I showered and changed and headed out on my own for a while, toting my camera. I intended to make my way over to the Trevi
Fountain today to shoot there, but instead, I found myself thinking about
Roman Holiday
. Clearly, it was fiction and thus a silly thing to be taking into consideration. But there was something about Princess Ann’s
courage in changing her entire life, if only for a day, that inspired me. How was it that at nearly thirty-five, I’d never
done that? Not even for a moment? Sure, it had been somewhat brave to come to Rome—both when I was twenty-one and now—but
both times, I knew the arrangement was temporary and wouldn’t really change my life in any major way. Didn’t that mean I was
hardly taking a risk at all?
I was thinking about that when I spotted a barbershop up ahead on the left, just down the block. I stopped in my tracks and
stared, thinking of the scene early in the movie where Princess Ann gets her hair chopped off, an act that sort of symbolized
a definitive break with her past and with the guarded person she had been all her life.
I reached up and touched my own brown hair, which fell a few inches below my shoulders in the same haircut I’d had since high
school. It was one of those cuts that didn’t really change with the times, just a simple, long-haired style. I’d gotten the
ends trimmed, like clockwork, every eight weeks for as long as I could remember. But my hair had almost become a safety blanket,
something I identified myself by. Maybe by changing that I could begin to change everything else, too.
In that moment, I knew it was something I had to do.
I took a deep breath, and before I could second-guess myself, I darted across the street and pulled open the door of the barbershop.
Inside, it looked much like the shop where Princess Ann had gotten her locks chopped off. It wasn’t a beauty salon by any
stretch of the imagination; it was a pared-down, stark place with four gleaming chairs, two sinks, and three barbers standing
around in white smocks. There weren’t any customers there.
All three men stared at me as I walked in. One said something in Italian, and I shook my head. “
Non parlo italiano
,” I said.
“Parla inglese?”
Two of the barbers shook their heads, but the third, the youngest of the trio, nodded. “I do,” he said. “A little. I understand
a little.”
“Good.” I sighed in relief. “I would like a haircut, please.”
He nodded. “I understand,” he said. He gestured for one of the chairs. I sat, and he picked up a small handful of my hair.
“A little bit?” he asked, pinching a lock of my hair between his thumb and forefinger, a half inch or so from the bottom.
I took a deep breath and channeled Princess Ann. “No, higher.”
He raised his eyebrows and went up an inch.
“More,” I said.
He glanced at me skeptically in the mirror. I smiled back. We could be here all day if we played this game. “I’d like it cut
into a bob, please,” I said.
He looked confused.
“Non capisco.”
I lifted my right hand and made a line just below my right ear. “Here,” I said. “I want it to here.”
“Sì?”
he asked, looking uncertain. He said something in rapid Italian, and I told him I didn’t understand. He collected his thoughts
and put his hand where mine had been, showing me the length he thought I wanted.
“Qui?”
he asked skeptically.
“
Sì
,” I said. “
Qui.
Here.”
He shook his head and said in English, “Okay. I will cut.”
He didn’t look too sure about it. He walked slowly around me once, examining my hair. He wound up in front of me and held
a hand in front of his forehead. “The front, too?” he asked, mimicking bangs.
I hesitated and nodded. “
Sì
,” I said. “With bangs.”
“
Come desiderate
,” he said. He circled me once more and then leaned in with his scissors. As he began cutting, I watched one huge chunk of
my hair fall to the ground. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t watch.
“
Ecco fatto
,” he said several minutes later. “I am finished.”
I cracked open my eyes and looked into the mirror. My jaw dropped as I saw my reflection.
Gone were my long, plain, stick-straight strands. In their place, a lively, layered bob glistened, with long bangs framing
my face.
“You like, signorina?” the barber asked nervously.
I reached up in wonderment and touched my hair. I couldn’t stop staring.
“Signorina?” he prompted, looking worried.
“I love it,” I said. “I love it.”
The barber sighed in relief and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “
È bello
,” he said. “It is beautiful.”
