I help you?”
“It’s me. Angie,” she said. She watched Nicola carefully. For a fraction of a second Angie was sure that her mother recognized her. But the look quickly disappeared and, once again, Angie couldn’t be sure if she’d caught her or imagined something that wasn’t there.
“You’re here for a haircut?”
“It’s me. Your fourth born. Angie.”
“You’re in luck. Mr. Weston cancelled.”
“I’m about to have a baby …”
“I guess I should say he was cancelled.”
“Really? Nothing?”
“God rest his soul,” Nicola said. She picked up the chair, turned it around and set it backwards in front of the sink. She patted it and Angie sat down. Her mother tied a peach-coloured beach towel around her neck. She touched Angie’s forehead, gently encouraging her to tilt back her head. Nicola washed Angie’s hair. The water was warm. The shampoo smelled like goat’s milk soap, which made Angie remember bathtubs full of siblings in their house on Palmerston Boulevard. She drifted off to sleep. She woke up with wet hair.
“You must be tired.”
“I didn’t feel that tired.”
“Something about this room just makes people wanna sleep,” Nicola said. She pulled a white towel from the far wall, revealing a mirror. “Nothing worse than staring at yourself all day,” she said.
Angie stood and Nicola moved the chair in front of the mirror. Angie sat down. She looked at her mother’s reflection. Nicola gathered Angie’s wet hair and let it fall over her shoulders.
“What were you thinking?”
“A trim?”
“I think it needs more than that.”
“No. Oh no. You know? Just a trim.”
“Why don’t you let me try something?”
“A trim is all I need. Really.”
Nicola nodded in agreement. She reached for her scissors, took a five-inch length of her daughter’s hair between her fingers and with a firm unhesitating motion, cut. A length of black hair dropped to the floor. Angie stared at it. A second clump, even longer, fell beside it. In the mirror she saw a third length between the jaws of her mother’s scissors and as they started to close, Angie shut her eyes.
“How far along are you?”
“Hmmm?”
“I know you’re not supposed to ask, but I don’t know who wouldn’t know there’s a baby in there.”
“Thirty-five weeks. Ish?”
“A girl?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I thought so. You’re carrying pretty low for it to be a boy.”
“If she’d been a boy I was going to name her Besnard.”
“You’re going it alone?”
“After my father. Besnard. Besnard Richard Weird?” Angie said. She opened her eyes. Nicola continued cutting.
“Sorry,” she said. “No ring, that’s all. Am I prying?”
“No. You’re not. There isn’t one.”
Angie’s mother made a clucking sound with her tongue.
“You disapprove?” Angie asked.
“If a woman wants a child there’s nothing worse than not having one. It’s just very hard to do it on your own.”
“Do you have children?”
“No, no. Well, almost.”
“What happened?”
“I lost my husband.”
“How?”
“A storm.”
“A storm?”
“The Great Storm of 2001. He was lost at sea. Do you remember it? That storm?” she asked. The scissors stopped. They looked at each other in the mirror.
“Of course.”
“Were you in it?”
“Sometimes I feel like I still am.”
“Did you lose someone too?”
“I did,” Angie said. Nicola nodded. She resumed cutting Angie’s hair. She made six more slices at the back. Then three quick stabs to the top. She held up a length from the right side of Angie’s head and cut at what seemed to be a randomly chosen point. She did the same on the left side. Exchanging her scissors for the hair dryer, Nicola flicked it to the highest setting and only then did Angie let herself cry.
Nicola turned off the hair dryer and stepped away. Angie looked in the mirror. Her hair seemed even more chaotic than Lucy’s. Some sections on the right side seemed untouched, while all the hair on the left was cut quite short. Her bangs had been sliced into a zigzag pattern. Four tufts stuck up from the top.
“So?” Nicola asked. “Do you like it?”
“I love it, Mom,” Angie said. “It’s perfect.”
Lucy was waiting by the elevator. The expression on her face remained neutral. She pressed the up button but the elevator doors did not open and then she started to laugh.
“We could be twins!” Lucy said. She ran her hands all over Angie’s head.
“It is really that bad?”
“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”
“I still think she’s faking.”
“She’s not faking.”
“I saw a look. A look of recognition. Just for a moment,” Angie said.
Lucy stopped. She took Angie’s hands. She held them tightly and she did not loosen her grip. “She fakes that,” Lucy said. “That she does fake, no doubt.”
“She fakes what?”
“She pretends, just at first, just for a moment, that she recognizes you. Just to see if she’s supposed to. Then it goes away. It always goes away.”
There was a ping and the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.
“I didn’t think of that,” Angie said.
“It always goes
