man in front of me. My walk becomes mechanical, awkward, self-conscious. Something about him makes me disjointed. Unsettled. Perhaps it’s the possibility of having to tell somebody, a stranger, that there will be no baby. Yes, a month of nonstop baby talk, and there will be no baby to show for it. Sorry, guys. I feel guilty for it, as though I’ve cheated my friends and family. The longest tease of all. A baby that will never be. My heart is twisted at the thought of it. The man holds open the door to the salon and smiles. Handsome. Fresh-faced. Tall. Broad. Athletic. Perfect. Is he glowing? Do I know him?
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
We both pause, look at each other, and over to the two identical taxis waiting for us by the curb, and then back to each other. He looks me up and down.
“Nice cactus.” He smiles. I notice he has an American accent.
“What?” I ask, confused, then, following his eyeline, notice I’m still carrying the cactus that I brought from the hospital. “Oh!
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 5 7
Oh, my God, I meant to leave it in the car.” I feel my face turn pink.
“It was a gift,” I explain.
“Nice gift. I have one at home.”
I think he’s joking with me, and I wait for a laugh that never comes. We enter the salon, which is empty save for two staff members who are sitting down, chatting. They are two men; one has a mullet, the other is bleached blond. They see us and spring to attention.
“Which one do you want?” the American says out of the side of his mouth.
“The blond.” I smile.
“The mullet it is, then,” he says.
My mouth falls open, but I laugh.
“Hello there, loves.” The mullet man approaches us. “How can I help you?” He looks back and forth from the American to me.
“Who is getting their hair done today?”
“Well, both of us, I assume, right?” The American looks at me, and I nod.
“Oh, pardon me, I thought you were together.”
I realize we are so close, our hips are almost touching. We both look down and then take one step away in the opposite direction.
“You two should try synchronized swimming.” The hairdresser laughs, but the joke dies when we fail to react. “Ashley, you take the lovely lady. You come with me.” The American makes a face at me while being led away, and I laugh again. The two of us get seated at nearby stations.
“I just want two inches off, please,” I hear the American say.
“The last time I got it done, they took off like, twenty. Just two inches,” he stresses. “I’ve got a taxi waiting outside to take me to the airport, so as quick as possible too, please.”
His hairdresser laughs. “Sure, no problem. Are you going back to America?”
5 8 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
The man rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not going to America, I’m not going on holiday, and I’m not going to meet anyone at arrivals. I’m just going to take a flight. Away. Out of here. You Irish ask a lot of questions.”
“Do we?”
“Y—” He stalls and narrows his eyes at the hairdresser.
“Gotcha.” The hairdresser smiles, pointing his scissors at him.
“Yes, you did.” Gritted teeth.
I chuckle aloud, and the American immediately looks at me. He seems slightly confused. Maybe we do know each other. Maybe he works with Conor. Maybe I went to school with him. College. Perhaps he’s in the property business, and I’ve worked with him. But I can’t have; he’s American. Maybe he’s famous, and I shouldn’t be staring. I become embarrassed, and I turn quickly away yet again.
My hairdresser wraps a black cape around me, and I steal another glance in the mirror at the man beside me. He looks at me. I look away, then back at him. He looks away. And our tennis match of glances is played out for the duration of our visit.
“How about I just take this from you,” my hairdresser says as he reaches for the cactus still in my hands. I hold on to it, not wanting to let go, and a minor
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
We both pause, look at each other, and over to the two identical taxis waiting for us by the curb, and then back to each other. He looks me up and down.
“Nice cactus.” He smiles. I notice he has an American accent.
“What?” I ask, confused, then, following his eyeline, notice I’m still carrying the cactus that I brought from the hospital. “Oh!
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 5 7
Oh, my God, I meant to leave it in the car.” I feel my face turn pink.
“It was a gift,” I explain.
“Nice gift. I have one at home.”
I think he’s joking with me, and I wait for a laugh that never comes. We enter the salon, which is empty save for two staff members who are sitting down, chatting. They are two men; one has a mullet, the other is bleached blond. They see us and spring to attention.
“Which one do you want?” the American says out of the side of his mouth.
“The blond.” I smile.
“The mullet it is, then,” he says.
My mouth falls open, but I laugh.
“Hello there, loves.” The mullet man approaches us. “How can I help you?” He looks back and forth from the American to me.
“Who is getting their hair done today?”
“Well, both of us, I assume, right?” The American looks at me, and I nod.
“Oh, pardon me, I thought you were together.”
I realize we are so close, our hips are almost touching. We both look down and then take one step away in the opposite direction.
“You two should try synchronized swimming.” The hairdresser laughs, but the joke dies when we fail to react. “Ashley, you take the lovely lady. You come with me.” The American makes a face at me while being led away, and I laugh again. The two of us get seated at nearby stations.
“I just want two inches off, please,” I hear the American say.
“The last time I got it done, they took off like, twenty. Just two inches,” he stresses. “I’ve got a taxi waiting outside to take me to the airport, so as quick as possible too, please.”
His hairdresser laughs. “Sure, no problem. Are you going back to America?”
5 8 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
The man rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not going to America, I’m not going on holiday, and I’m not going to meet anyone at arrivals. I’m just going to take a flight. Away. Out of here. You Irish ask a lot of questions.”
“Do we?”
“Y—” He stalls and narrows his eyes at the hairdresser.
“Gotcha.” The hairdresser smiles, pointing his scissors at him.
“Yes, you did.” Gritted teeth.
I chuckle aloud, and the American immediately looks at me. He seems slightly confused. Maybe we do know each other. Maybe he works with Conor. Maybe I went to school with him. College. Perhaps he’s in the property business, and I’ve worked with him. But I can’t have; he’s American. Maybe he’s famous, and I shouldn’t be staring. I become embarrassed, and I turn quickly away yet again.
My hairdresser wraps a black cape around me, and I steal another glance in the mirror at the man beside me. He looks at me. I look away, then back at him. He looks away. And our tennis match of glances is played out for the duration of our visit.
“How about I just take this from you,” my hairdresser says as he reaches for the cactus still in my hands. I hold on to it, not wanting to let go, and a minor
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