Chapter 14 - I Cut the Rest of My Hair Myself
For the first two months, I wore hats.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because growing out half-shaved hair looks ridiculous before it looks intentional.
Dominic suggested the best stylist in Chicago.
I said no.
He suggested New York.
“No.”
Paris.
“Dominic.”
He stopped.
One Sunday morning, I stood in our bathroom holding clippers.
He appeared in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
He looked worried.
That irritated me.
“Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“The face where you think I am about to have a trauma response because I am holding the same kind of object Preston used.”
Dominic leaned against the frame.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then continue.”
I looked at him in the mirror.
“You are learning.”
“Slowly.”
I shaved the remaining length down into a short crop.
Not to reclaim clippers.
Not every action needed a therapeutic thesis.
I was tired of waiting for both sides to match.
When I finished, Dominic looked at me.
“Well?”
“You look beautiful.”
I pointed the clippers at him.
“Wrong answer.”
He reconsidered.
“You look like yourself.”
“Better.”
That evening we walked to dinner.
No driver.
No security following five feet behind.
Dominic checked behind us twice.
I pretended not to notice.
Marriage had changed after Monarch.
Not damaged exactly.
Clarified.
He still wanted to protect me.
I still wanted him beside me.
But beside meant beside.
Not in front.
Not above.
Not making the calls before I understood the problem.
May you like
That boundary required maintenance.
Love did not make it automatic.
