Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
We drove through the quiet streets of Maplewood, passing the library where I worked and the high school where Mason taught.
By noon, we were back at our own apartment, packing the last of our bags into the trunk of our small sedan.
I went into our bedroom to grab my heavy knit sweater from the closet.
As I passed the dresser, I caught sight of myself in the long mirror hanging on the back of the door.
My long brown hair was gone, replaced by a smooth, clean scalp that showed the shape of my head.
I reached up and rubbed my hand over the short, soft stubble, feeling the warmth of my skin.
I did not feel the anxiety that had kept me awake for the past four weeks.
Mason came into the room and stood behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders.
He looked at our reflection in the glass, his own bald head pressed close to mine.
“You look beautiful, Clara,” he said.
“Well, I think we make a very coordinated couple,” I said, turning to face him.
