each other. Maybe even eating dinner together. Like I imagined the other families in town did. They’d only last for so long, though. Then, usually, both my folks would end up getting drunk and yelling at each other. But they started out good, at least.
Most of those good nights ended when Daddy left.
I spit some of Agnes’s hair onto the floor and keep cutting until I’ve given her a shoulder-length bob. It ain’t as pretty as before, but it ain’t terrible. “Turn around.”
She does.
“Close your eyes.”
She does.
I use my fingers to comb her hair in front of her face. I take a few careful snips. The scissors are dull, so they don’t cut quite right. But I manage to give her bangs. Long ones that stop just above her eyes. They ain’t even, but they’re good enough. She don’t look like the same clean-cut girl no more. Not at first glance anyway.
“Done.”
She steps away from me and looks in the mirror. I don’t know how much she can see, but the look on her face tells me she ain’t thrilled. She runs her fingers through the strands around her face and sighs. I wait for her to say something. Maybe make a joke. But she stays quiet.
I swallow. “All right. My turn.”
“What?”
“You gotta cut my hair now.”
“Bo, I can’t,” she says.
“Yeah, you can.”
“I’m blind.” She says it like I’ve done forgot.
“It ain’t gotta be pretty.” I put the scissors in her hand.
“What if I cut off your ear?”
“You won’t.”
“But your hair,” she mumbles. “It’s how I recognize you.”
“I should’ve cut it off forever ago. It’s always in the damn way. And you’ll find another way to recognize me. Just do it, all right? I wanna get out of this shithole.”
“Fine.”
I use both hands to smooth my hair back into a ponytail and hold it in one fist. “Cut the whole thing off.”
“Okay.” She steps closer. Her left hand slides along my face and neck. Eventually, her fingers settle over mine, gripping the ponytail while she chops at it. My hair is thick and wavy, and it takes a while to chop off the whole thing. When she’s done, I feel almost dizzy with the loss of all that weight.
I take the scissors from her and look in the mirror while I even up the sides a bit. When I’m done, it’s all I can do not to cry. Despite everything I said before, I hate this. My hair was a pain, a mess, but it was the only thing about me that was pretty. Now it’s choppy, cut to my ears, and I look like a little boy. Short and skinny and awkward.
I ain’t gonna let Agnes know how upset I am, though. She’d feel guilty, even though I’d asked her to do it.
“Not bad,” I lie. “If we get caught, at least we’ll have some killer mug shots.”
She smiles, but just barely.
I ain’t used to this. To her being so distant. It’s got me scared, but I don’t got the nerve to ask her about it. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “All right. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We walk out of the bathroom, leaving piles of golden, red, and black hair on the floor.
I spent the next two weeks waiting for Bo.
Waiting for her to walk into English class. Waiting for her to come down the sidewalk, past the church, on Sunday morning. Waiting for her to say something—anything—to me.
I was always watching for her, keeping an eye out for that golden mane of hair to come around the corner. I saw her almost every day, but we didn’t say a word to each other for two weeks.
Then, on a Friday afternoon, I’d decided to spend my lunch period in the library. Christy was out sick, so I didn’t have anyone to sit with. Besides, I had a research paper due in World History
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