Page 11 of Forgotten
“Are you okay?” Panic colours his voice.
I release his shirt and he steps back blinking rapidly. For a second, I wonder if he will leave the room. “Do you want me to shave you?” Ashley babbles out instead.
“Shave me?” I whisper and the hair on the back of my neck stands up at the intensity of his gaze.
Ash licks his lips, “Yes.”
I contemplate the offer, somewhat disoriented and thrown off balance both physically and mentally. I thinkof the man I saw in the bathroom mirror earlier this morning: the thick hair longer on one side, the precious curls matted and the thick scruff on my jaw that I would have never let so out of control.
That man is not me.
My heart is keeping a wild rhythm in my chest and I force myself to exhale longer. How do I get myself out of the man I saw in that reflection? Where is that man? A glance in Ash’s direction makes my mind up. I feel myself relaxing. If there is someone who can bring Ashford back, it must be the person who made me who I’m in the first place. It has to be Ashley. It has to be my best friend.
“Yeah, shaving sounds good,” I agree eventually.
???
Ash asks for help, of course. Because Ash is good at many things, but hair management has never been his cup of tea. His hair has been kept at shoulder length since university. What started as a rebellion slowly turning into a lifestyle. Most days his hair is in a low ponytail or a messy man-bun that compliments his high cheekbones and elongated face shape. As for facial hair, Ash has always preferred a clean shave that shows off his strong jawline and has never aged him down.
There was only one brief exception: a short two weeks where Ash had experimented with a moustache. That had not lasted long. Ash was still living in Birmingham and had video called me one night beforegoing out. “What do you think?” he had asked, pursing his upper lip at the camera.
“No.”
“Come on, Ford, hear me out.” Ash relaxed his face and the moustache had felt even weirder.
“I’m hearing, man.” Although I definitely was not ready to support this in any way.
“Is it giving sexy seventies or creep twink?”
My look must have said everything, because when he called me a week later the moustache was gone and never mentioned again.
So Ash gets his little brother Erik (who by now must be the tallest man in England) and Morgan, his friend from university who, over the years, has shown me enough styled wigs to be trusted with both real and fake hair. They show up with razors and hair cutting scissors and a spray bottle with a dense liquid I know not to question.
They look extremely professional and when Erik greets me with a shocked, “Christ, dude,” I know it really must be bad.
I crack a joke anyway, “Did I wake up at the barber shop?”
They sit me up and each pick a side: Ash the left cheek, Erik the right one and Morgan behind me. Following Erik’s cue, Ash draws precise lines with the razor as I observe quietly. It’s not long until I spot Ash’s tongue nervously trapped between his lips.Some things never change,I muse.
Ash keeps working, with one hand comfortably resting on my shoulder. From the simple touch, warmth radiates throughout my entire body. When he’s done with his side he peeks up, waiting for instructions. They all move behind me then, chopping strands of hair at random while Morgan praises and curses my thick red hair. “Has it always been this luscious?” she wonders outloud.
“Must be the near-death experience,” I reply blankly.
When Lindsey the nurse stops by to deliver my dinner, she lingers by the door and offers her help. I start telling her that I’m in very capable hands, but at that moment, Ash’s fingers graze a sensitive spot on my scalp. I flinch, jerking my head away to the side.
“Sorry,” Ash whispers.
From her spot, Lindsey the nurse explains, “That’s the spot where the tube of the shunt was draining liquid out of your skull. It will heal.”
I can’t tell if the goose bumps on my neck are because of what she said, or because of Ash’s light caress.
With my left hand I grasp the spoon from the dinner tray and dip it into the jelly, hoping food will serve as a distraction.
“Grim,” Erik comments and I smack my lips.
“Fierce,” Morgan disagrees.
Once everyone is done with my hair, Morgan moves to stand in front of me and lowers to my height, contemplating her work.
