The Last Cut

The salon was empty at 7 PM, as it always was when Marcus stayed late for me. I sat in the leather chair, watching him fill the basin with warm water, his movements precise and practiced, like a surgeon preparing for surgery.

"You sure about this?" he asked, running the water through his fingers to test the temperature.

"Never been more sure of anything." The divorce papers were in my bag, unsigned. That's how sure I was.

Marcus guided my head back into the basin. His fingers were gentle, working the shampoo into my scalp with the same tenderness he'd shown fifteen years ago, when he was the new stylist at the cheap salon where I'd gone for my wedding updo. We'd been friends ever since, through three apartments, two miscarriages, one child, and now, this.

The water flowed warm over my skull as he massaged, my hair slippery between his fingers. He knew every gray strand, every thinning patch. He'd colored it back to its original brunette for my anniversary dinners, trimmed it when I was too depressed to care, styled it for job interviews.

"He doesn't deserve you," Marcus said quietly, rinsing away the suds.

"No one deserves me."

He laughed, a dry chuckle that made his chest vibrate against the back of the chair. "True enough."

I closed my eyes as he worked conditioner through the strands, his fingertips pressing into my temples. The water lulled me, and for a moment, I could pretend this was just another Thursday, that I wasn't about to cut off all my hair like a goddamn country song cliché.

"You know," Marcus said, rinsing and wrapping my head in a towel, "I've loved you since 2008."

My eyes opened. The ceiling fan spun above us.

"You never said anything."

"You were married. You were happy. Mostly." He adjusted the cape around my shoulders, met my eyes in the mirror. "I kept my distance. I was your friend. That was enough."

I looked at him—really looked—at the crow's feet around his eyes, the way his hair had started silvering at the temples last year. The way he'd always shown up with wine and takeout when things got hard. The way he'd never once crossed a line.

"Cut it off," I said. "All of it."

Marcus picked up the scissors. The first snip was surgical, cold and final. Wet strands hit the cape like fallen things. With each pass of the scissors, another memory fell away—the wedding day curls, the pregnancy pixie, the long bob I'd worn when David got promoted.

When he was done, I ran my hand over my head, feeling the soft stubble. Strange how light I felt. How clean.

"Thank you," I said.

Marcus brushed hair from my neck, his hand lingering at my nape. "What are you going to do now?"

I looked at my reflection—exposed, new, terrifyingly free. I thought about the unsigned divorce papers, about my son sleeping at my mother's, about Marcus standing behind me with hair on his shirt and love in his eyes.

"Take me to dinner," I said. "Somewhere nice. And don't call it a friend date."