My hand pauses midair, hovering like a moth in the light. It drops several rows, and I grab a different box than the one I had intended to get. Chestnut brown. My natural hair color.
I locate a pair of scissors for cutting hair, put them in the shopping basket, and make a beeline for the till, not allowing myself the chance to change my mind.
The self-serve checkout isn’t open yet, so I’m forced to go to the cashier. I don’t bother to make eye contact with her. I don’t need to see the condemnation on her face or how she fears for her children’s safety. I keep my eyes on my purchases, my head hanging forward.
“That will be thirty-nine-eighty,” she says.
I open my wallet and remove two twenties. I pass them to her, my hand trembling, and brace for her mean words.
A warm beige hand lightly squeezes mine. The unexpected compassion seeps into my blood and leaves me not feeling so alone.
My gaze darts to the cashier’s. Her young brown eyes are filled with understanding—perhaps the understanding of someone only too familiar of what it’s like to be in an abusive relationship?
I’d offer her a safe place to stay if she needs one, but I don’t know how safe my home is. I’m living day to day, waiting for something else to happen. More protesters to arrive. A new wave of reporters knocking on my door.
I reciprocate the gesture, letting her know I’m here for her if she needs someone on her side.
She hands me my change.
I don’t bike my usual way home. I take a route that doesn’t see much tourist traffic. A route that’s longer, with steeper hills. A punishing route.
My ribs are supposed to take about twelve weeks to fully heal. The car accident occurred two months ago. Good enough.
When I first moved to town, my legs and lungs would burn cycling up the steep inclines. A lifetime of living at sea level and then moving to the mountains will do that. Five months ago, there were so many things I didn’t think I would be capable of.
And now, there are still so many things I can’t do. I glance at the tattoo on my forearm—moving on from losing my daughter is one of the things I struggle with most.
Maybe Robyn is right. I would benefit from medication. Too bad I didn’t talk to a physician about it while I had medical insurance.
Eventually, I pedal down my street and onto my driveway. I put the bike and trailer in the garage, and Bailey and I go into the house through the back door.
I deactivate the alarm and carry the bags toward the kitchen. “I have to finish a few things first,” I tell Bailey as I enter the kitchen and put the bags on the island. “Then we can hang out in the garden while I write.”
The day promises to be pleasant, the cool morning air hinting at the coming fall, and Bailey loves being outside as much as I do. Now that the protesters are gone, I don’t have to use Troy’s noise-canceling headphones. I get to listen to the real sounds of nature while I write.
I put away the groceries and phone the medical clinic to book an appointment with a physician.
As soon as I end the call, I turn on my laptop and google a YouTube video on cutting my own hair. “Okay, you ready for this?” I ask Bailey, the question more for me than for her.
I head upstairs, carrying the laptop, the new scissors, the box of hair color, and walk into the bathroom.
I put the laptop on the counter and rewatch the video two more times. I take a long breath through my nose and let it out slowly.I can do this.
I’m a cliché…cutting my hair after breaking up with my boyfriend. But this, what I’m about to do, goes deeper than that.
I follow the video step by step, snipping away at the long strands until the ends fall above my shoulders. The woman in the video makes it appear easier than it is, but she’s a trained hairstylist and I’m not.
I add layers throughout my thick hair, freeing loose waves the long length had weighed down. Next, I give myself bangs. It’s the first time I’ve ever had them.
Once I’m finished, I clean up the hair from the floor, apply the hair color, and blow-dry my hair, styling it into something casual and carefree. Then I study the outcome in the mirror.
I look…different but still like me—the old me. The before-I-got-married me—especially with the brown hair color.
A smile tilts the corners of my mouth. The movement resembles more of a smirk than a full grin. I’ll always be scarred, both inside and out. Nothing I can do about that.
I nod at the reflection in the mirror, happy with how my hair turned out.
New haircut. New hair color. New start.
