Cut - December 22, 2010

Snip, snip.  He’d forgotten how truly satisfying that sound was and it seemed to remind him that it really had been a while since his last hair cut. She reminded him, also, each time she reached another part of his head where the hair had been possibly longer than the other side.
    “Who the hell cut your hair last? It’s a bloody hack job…” she’d trailed off with anther soft snip and he watched the little brown fluff of her cutting float to the floor with the rest of his hair.
    “I can’t remember, believe it or not. My hair grows slow.” he hoped she would do a good job at this, he was the kind of person that counted first impressions. Though, this endeavour of being groomed was somewhat on a whim and not the first time he had met her. She had given him a first impression then, at the dinner party last week and he had been impressed.
    “Well, I think it looks much better so far.” she didn’t sound smug, but as if she was complimenting him somehow. He nearly blushed…which made him feel slightly foolish, an emotion he’d been warding off with small talk for the past half hour. He eased into the chair further, hoping to bury any discomfort. How he hated awkwardness.
    “Can I see it yet?” he asked. She didn’t respond to him, just continued to cut the left side of his head. He thought about the silences that she would often let pass between them and wondered why that was. At the party, just four days ago, she would leave his questions unanswered and circle her finger around the empty wine glass in front of her. He had noticed how she stared longingly at the bottle of cheap, dessert wine being passed to each party guest and place her hands on top her stomach with a confusing look. He hadn’t deciphered any of her expressions yet.
    “How will I know if you’re doing a good job?” he prompted, feeling an odd sense of jubilance. This was familiar, it was how he felt when he first met her.
    “Trust.” is all she said.

    He recalled the dinner party as being a little boring, as they always are. Sitting where he can remember he was placed, he had a view of all the married couples around them. To his front, the host and hostess…which he would usually never formally call host and hostess, but he couldn’t remember their names.
    “Er, hey…you…could you pass the dressing?” he had hoped to come off sounding casual, but it probably was a bit rude. The hostess smiled, which was a large and toothy smile that was so forced, he wondered if she practiced it in the mirror.
    Beside him, his wife sat and picked at her food with obvious distaste. He thought amusedly, they made a great couple when it came to etiquette. Would the rest of the party refer to them as Mr. and Mrs. Rude?  Oh, he hoped so.
    His wife had been wearing a lovely white top that evening. She would discover later, as they were undressing themselves (her silly with alcohol, him exhilarated by the business card that was tucked into his back pocket) and stumbling toward bed, that she had stained the shirt earlier on in the night with wine. He hadn’t told her anything about the small red spot above her right breast because he really wanted to play up the Mr. and Mrs. Rude thing; it made the dinner more interesting.
    This wine stain had appeared about the same time as he had turned to his left and spoken to the woman that sat there. They were both left handed and their elbows touched several times while cutting through the tough pork that was served. He didn’t notice much about her at first, but after several subtle glances her way, he noticed the absence of a man beside her.
    And she was the only pregnant one there, too.

    He stood up from the chair and shook himself off when the haircut was done. She pointed to the full length mirror on the other side of the room that was not lit with blue-shaded lamps. He walked to the darkness and it became blatant night time all of the sudden. He had forgotten the hour and how long he’d been listening to those methodical snips of hers. He would of much rather pretended, by the light of those lamps, that it was daytime and a completely natural hour for a casual haircut. But the light was gone from the other side of the room and no sun spilled in through the window. It was past midnight, his hair was freshly clipped, and his wife was at home sleeping in their marital bed alone.
    He was eager to see her handy-work and wondered what it meant if she had done a good job or, perhaps, if she’d done poorly. He stood carefully in front of the long mirror and ran his hand over the short, brown hair that sat atop his head. He saw her standing behind him in the mirror, but couldn’t make out her face. His eyes fixed on the very swollen, protruding stomach and the small hands she had placed there.
    “Free of charge.” she said. She brushed her fingers over his shoulders to sweep away the last of the fallen hair. If he didn’t have so much self-control, he might of started breathing heavily or touching her. The only reaction he would allow himself was an inaudible gasp under his breath. .
    “Are you sure?”
    He thought he could feel her smile as she said, “Yes, I’m sure.”

