Or maybe I was waiting for my super powers to kick in. My chemo oncologist, a wonderful man who had male pattern baldness admired my still-f head of hair and warned me that it would most likely fall out soon. Running his hand over his own bald pate, he said, “But at least yours will grow back in!”
Of course getting cancer wasn’t worth the jokes, but I’d take them over self-pity.
I flipped the chart over on the nightstand with no desire to even think about the ten rounds remaining. Instead I studied the group of figurines that William had given me. They were so intricately painted, detailed and shaded—even the tiny pewter bases upon which they stood were painted to simulate grass or earth or stone. There was the Guide, with a map and sextant. The Bodyguard dressed in a full suit of armor. The Jester, with the funny hat and wildly colored clothes. Sometimes I’d pass an hour staring at them, rearranging them. Pretending they represented people in my life.
I also spent a lot of my downtime on the laptop playing Dragon Epoch. Since these were times when none of my friends—except Adam—could log on, I worked on the secret quest that he was completely hands-off about. I knew better than to ask him about it or wheedle more clues out of him. He’d once thought himself the height of generous by giving me the uber-elusive “yellow” as a clue. In the end it had been a very valid clue, but so generic as to be useless.
After our talk about asking for help, and the very simple fact that I needed help constantly, working on the quest by myself was a way that I could assert my independence and do things on my own. I spent long hours laying back in bed, my laptop propped on my knees, looking for answers on how to proceed with the quest.
But I was getting nowhere and soon frustration drove me out of bed once I was feeling better. I decided to take a shower.
Though I’d prepared myself for the upcoming, inevitable loss, it still hit me as a shock when the first clump of hair came off in my hands. It was dry and dead, like autumn leaves, and it left my head with little to no resistance.
With a quick intake of breath and a sharp stab of alarm, my heart battered against my chest in fear. I pulled out four or five handfuls and let them fall to the floor. Though this loss was nothing to what I’d already suffered, it was still something to remind me of all that cancer was robbing me of. This loss may have been temporary, but it served as an all-too-poignant reminder of the more permanent losses. My breath came in shivery gulps and tears prickled my eyes.
The drain was starting to plug up with the excess water running out of the showerhead before I finally stopped yanking and pulling at my own hair. I reached up to touch my patchy scalp. The skin there was tender, sensitive.
I think I tried for about sixty seconds to be brave, but it was soon overwhelming and I was shaking with rage and anguish as tears trickled down my face to match the rain of the showerhead. Fuck you, cancer, for succeeding stealing yet another thing from me… my hair and all it represented—youth, beauty, femininity.
By the time the shower started overflowing onto the bathroom floor, I was on the ground, sobbing and trying to pull the hair out of the drain to unclog it.
The world around me turned and my stomach flipped. I felt like throwing up, but fortunately I held it in. I was not as successful with my tears. And because of that, I could hardly see what the hell I was doing and the water was getting cold and I was frantic, shivering.
Suddenly, there was a rush of cold air and the showerhead turned off. I huddled on the shower floor, a mess, bent over myself.
Adam knelt in the water beside me. “Mia. Get up.”
But I didn’t move. I buried my face in my hands. “I don’t want you to see me.”
“I’ve seen you naked before. Come on. You’re shivering.”
“Get me a towel,” I sniveled.
He’d seen everything, yes. But not like this. Not this scarred, maimed, skin-and-bones version. I would disgust him. I knew I would. I disgusted myself every time I stared in the mirror.
This cowering weakling was a far cry from the empowered, confident female who had once shucked my bathing suit to expose myself to him before luring him to take a shower with me. I’d been confident in my body then. I’d wanted him and I’d wanted him to want me. And he had. He
so
had.
This body belonged to a sick woman. A husk. A sniveling, pathetic weakling. Because along with the physical losses—the weight, pregnancy and now the hair, there were those that couldn’t be seen—confidence, independence, empowerment. Cancer was slowly yet surely breaking me. I didn’t know this girl. She wasn’t me. She was the furthest thing from me I could have ever imagined. And I had no doubt in my mind that he felt the very same way. I swallowed that ever-present shame. It stabbed in my throat like a jagged piece of glass.
