The Forgetting(59)

‘You’re so lucky having hair this thick. Mine’s always been thin – nothing much you can do with it. But yours is gorgeous.’ The hairdresser smoothed a palm along Livvy’s hair, tucked it behind her ears. ‘What made you decide to cut it short?’

The question veered from one side of Livvy’s mind to the other, no clear path to an answer.

It had been almost three weeks since she had sat at right angles to Dominic at the kitchen table, irritated by his suggestion that she cut her hair. And yet, over the course of that weekend, he had pointed to actresses on television and models in Sunday supplements, advocating hairstyles he thought would suit her. ‘What’s the worst that could happen? If you cut it and you don’t like it, it’ll always grow back. It’s only hair, after all.’

Since then, there had been a stream of WhatsApp messages in a similar vein: photos of beautiful actresses with angular bobs accentuating razor-sharp cheekbones; articles about women who felt liberated by a change in hairstyle; upbeat GIFs about seizing the day. Dominic had made the point that shorter hair would look more professional. ‘When you go for those meetings in London, you want to look the part, don’t you?’ She had begun to feel foolish, her resistance like a childish affectation. She had studied the photos he’d sent her, begun to wonder if perhaps he was right, it was time for a change. Perhaps she did need something a bit more sophisticated.

After she’d booked the appointment, she’d told no one, not even Dominic, in case she lost her nerve at the eleventh hour. She had fibbed to Bea when she’d dropped Leo with her sister earlier, told her she just needed to run some errands.

‘It was just time for a change.’ The half-truth to the hairdresser emerged with ease, and Livvy folded her fingers together, tucked them in her lap.

The hairdresser swapped the brush for a comb, drew a line along the centre of Livvy’s scalp, the plastic teeth scraping her skin.

‘And you want it exactly like that?’ The hairdresser gestured towards the photo on Livvy’s phone, propped up against the mirror. It was a picture Dominic had sent her of an actress Livvy had never heard of, her hair cut in a stylish bob, a slight wave at the ends where it met her jawline.

Livvy looked at the photo, remembered Dominic’s accompanying message: This would look fantastic on you! She noted the actress’s pristine skin, scarlet lips, the sheen across her angled cheekbones. Her blonde hair, accentuated with expensive highlights, so different from Livvy’s own auburn hair. Livvy tried to picture the style framing her face, but it felt like putting on someone else’s clothes, knowing they didn’t quite fit, like a child playing with a dressing-up box.

‘Are you okay?’ The hairdresser crouched down beside her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. ‘You don’t have to go through with it if you’ve changed your mind. Honestly, it happens all the time. It’s a big thing, changing your appearance. I could just give you a quick trim. I won’t charge you for the restyle.’

The possibility swung before Livvy like a hypnotist’s pendulum. She could just get a trim. Nobody ever need know she’d even made the appointment. There was nothing forcing her to proceed.

Wouldn’t you like something a bit more – I don’t know – grown-up?

Dominic’s words echoed in her ears, and before she had time to change her mind, she watched herself nod with the full vigour of certainty. ‘I’m fine. I was just having a momentary wobble. Honestly, I want a change.’

The hairdresser stood up, moved behind Livvy’s chair.

Livvy watched as the stylist performed one last comb-through. And then the hairdresser separated a section at the back of Livvy’s head, held it between two fingers, and Livvy could feel the air against the nape of her neck, could sense how short her hair was going to be. She heard the decisive, irreversible snip of two metal blades coming together, saw the hairdresser take the severed ten-inch lock, watched it fall to the ground.

It’s only hair, after all.

Dominic’s words repeated in her head like a mantra. She told herself to stop being ridiculous, that it was absurd getting so overwrought about something so superficial. She was a grown woman. She was having a restyle. There was no justification for this sense of loss.

It was only hair, after all.





ANNA


LONDON

I glance up at the large white analogue clock on the kitchen wall, the hands inching towards a quarter to nine. On the stove beside me, a pot of chilli con carne bubbles gently on the lowest heat, congealing where it has been simmering for over an hour. Touching my fingers lightly to the kettle, the metal is still warm where I boiled it at eight o’clock in preparation to cook the rice when Stephen arrived.

The second hand ticks conspicuously in the silence.

Trying to ignore the flit of panic in my chest, I remind myself that Stephen is often home later than expected, that he does not have a regular nine-to-five job, cannot clock off at a fixed time every day. He tries to avoid bringing work home, will often stay late at the university to finish marking essays or plan the next day’s lectures and seminars. It is not unusual for him to be delayed.

And yet, in spite of knowing this, the thought lurches in my mind as to what would happen if Stephen didn’t come home. If he never came home. If he disappeared, without a trace, leaving me here by myself. I realise how little I know about our day-to-day life, how incapable I would be of surviving on my own. I have no job, no money, no access to money. I do not know from whom we rent our house, to whom we pay our bills. I have no friends, no family, no wider network on whom I could rely. It is Stephen who knows everything. Stephen who looks after everything. Stephen who looks after me. Without him, I would be lost. He is all I have in the world.