He beamed at me. Smiling, I paid him and sauntered out, feeling the breeze on the back of my neck for the first time as I
stepped into the fresh air. Part of me had expected to regret the cut as soon as I emerged back into reality. But as I walked
down the street, glancing at my image in shopwindows, I felt only relief, as though the hair on my head finally reflected
who I was meant to be.
Two nights later, I still hadn’t heard from Marco. He should have been back from Venice by that point, and I figured he was
probably busy. But still, I found myself feeling vaguely uneasy, wondering if he’d changed his mind about me just as I began
to let myself feel something for him. When Karina sent Nico up at just past six to ask if I wanted to join her for a drink
that evening, I jumped at the chance as a way to distract myself from waiting pathetically by the phone.
A few hours later, after I’d taken a brief nap and changed into a pair of black J Brand jeans and a dark gray tank top, with
a pile of faux pearls and black peep-toe heels, Karina appeared at my door.
“Wow,” she said, looking me up and down and then staring at my hair. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling self-consciously.
“You cut your hair.”
I nodded. “It was time for a change.”
Karina looked at me for a long moment and then smiled slowly. She knew I was talking about more than just my hair. “I am proud
of you, bella,” she said.
Together, we set off down the street, with our heels
click-clack
ing on the cobblestones. Karina was dressed up, too, in a low-cut little black dress. “There is a man named Raffaele who said
he would be here tonight,” she mumbled without meeting my eyes. “He is a waiter at another restaurant nearby.”
“Ah,” I said, smiling at her. “Is this someone you’re interested in?”
“No!” she snapped immediately. But her red face gave her away. “Maybe,” she amended. “It is foolish, perhaps. But he seems
very kind. And he is always so nice to Nico.” She shrugged. “There is a celebration tonight with all of the other waiters
from his restaurant. Some party for something or another; he didn’t explain. Raffaele invited me to join them.”
“Well, that sounds good,” I said. I glanced at her as we hurried down the street and was amused to see that her cheeks still
looked a little flushed. The seemingly unflappable Karina was nervous.
The bar was just off the Piazza della Rotonda, the plaza in front of the Pantheon. In fact, I was surprised I hadn’t noticed
it before. But the entrance was nondescript and tucked into the first doorway of an alleyway near the restaurant where I’d
eaten with Marco. “This bar is always fun,” Karina said as we walked in. “A lot of the people who work at the restaurants
come here.”
Inside, it was dark and already packed with people. Off to the right was a long wooden bar with three bartenders rushing around
behind it. To the left, tucked into a little alcove, was a three-piece band with a guitar player belting out lyrics in English,
which, unlike at the last bar I’d gone to with Karina, actually sounded pretty accurate.
“Come on,” Karina said, grabbing my hand. “There’s Raffaele.”
She took my hand and led me across the room to a cluster of five athletic-looking men who were all around six feet tall. The
man in the center of the group, a dark-haired guy with chiseled features who reminded me of one of the many statues I’d seen
around the city, grinned from ear to ear the moment he spotted us.
“Karina!” he exclaimed as we drew closer.
“Siete venute!”
Karina squeezed my hand once more, glanced at me with a small smile on her face, and stepped forward to kiss the man on both
cheeks.
“
Buona sera
, Raffaele,” she said. She turned and gestured at me.
“Ecco la mia amica, Cat. È una americana.”
“Ciao, Cat!” Raffaele said pleasantly. He reached out to kiss me politely on both cheeks, then rattled off a few sentences
in rapid Italian. I shrugged and looked helplessly at Karina.
Karina smiled. “
Non parla l’italiano
,” she said, nodding to me.
“Ah,” Raffaele said. He thought for a moment. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said formally, in slow, decisive, heavily
accented English. “I am learning the English now. It is good with the restaurant.”
“Your English is very good,” I said, smiling at him.
“
Grazie
,” he said. “Thank you.”
He and Karina introduced me around to the other waiters, all of whom grinned at me and tried to say something in English.
Karina made an effort to include me in the conversation, but it was clear to me that I was holding her back. She was giggling
at Raffaele’s jokes and then making an attempt to translate them for me. I knew she didn’t mind. But I knew I had to be a
good friend, too, and make myself scarce for at least a little while.
