The Haircut
Josh Yoon
The small bell rang as I opened the glass door to the hairdresser’s shop. She greeted me with a smile. It wasn’t much, but I forced a squint and a slight grin to return the favor. She sat me down on the leather chair and reached for the cape. “So, what hairstyle would you like today, miss?” she asked. I looked in the mirror at my light brown hair that reached down to my lower chest, took a deep breath and said, “I would like it shaved, please.”
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When I first heard the words that came out of his mouth, my body went numb. The hopeful eye contact I had with the man that held my fate broke as my vision went right down to the blue pen clipped on the pocket of his white coat. “I’m so, so sorry. We’re looking at about three to six months,” he said. I sat there on the hospital bed wishing that my mom was there to hear it from his mouth, and wouldn’t have to hear it from mine. However, she was too busy scanning snacks and drinks at at the convenience store, her second job. I’m pretty sure the doctor went on about how I can start getting treatment to try to extend the months to at least a year, but I didn’t want to think about the price.
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“How much would that be?” I asked.
“It’s going to be forty-five dollars,” the hairdresser replied. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“I’m sure,” I uttered. She then flicked the switch of the clippers, which buzzed louder as it came closer to my left ear. I closed my eyes and anticipated a sting, wishing the pain would instantly make me change my mind about letting go of what I had left of my beauty.
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I sat in my bedroom and listened to the hands of the wooden clock tick over and over, though time seemed to stay still. For the first time, I wasn’t thinking about what I wanted to eat for dinner, or what homework I had left to finish by the end of the week. It’s funny how old I became just by hearing the doctor’s two words: “It’s terminal.
The front door rattled as my mother struggled to slide the key into the hole.
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The metal finally touched the side of my face and began to shave off the hair that covered the missing spots which had formed. The emotional pain that I feared slowly started to fade as the weight of my head became lighter. The cool breeze grazed the newly shaved side, which felt…different. I was afraid to open my eyes, but my curiosity couldn’t sit still for much longer. I had to take a quick peek.
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It was around 8:40 PM when my mother entered the living room with the usual tired look on her face. I know she was trying to pretend like she was fine, but the bags under her eyes have never lied once. “So, what’d the doctor say?” my mother asked me with a smile. “Hopefully nothing too bad.”
Suddenly, my throat became dry. Her loving words almost tore my heart completely in half. The mixed emotions that I had suppressed until that moment filled my eyes and formed a stream down my cheeks. “What’s wrong, sweetie? What did they say?” she pleaded. I couldn’t bear to see my mother’s reaction, so I turned my face to the high school graduation pictures we took last year, posted on our refrigerator. All smiles.
Though I tried to find the words to explain what I was going through, all that escaped my mouth was one shaky sentence. “Mom, I think…I think I’m dying.”
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I finally opened my eyes to see the new person inside the mirror looking straight back at me. The hairdresser was circling my chair, searching for any inconsistencies. She couldn’t help but notice me staring at the new hairdo. “What do you think?” she asked. I didn’t know what to think. The edges of my mouth moved slightly upwards. I took a good look below at all of the hair on the white tiles, looked back up, and said, “I love it.”