In minutes, Adam was holding out a towel in front of me, his head turned to the side so that he couldn’t see. “Stand up. I’m not looking.”
Slowly I stood and walked into the towel he held out, wrapping it around myself. He kept his eyes away from me as he went to grab the fluffy bathrobe off the hook in the corner and held it up while coaxing me into it. Then he turned and looked at the shower, which was still backed up. He grabbed the trashcan and sloshed into the shower, the legs of his jeans now entirely soaked. He proceeded to unclog the drain, pulling out clumps of my hair. The water ran down the drain with a hearty gulp.
Shaking, I watched his impassive face in the mirror. “
I’ll
clean up the mess. Please…let me.”
He didn’t look at me, grabbing extra towels to soak up the excess water on the floor. “No, you won’t.”
“But—”
“You aren’t cleaning
anything
. Don’t even try.”
“Adam—”
He stopped, straightened and looked at me in the mirror, bathroom trashcan still in hand. He met my gaze, his face dead serious. “Don’t argue with me, Mia. You aren’t cleaning. You’re a guest. My guests don’t clean.”
A guest. That word sounded so weird. I’d lived here. For three months this had been my home. Adam had once called it
our
house. But now I was a guest. Moving out in a huff must have demoted me to guest status.
He turned and finished up with the wet towels, grabbing them and throwing them in the second sink. “I’ll have Cora call the cleaning people in the morning.”
I hadn’t had a chance to turn my attention to my reflection in the mirror until that moment. What I saw almost made me gasp again in shock. My head looked like a sheep that had some kind of weird molting sickness. Patches of hair hung by barely a thread. Huge clumps had been pulled out and some of it was still firmly rooted in its place.
I’d been mentally preparing for this moment since I’d been prescribed chemotherapy. But it still struck me, almost taking my breath away. I sniffed and blinked, ferociously fighting new tears. Adam finished tidying the bathroom and then straightened, watching me watch myself in the mirror.
“Mia, take a deep breath…”
So I did. It was shaky and weak, like the rest of me. “I look like a leper.”
He came up behind me, reaching around to belt my robe, which I had left hanging open (but, mercifully, I was still covered by the towel). The feel of his arms coming around me was… thrilling and alien at the same time. I wanted him to wrap them around me, pull me to him, whisper in my ear that I was still beautiful to him. I avoided his gaze in the mirror.
I wasn’t beautiful to anyone.
“Come with me,” he said, taking my hand and leading me out of the bathroom. He pulled me through my bedroom and into the hall toward his bedroom.
“Where are we going?”
“My room,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I can see that. Why?”
“Trust me.”
I let him tow me along, his grip around my hand tightening. We went through his room and straight into the en suite bathroom. He stopped and bent to pull something out of the bottom cabinet. He had an ironic smile when he straightened.
In spite of myself I laughed when I saw what it was. Electric clippers.
“May I do the honors?” he said, waggling them in front of him. “I may have fantasized about shaving a beautiful woman’s head.”
“Sicko.” My eyes narrowed at him. “Shut the fuck up and turn those on.”
He grinned. “Oh God, please talk dirty to me. Hurt me, baby.”
I playfully slapped his chest with the back of my hand. I grabbed a towel and laid it across the sink. “Don’t want to be responsible for plugging any more drains.”
Then I bent over the towel while he plugged in the clippers. He gently placed them against the back of my neck and moved the clippers forward. They were cold and tickled my scalp, buzzing across my sensitive skin. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to be done.
“Good riddance to this white hair with the pink and purple. It’s god-awful My Little Pony hair. I’ve never been so glad to see hair go!”
I swallowed my laugh. “It’s platinum blond, you dolt.”
“Dolt! Ah, you can do better than that. Come on, hit me hard.”
The clippers slipped against the back of my ear, tickling me. I started laughing. “Bastard. Fucktard. Asshole.”
“I’m shaving all your hair off. You’re going to be the chick version of Humpty Dumpty.”
“Fuck you, prick,” I ground out between gritted teeth.
“Damn, the reflection of this light off your head is blinding me. Can’t see a thing.”