I told Karina I was going to get a drink, and after she worriedly asked if I was okay and I assured her that I was, I made
my way through the crowded room over to the bar. I ordered a Stella and turned to survey the room. Karina was already in her
own little world with Raffaele. She had her head leaned in, listening to something he was saying, and he had his arm wrapped
gently around her waist, pulling her close as he spoke into her ear above the din of the bar. Her face was flushed, and she
was smiling. She looked happy.
I sipped my beer and gazed around the room for a while. The band was playing the Beatles’ “Something,” which had always been
one of my favorite songs. I smiled and followed along with the words until the tune ended. Then I grabbed my beer and set
off to find the bathroom.
After waiting in a seemingly interminable line to use the women’s stall, I made my way back to Karina’s group. As I approached
from the back, I saw that two new people had joined their group, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick shock of dark hair,
and a small, balding, older man with stooped shoulders.
Karina, who was still tucked under Raffaele’s arm, spotted me and waved as I walked toward them. She had just opened her mouth
to say something to me when the two newcomers turned around to see who was coming. My eyes locked with those of the younger
man, and my jaw dropped. I stopped in my tracks, still a few feet away from the group.
“Cat?” the man asked, looking just as incredulous as I felt.
It took me a few seconds to catch my breath. “Michael?” I said.
Karina grinned at me. “Isn’t this a wonderful surprise, Cat?” she asked. “I had no idea he was going to be in Roma!”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I continued to stare at Michael Evangelisti. “What are you doing here?” I finally mustered.
“This is my uncle Armando,” he said, nodding to the older man beside him. The man nodded at me and smiled. “He owns a restaurant
right near here. Didn’t I tell you that? These guys are his waiters. Two of them,” he nodded to the two men closest to him,
“are my cousins, Gianni and Lorenzo.”
Karina was looking at me strangely. “I should have remembered to tell you that Raffaele works at Michael’s uncle’s restaurant.
I didn’t even think of it.” She paused. “Are you all right?”
“No,” I whispered, still staring at Michael.
“Cat, what are you doing here?” Michael repeated.
“ I—I live right near here,” I stammered uncertainly.
“She lives in my spare apartment,” Karina clarified. She still looked mystified. “Didn’t you give her my number, Michael?”
He nodded slowly. “I didn’t realize she had come to stay with you, though.” He paused and looked me straight in the eye. “She
hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
This rubbed me entirely the wrong way. “I wasn’t aware we had anything to talk about,” I said stiffly, my annoyance at him
returning now that the initial shock of seeing him had begun to wear off. He looked disturbingly handsome in a dark button-down
shirt and dark jeans. His eyes looked brighter than I remembered them, which just made it harder to look away.
I glanced at Michael and then back at Karina. I hated that there was suddenly an ache in my chest.
“Cat, we really need to talk,” Michael said quickly. He took a step toward me, but I backed away.
I ignored him. “So, you didn’t bring your wife and kid on this trip?” I asked. “No mother-in-law?”
Karina looked startled. Her eyes darted to Michael and then back to me. For a moment, I hoped that she’d laugh and tell me
I had somehow misunderstood everything. But instead, she didn’t say anything. She just glanced at Michael for a long time
and then looked away. Michael stared at me and slowly shook his head.
“How sad to have to leave them behind,” I said coldly.
“Cat,” Michael said again. He reached forward to touch my arm, but I shook him off.
“Karina, I’m not feeling very well,” I said. “I’m going to go home, I think.”
Karina looked nervously back and forth between Michael and me. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you let your friend Michael explain?” I said. I hated that the ache inside me was growing worse. I shouldn’t be
aching for a man like him. I hated that, with as much control as I was able to exert over most of my life, I couldn’t quite
seem to master the art of telling my heart to stop wanting something it simply couldn’t have. And I hated that, apparently,
this was the universe’s idea of a funny joke, to drop the married man I’d had the most perfect evening of my life with into
my path, halfway across the globe.