Half Sick of Shadows » Band of Brothers [2]

38: Whatever Our Souls are Made Of

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same..." - Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

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When I wake up the next day I'm more than a little bit surprised that I don't have the searing headache that usually accompanies my hangovers. A very vague, very blurry memory tells me that this is because of the buckets of water Gene made me drink last night, which makes me laugh a little bit, because how, when he was drinking too, was he still taking care of other people? It baffles me but I'm endlessly grateful for it now.

Still, even Gene couldn't save me from the fate of throwing up seemingly everything I've ever eaten. A bottle and a half of champagne mixed with whatever everyone else was giving me will do that to a person, but I can't find it in me to be too overly disgruntled; I think I needed last night.

After I've cleaned my teeth and relined my stomach, I hop in the shower and stay there for what is probably close to half an hour. Letting the water wash away any of the remnants of a hangover, I lather up my hair generously and that's when I decide exactly what I want to do today.

I brush through my wet hair and make quick work of dressing before setting off to find someone with a very special skill set I'm currently coveting.

I find Joe Liebgott looking half-dead, just having woken up from a coma-like sleep, but he humours me anyway.

Joe leads me into the bathroom of the house he's been billeted in and bustles around for a little while until he finds what he's looking for. When he does, he lets out a quiet 'Aha!' before coming to stand behind me where we've dragged a chair in to face the mirror. "So, how short are we thinking?" he asks. He's staring me in the eyes curiously through the reflection.

"Maybe to the shoulders?" I think aloud. My voice sounds uncertain now that it's coming down to it. "Or just below? What do you think? You're the expert."

Joe laughs a little bit to himself and rolls his eyes. He runs a comb through my still-wet hair to brush out the knots and considers it for a few moments. Then he brushes through it again and leaves the comb about a centimetre below my shoulders. "How about there?"

I stare back at my reflection for a few moments, trying to imagine myself with hair that length, before I give up and decide that my imagination has failed me. I suck in a deep breath and exhale it with my words, "Yeah, okay. Go for it."

"Are you sure?" Joe asks, watching me closely. "I can cut a little bit off first and then you can decide whether you wanna keep going," he offers.

I meet his eyes in the reflection and shake my head, more certain now. "I'm sure. The guards used to drag me to the interrogation room by my hair. I want it gone."

Something in his eyes hardens and he nods once. He spares me one last careful look in the mirror before lining up the scissors and making one big snip. He bends down to pick up the hair he's just cut off and then holds it up so I can see it in the mirror, grinning. "That's a whole lotta hair you're losing."

I laugh. "Good riddance."

Joe laughs too and shakes his head slightly before continuing to cut my hair. I shut my eyes for most of it and concentrate on keeping still. I don't want to see it until he's done, and God forbid I lose my nerve halfway through and make him stop.

He takes around forty-five minutes in total but I don't mind so much. He uses the comb frequently to make sure everything's straight and I trust that, with the amount of care and time he's taken, he's done a good job. He brushes through my hair one final time and then I hear him put his comb and scissors down. His hands come to rest on my shoulders as he says, "You're all finished."