    “Any asparagus?” he offered. The woman, who had previously nudged him in the elbow took what seemed to be a very long, very hard look at him. He couldn’t help feeling bashful, a little under scrutiny. Then she simply said,
    “No thanks.” And he hadn’t anticipated how throaty and deep her voice would sound. She was rather small -despite the bulging stomach- and pixie-like. He noticed how stylish her hair was in it’s short, cropped, and pale blondness.
    “Are you sure?”
    She didn’t reply, but threw herself into conversation with the woman on her other side. He drummed his fingers on the table and was surprised when his wife’s hand met his and stopped his rhythm. Her eyes bore into his for a split second, as if to condemn him for looking bored. He wanted to tell her how crude she looked eating the food she seemed to hate, he wanted to tell her about the uncouth role he was trying to play. He knew, though, she wouldn’t understand his humour.
    “How do you know Marvin and Therese?” came that same voice that had been ringing in his ears for the past minute. So, the host’s names were Marvin and Therese? He decided to refer to them as you there and those two, if only to spite his wife.    He took his hand away from his wife’s grip and turned to the pregnant woman.
    “My wife works with him at the clinic.” he answered, watching her push away what was left of her food.
    “I’ve never seen her there…I’m at the clinic a lot these days.” she said while pointing to the swell in her torso.
    “She works in the lab. Blood tests, urine samples, that sort of thing.” he thought, what a dull topic…The woman’s voice dropped slightly and she cocked her head
    “What do you do?”
    He thought about it for a second or so and weighed the options of his answer. “My work is a little…temperamental.” he began, wondering how to explain the profound writer’s block that was swallowing him.
    “Ah, so…you’re unemployed?” she laughed.
    “I…sure, why not?” he was used to giving up arguments.
    “You write books, don’t you?” she said, propping herself on a bony elbow.
    “How’d you know?” he almost could have pictured her in ridiculous scarves and beaded jewellery, reading his palm over a shining crystal ball.
    “Maybe Marvin mentioned you to me…” she paused and tapped her finger against her chin in a childish manner.
    “Did he tell you if it was a boy or a girl?” he asked to fill the silence. He looked at the host who was seated directly across from him and wondered, with the crassness of a curious teenager, how many legs Marvin had been between. He still couldn’t fathom how it was acceptable for men to be obstetricians and gynaecologists. He ignored the thought, not wanting to seem gender-stereotypical to himself and also not wanting to think about this woman’s inner thighs.
    She shrugged her shoulders and in doing so, the strap from her dress fell smoothly down to her upper arm. She turned her head the opposite direction of him, but kept her shoulder bare and facing him directly.
    He averted his eyes and drank what was left of his wine in one gulp. He was searching for words to string together, but coming up short. Pathetic that this was how far the writer’s block had manifested itself. He waited patiently for her to return back to him, but knew that it’d be feeble for him to try and address her. He knew the moment she spoke to him, he couldn’t catch her in his hands.
    “You need a haircut.” she said to him finally.
    “I do…” he played with the ends of it and felt a little embarrassed, as though he’d just noticed a hole in his sweater.
    “Here…” she slid a small card across the table where it collided with the cuff of his shirt. He read it, holding it up. It was a business card for a salon, printed in simple cursive. He saw that her name and number were also printed for information.
    “You’re a hairdresser?” in his intrigue, he hadn’t thought of that.
    “Yeah.” she said through a sigh and ran her fingers through her hair softly. “Come by the salon some time and I’ll take care of you.”
    She didn’t know how alluring that sounded to him. He glanced back at the card before slipping it into his back pocket. He remembered her name and it tied an uncomfortable, attractive knot in his stomach. “Thanks. I will…Ginny.”
   
    She had begun to turn out all the lights around them. It was more comfortable in the dark, but also more unnerving. With no more distractions, he felt bombarded with inappropriateness and now shame for even being here after midnight, and the evidence of hair that he’d left in a pile on the floor. He’d have to think of some sort of extravagant lie for waking up with three inches less of it. His wife…he’d forgotten about her. But he had to get control of himself, he was breaking no vows here. He hadn’t touched her yet…he wouldn’t.
    He watched her move from lamp to lamp and listened to the click of the button switching, his eyes loosing focus with the loss of light. When it was completely dark and he couldn’t pinpoint where she’d ended up, she spoke his name.
    “Alexander…” she said. “You should probably be going.”
    He asked her if he could come back sometime. Once again, as he passed through her threshold and out to the wintry street, she left his question unanswered, hanging in the air with everything else.

The End

-Kortnee Tilson