Chapter 2 - What the Scissors Could Not Cut
"Are we doing this?" Théo asked.
Wren stared at her reflection. The mirror offered only pieces: a mouth, a dirty shoulder, a pale strip of forehead. She'd spent so long looking at her feet that seeing even that much of herself made her stomach roll.
"I want a towel over the mirror."
The junior colorist began to protest. Théo took a towel from the cabinet and draped it over the glass.
"And no crowd," Wren said.
Three stylists immediately found tasks on the other side of the salon. One continued staring until Théo told her to take her break.
"I'm Jo," said the woman assigned to help him, a compact stylist with gray at her temples and sensible shoes. "I'll explain before I do anything. If you say stop, I stop. If I forget, you can kick me. I'd rather you didn't, but I'll have earned it."
Wren studied her for a moment. "You're not very funny."
"My daughter says that too."
A breath escaped Wren. It surprised her enough that she caught it between her teeth.
Théo laid out scissors, clippers, and a small set of electric shears. He explained that removing the weight would take time and might reveal skin problems that needed medical care. Cutting the mat wouldn't solve everything. Neither would expensive shampoo. Wren's eyes traveled to the tools.
"Does it hurt?"
"It can pull," he answered. "I won't lie to you. We'll go slowly."
Adrian shifted against the doorway. Wren noticed his hand pressing his injured side.
"You're supposed to sit down," she said.
"I'm fine."
"You were making a noise when you breathed in the car."
Marco stared at her as if she'd spoken to a wild animal in its own language. Adrian gave the slightest smile and found a chair.
Jo wrapped a clean cape around Wren's shoulders, leaving space at the neck. The touch of the cloth made her flinch. Jo drew back without comment.
"Try again," Wren said.
The first cut wasn't dramatic. Nothing fell. The thick rope had to be supported by two pairs of gloved hands while Théo worked at a narrow place near her nape. Wren heard a rough metal sound, felt a lightness that didn't seem possible, and began breathing too fast.
"Stop."
Everything stopped.
"I can't feel the back of my head," she whispered.
Jo turned the clipper off. "That's because we've taken some weight, honey. You're still here."
"Don't call me honey."
"Okay."
A minute passed. Wren moved her fingers down the damp cape, over and over, as though counting the seams could keep her in the chair.
"Again," she said.
When the last narrow connection gave way, Théo took the weight into his arms. He didn't hold it up for anyone to admire or photograph. He set it gently in a covered laundry bin. Wren's shoulders jerked upward from the sudden relief. Her neck muscles didn't know what to do without the familiar pull.
She lifted both hands, touched the short rough hair against her scalp, and made a sound Jo would remember for months. It wasn't happiness. It wasn't grief. It was a small, embarrassed noise, like someone trying not to cry in a public restroom.
"Can I have it back?" Wren asked.
Théo hesitated. "You want the hair?"
"Just for a minute."
Adrian almost said no. It had carried filth and damp against her skin for years; it had hurt her. But he'd promised himself at the door that this would be her decision.
Jo brought the covered bin closer and peeled back the sheet. Wren regarded the tangled length for a long time. Then she reached out, not to lift it, but to pick from its surface a tiny brass bell threaded onto a black cord.
"There," she said.
Jo passed it to her. The bell was green with tarnish and had no clapper. Wren closed her fist around it.
"Where did that come from?" Adrian asked.
"I found it on a Christmas tree outside a church. They were throwing the tree away." She rolled it against her palm. "I liked how it didn't make noise."
He swallowed the question he wanted to ask. How many Christmases? In what part of the city? Instead he said, "You can keep it."
"It was mine before you paid ninety thousand dollars."
The correction landed harder than he expected. "Yes," he said. "It was."
Once the weight was gone, Théo carefully worked through what remained, stopping whenever he found a tender patch. Underneath the mats were areas of inflamed skin and small sores. He stopped the styling altogether and called the doctor Adrian's people had arranged. Wren needed a medical examination, not another round of products.
She caught sight of herself when Jo lowered the towel to check the outline of the cut. Wren recoiled. Her head looked too small. Her ears stuck out. Without the hair, a faint crescent scar above her left temple was visible.
"Put it back," she said.
Jo replaced the towel.
The salon's receptionist appeared at the door, pale and apologetic. "Mr. Kane? One of the clients from this morning posted a picture from outside. It's being shared."
Adrian stood, wincing. "A picture of what?"
"The woman coming in. With the hair. Somebody wrote that you bought a person."
Marco reached for his phone. Adrian raised a hand to stop him. Wren hadn't turned, but both of her hands were wrapped tight around the brass bell.
"Who can see it?" she asked.
The receptionist looked at Adrian for permission to answer. Wren noticed.
"I asked you," Wren said.
"Anyone," the receptionist admitted. "It's a public account."
Wren rose too quickly. A wave of dizziness bent her sideways, and Jo caught only the chair, not the woman. Wren staggered toward the door, keeping one arm over her shortened hair.
"You said nobody could find me if I came here," she told Adrian.
"I never said that."
"You said it was safe."
He looked from her trembling hands to Marco's phone. "I said you could leave."
"That isn't the same thing."
She walked past him. Marco stepped automatically to block the doorway, then saw her face and moved away. She kept going, bare heels slipping inside the borrowed salon slippers.
At the glass entrance she stopped. Beyond it, two people had paused to stare at their phones and then at her. One raised a camera.
May you like
Wren turned back toward Adrian, her expression stripped of accusation and suddenly much worse.
"They're already looking," she said. "And now they know what I look like."
