First I clip big chunks of hair and watch it pile in the sink and flutter around me. I don’t cut my hair real short, instead leaving it to hang around my face to hide the shaved patch on my skull and so that I can still pull it back with a hair-tie when I work.
Then I clip my beard as close to my jaw as I dare, and finally abandon the scissors in favor of the razor.
Okay. Let’s do this, baby.
Wait, should I hold out until she comes back home?
Nah. It’s now or never. Let’s just hope I won’t cut myself by mistake and bleed to death all over my fucking sink.
Oh, that reminds me: shaving cream. That could help avoid the bloodbath. So I spray a blob of foam into my palm and start to shave.
Haven’t shaved off my beard since high school.
I am nuts.
But as I shave the last of it off, I feel better. Different. Kinda of going back into time, when I could still change who I was, change my path, change the future.
Kinda symbolic, I guess.
I put down the razor, wipe my face with a towel, and stare.
Holy shit, I look weird without a beard. Is this really me?
Is this good or bad? Will she hate it? Will she like it?
Holy fuck, what was I thinking?
Jesus. My head throbs. What little energy I had is spent. Might as well get back into bed and nap. Feels like it’s all I’m doing these days.
But before I pass out again, there’s a couple of things I need to do… and that’s when I see her phone, forgotten on the coffee table, and decide to include it in my plan.
When I come back to life a while later feeling like a fucking vampire, squinting against the light, she’s inside the apartment.
It’s late afternoon, so I must have been out for a few hours, but I can hear her moving about, and I smile despite the pain in my temples.
She’s back.
I hear also the sound she makes when she discovers what I have inside the fridge, and then another gasp when she sees the flowers on the window sill of the kitchen.
Pushing myself to sit upright, I smooth down as best as I can my wrinkled shirt and formal pants, the only pair I own. Then I shove my socked feet into my best pair of shoes and rake my hand through my much shorter hair.
Christ, again I feel like a teenager. Will this ever change with her?
The handle of the bedroom door turns slowly, and she pokes her head inside. “Kaden?” she whispers, her eyes widening when she finds me awake and struggling to stand up. “Let me help you.”
I grunt, but accept her help, swallowing my manly pride. I don’t wanna spoil the evening by cracking my head open again. Truth is, I’m not that dizzy anymore, but it’s as if my sense of depth is still off.
“Why are you dressed up?” Her eyes are round as saucers as she takes a step back and stares at me. “And why…oh my God. Your beard.”
I’d forgotten about it. I scratch at my bare chin and frown. “Yeah. It had to go.”
She reaches up, going on tip toe, one hand braced on my chest and the other exploring my face. I suck in a sharp breath, the featherlight touch of her fingertips on my jaw and over my mouth shooting electric bolts of want right to my dick.
“God, I can’t believe it.” Her voice is hushed, her eyes darkening more.
“What?”
“You have a chin dimple.”