The Hateful Heavy Heart | 18+

31 - Fresh Air

To my dismay, my boyfriend was a busy man. I hadn't realized how much time he'd carved out for me in his schedule before. Sometimes, he didn't come home until late, his hands dirtied and his uniform muddied with dark grease. Some evenings, I stayed up waiting for him after making dinner, even until my plate got cold and I had to eat lukewarm food. I knew that he was working hard, especially considering I hadn't been at the nursing home lately.

I hoped he wasn't working so many hours to distance himself from me, though I couldn't help but feel that way. I'd been sorrowful since Cleo's death and I'd been even more reserved since our conversation with the executor. I was fragile, and I feared that any push too hard would break me.

I tried to have a different day than usual yesterday. I was tired of spending hours in bed, my mind stuck on an endless loop of Cleo. I was determined to do something other than waste away while Ruggiero put in long hours of labor. So, I spent the day pampering myself; prior to her death, it was something I did every now and then to reset my mind. I was long overdue for a reset.

I went to the spa and to the nail salon, allowing myself a massage, a mani-pedi, and some much-needed waxing. While Ruggiero did a good job at soothing my skin with his strong hands, I needed a personal, professional experience meant just for me. It had been a while since I'd treated myself like so, and after all the tears that I cried, I wanted to be happy about something for once.

So, today, kept up the trend by treating myself to one more place: the hair salon. It had been a painfully long time since I'd been. I loved the feeling of Ruggiero combing his fingers through and tugging on my hair, but I couldn't shake the memories of Cleo brushing or curling my hair with care. I needed something fresh, something new.

By this point, my honey-colored waves had reached the middle of my back. Too tired to deal with it, I'd been throwing it in a ponytail for days. I knew it was awful for my hair, but compared to everything else I'd been dealing with, it was low on my list. But I was tired of looking so ... ugly. It was true that I was torn, but I couldn't give up on myself. I wanted to take care of myself. I deserved it.

Lord knew I could use it.

I sat in a black styling chair, the cape secured around my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror as Monica, my stylist for the day, stepped on the pedal at the bottom of the chair, raising it so that my head was just a few inches below her eyes. Despite a sixty-minute deep tissue massage and a foot scrub, my body was adorned by my fatigue. Nia, a lovely nail tech and esthetician, cleaned up my brows, but there was little she could do about my eyes. My blue eyes looked so lifeless, so hollow and pained. The bags under my eyes did a terrific job of complementing my unruly hair.

"What ya wanting to do with this, hon?" she asked, setting her hands on the back of the chair. "I'll tell you right now it's gonna need a trim."

I nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it's been giving me some trouble. I've been down on my luck lately and, unfortunately, I neglected my hair."

"Don't fret. I get it." I wasn't so sure if that was true. Monica had long, auburn curls, bouncy and full of body, that looked like she'd just left a photo shoot. "So, you're good with a trim?"

"I guess," I answered with a shrug. "But I don't think that will suffice. What I really want to do is chop it off, probably about a good five or six inches."

"You want all of this beautiful hair gone?"

"I believe I do. I just want something completely brand new. Like, I want to look in the mirror and say, damn, who is that?" I explained.

"You don't already do that?" she followed up. "Have you seen yourself? Excuse my language, but you're fuckin' gorgeous."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks, Monica. So, I'm saying, let's commit to cutting five inches off. I'm also wanting to get rid of this blond."