at one another, back to the two identical taxis waiting for us by the pavement and back to one another. I think he’s about to say something else but I quickly look away and step inside.
The salon is empty and two staff members 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?’ American man looks at me and I nod.
‘Oh, pardon me, I thought you were together.’
I realise we are so close our hips are almost touching. We both look down at our adjoined hips, then up to join eyes and then we both take one step away in the opposite direction.
‘You two should try synchronised swimming,’ the hairdresser laughs, but the joke dies when we fail to react. ‘Ashley, you take the lovely lady. Now come with me.’ He leads his client to a chair. The American makes a face at me while being led away and I laugh again.
‘Right, I just want two inches off, please,’ the American says. ‘The last time I got it done they took, like, twenty off. Please, 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?’
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 the scissors at him.
‘Yes you did.’ Gritted teeth. ‘You got me good.’
I chuckle aloud and he 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. Or college. Perhaps he’s in the property business and I’ve worked with him. I can’t have; he’s American. Maybe I showed him a property. Maybe he’s famous and I shouldn’t be staring. I become embarrassed and I turn away again quickly.
My hairdresser wraps a black cape around me and I steal another glance at the man beside me, in the mirror. 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.
‘So what will it be for you, madam?’
‘All off,’ I say, trying to avoid my reflection but I feel cold hands on the sides of my hot cheeks, raising my head, and I am forced to stare at myself face to face. There is something unnerving about being forced to look at yourself when you are unwilling to come to terms with something. Something raw and real that you can’t run away from. You can lie to yourself, to your mind and in your mind all of the time but when you look yourself in the face, well, you know that you’re lying. I am not OK. That, I did not hide from myself, and the truth of it stared me in the face. My cheeks are sunken, small black rings below my eyes, red lines like eyeliner still sting from my night tears. But apart from that, I still look like me. Despite this huge change in my life, I look exactly the same. Tired, but me. I don’t know what I’d expected. A totally changed woman, someone that people would look at and just know had been through a traumatic experience. Yet the mirror told me this: you can’t know everything by looking at me. You can never know by looking at someone.
I’m five foot five, with medium-length hair that lands on my shoulders. My hair colour is midway between blonde and brown. I’m a medium kind of person. Not fat, not skinny; I exercise twice a week, jog a little, walk a little, swim a little. Nothing to excess, nothing not enough. Not obsessed, addicted to anything. I’m neither out-going nor shy, but a little of both, depending on my mood, depending on the occasion. I never overdo anything and enjoy most things I do. I’m seldom bored and rarely whine. When I drink I get tipsy but never fall over or get ill. I like my job, don’t love it. I’m pretty, not stunning, not ugly; don’t expect too much, am never too disappointed. I’m never overwhelmed or under it either; just nicely whelmed. I’m OK. Nothing spectacular but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart. I look to the man beside me and I see the same.
‘Excuse me?’ the hairdresser breaks into my thoughts. ‘You want it all off? Are you sure? You’ve such healthy hair.’ He runs his fingers through it. ‘Is this your natural colour?’
‘Yes, I used to put a little colour in it but I stopped because of the—’ I’m about to say ‘baby’. My eyes fill and I look down but he thinks I’m nodding to my stomach, which is hidden under the gown.
‘Stopped because of what?’ he asks.
I continue to look at my feet, pretend to be doing something with my foot. An odd shuffle manoeuvre. I can’t think of anything to say to him and so I pretend not to hear him. ‘Huh?’
‘You were saying you stopped because of something?’
‘Oh, em …’ Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If you start now you will never stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I mumble, bending over to play with my handbag on the ground. It will pass, it will pass. Someday it will all pass, Joyce. ‘Chemicals. I stopped because of chemicals.’
‘Right, this is what it’ll look like,’ he takes my hair and ties it back. ‘How about we do a Meg Ryan in French Kiss?’ He pulls hairs out in all directions and I look like I’ve stuck my fingers in an electric socket. ‘It’s the sexy messy bed-head look. Or else we can do this.’ He messes about with my hair some more.
‘Can we hurry this along? I’ve got a taxi waiting outside too.’ I look out the window. Dad is chatting to the taxi driver. They’re both laughing and I relax a little.
‘O … K. Something like this really shouldn’t be rushed. You have a lot of hair.’
‘It’s fine. I’m giving you permission to hurry. Just cut it all off.’ I look back to the car.
‘Well, we must leave a few inches on it, darling.’ He directs my face back towards the mirror. ‘We don’t want Sigourney Weaver in Aliens, do we? No GI Janes allowed in this salon. We’ll give you a side-swept fringe, very sophisticated, very now. It’ll suit you, I think, show off those high cheekbones. What do you think?’
I don’t care about my cheekbones. I want it all off.
‘Actually, how about we just do this?’ I take the scissors from his hand, cut my ponytail, and then hand them both back to him.
He gasps. But it sounds more like a squeak. ‘Or we could do that. A … bob.’
American
