“I never use it,” Sophie once told me about the tub. She refuses to submerge herself in water. I wonder if it’s because the townspeople tried to drown her. She didn’t seem too bothered by the incident when she offhandedly brought it up a few months back. Maybe she was kidding. I don’t want to pry. I figure she must take showers, because she appears very clean and never smells anything but dreamy.
Above the vanity hangs a large mirror with a frame that’s a giant silver Ouroboros. Its fanged mouth is open, and its tail is just inside, closing the circle around the mirror. It’s got big rubies for eyes, like two red golf balls.
Sophie sits me on a black velvet stool and positions me in front of the mirror. She produces a pair of antique scissors. They’re ornate, perhaps Victorian era. But they’re not rusty. They’re freakishly shiny.
“Fancy scissors,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. “My murdering scissors.”
“Sophie!”
“They’re great for cutting hair as well,” she says, grinning. “Your face, darling. Oh, I’m sorry. Bad joke.”
“No,” I tell her, “it was a good joke. As long as it was a joke.”
“Of course,” she says. “I wouldn’t use scissors to murder someone. Terribly inefficient.”
“I do appreciate your morbid sense of humor, but . . .”
“But what?” she says, beginning to snip away at my ends. “I’m going to cut it dry. I was thinking shorter. Is that all right?”
“I’ve never had short hair.”
“Let’s try it. If you don’t like it, I have a serum. It’ll make your hair grow like that.”
She doesn’t snap her fingers, but I hear the sound.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
Maybe if I look different, I’ll feel different. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
I’ve been in a good place for the past few weeks, but it’s nothing I can savor. It’s tentative. Regression looms. I worry I’m in constant danger of slipping back into sadness and self-loathing.
Maybe this haircut will anchor me in the embrace of who I’m becoming. It’ll be a visual, tangible change.
“Tilt your head down, darling,” she says.
Listening to the crisp snips of the scissors, I do and watch as my hair gathers on the floor. It’s cathartic.
Sophie begins humming. I’m sure she’s got a gorgeous voice, but I’ve never heard her sing before.
“Do you sing?” I ask her.
“Not with witnesses,” she says. “Do you?”
“No, but I play the guitar. Or I used to. I haven’t in a while.”
“Why not?”
I shrug.
“Hold still,” she says.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
“I learned to impress boys,” I say.
“Darling,” she says, “you’re in desperate need of new motivation.”
“This was back in high school. Sixteen years ago. But yeah, you’re right.”
My motivation hasn’t changed much since. When Sam and I first met, he mentioned that David Foster Wallace was his favorite author, and an hour later I was in my dorm room reading Infinite Jest. I would have never read a book that long in college on top of all of my coursework had it not been for a boy. I thought it was whatever, but naturally I didn’t tell Sam that. I told him I thought it was brilliant.
And a few years ago, when Sam decided he wanted to take up running and train for a marathon, I was awake at four a.m. right there with him, even in the winter, ready to go in head-to-toe Nike. At the time, it seemed like I was merely adopting a good habit, a healthier lifestyle, but in retrospect it was clearly all for him. To spend more time with him. To support him.
“I want you to play for me,” Sophie says.
“Guitar? Oh, I haven’t played in forever. It’d be terrible.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll care. Besides, my guitar is shitty. And I don’t have strings or anything. I’d have to get all new strings, tune it. All that.”
“Too much trouble to go to for your dear friend Sophie?” she asks.
“I mean, if you really want me to, I will. You’re the one with the scissors. Whatever you want.”
“My favorite phrase. Look, pet. Look how beautiful you are.”
She reaches around and lifts my chin. My hair grazes the tops of my shoulders. I swivel my head, shake it back and forth, back and forth. I feel so much lighter. How heavy were my dead ends?