Chapter 6: A Very Beautiful Thumb

My hair started coming out on the twelfth day.

I was in the shower, and it came away in my hand in a soft, dark rope.

I stood there holding it with the water running over my wrists.

Then I got dressed, wrapped it in a paper towel, and carried it downstairs.

Gael was in the back room of the shop, sorting wedding programs into boxes.

He looked at the paper towel, and then at my face, and put down the box.

"Okay," he said.

"It's everywhere," I said. "It's in my sink. It's on my pillow. I woke up and there was a little me on my pillow."

"Okay."

"I don't want to wait for it to finish. I want to do it myself, and I want it to be over."

"Sit down," Gael said.

He pulled a stool into the middle of the room, under the work light, and set the paper towel on a shelf.

Then he went to the drawer where he kept the tape and the spare blades, and came back with a pair of electric clippers.

"Do you have those for the shop?" I asked.

"For my own head. Every third week."

"Have you ever done anyone else's?"

"A dog," he said. "Once. It went fine."

"Gael."

"It's an excellent dog. He's still alive."

I laughed so hard I had to hold onto the edge of the table.

He draped a clean shop apron around my shoulders, and fastened it at the back of my neck.

His hands were careful, and a little cold.

"Last chance," he said. "I can take you to a real barber. Or I can stop and we can both go upstairs and watch a movie."

"Do it."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure, Gael. Hurry up, before I cry."

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