He purposely set the clippers against the sensitive back of my neck and I shrieked, laughing. “Pencil dick.”
“Are you married to Mr. Clean?”
“You better run when you’re done with this shit, ’cause if I catch you, I’m so kicking your ass.”
“Sounds exciting,” he said, clicking off the clippers. “Done.”
I didn’t move for a stretch of minutes, taking a long breath.
“You ready? You need me to psych you up?”
“Shut your hole, asshat,” I said, then cleared my throat and straightened, looking at myself in the mirror.
Yeah, I was speechless. I looked like Dr. Evil from
Austin Powers
. My eyes flew to Adam, who was watching me very closely, probably expecting another meltdown.
So I took my pinky finger, raised it to my lip and said, “I shall call him, ‘mini-me,’” in as best an imitation of Mike Myers’ portrayal as I could manage.
Adam’s handsome face broke into a smile. His stance relaxed, as if he was relieved.
I raised my hand to my naked scalp. “Shit, this feels so weird.”
He held up the clippers. “Wanna do me now?”
“Don’t even fucking think about it. How would the horny little interns fantasize about running their fingers through your hair if you were as bald as me?”
And what would I fantasize about?
I mentally added.
He rolled his eyes in response. I ran my hand over my head again. “Feel this shit. It’s weird as hell.”
He set down the clippers and obediently ran a hand over my head. He shot me a seductive look in the mirror. One that, in other circumstances, might have made my panties hit the floor fairly quickly. “Shit. I’m getting so turned on right now.”
I elbowed him lightly in his hard stomach and he gasped as if I’d slammed him with a two by four.
“You are the hottest bald woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Fuck you.”
He threw his hands up. “What? I’m serious. Ilia from the very first
Star Trek
movie? Did you see that? The one from the seventies?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “A long, long time ago.”
“Yeah, she was this Deltan chick. So hot that sex with her killed any human dude who tried to screw her. Still not as hot as you.”
I turned around and faced him, folding my arms across my chest. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Am not. You see
V for Vendetta
? The bald chick in that one—Natalie Portman. She was hot. Very hot. But again… not as hot as you.”
I bent my head now, trying to hide the fact that I was laughing. “You know of any other bald women?”
“Demi Moore in
G.I. Jane
. Not even close to your level of hotness.”
“Did you do an Internet search to look this up or something?”
He gave me a funny look. “I watch a lot of movies.”
I turned back to the mirror and ran a hand over my scalp. He came up behind me and put a hand on my head again. He bent toward me as if he might kiss me. My heartbeat raced and I tilted my head back slightly in anticipation. Would he kiss me? Did he want me?
But before he connected, I watched him stiffen and draw back almost as quickly. We locked gazes in the mirror and I swallowed.
“Ripley,” he said.
“What?”
“Ripley from
Alien
. You know… Sigourney Weaver.”
I frowned at him. “She had hair.”
“Not in the third one. She was bald—bald as you.”
“You actually saw the third movie? I heard it sucked so much ass it could be a black hole.”
“You are still hotter than bald Ripley from the ass-sucking
Alien
movie.” He shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of bad movies, too.”
I looked at myself again. “At least I still have my eyebrows and eyelashes… for now.”
Adam shrugged. “You could possibly still keep those.”
I glanced at him and shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s not like I’m out to impress anyone.” Except him.
“Are you going to get a wig?”
The thought of putting a heavy wig on my head was not appealing to me in the least. It would make my head sweaty and hot and I just didn’t see the point. “I think I’ll just wear a hoodie every day.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “Not a bad idea. I think I have a knit cap or two. Something to wear when it’s not eighty degrees out.”
“Can’t stand the thought of a wig.”
“You could wear bandanas. But be careful what color you wear in whatever part of OC you’re in.”
I flashed him a phony gang hand sign. “Yeah, because there are so many gangs in Newport Beach.”
He grinned at me and it made my heart flutter more than a little bit. He looked so much like the guy I’d fallen in love with. That brilliant, sexy man with the little boy’s impish grin.
“I think this night calls for some ice cream and
Farscape
.”