Chapter 1: Chapter 1
"You're here."
Ena said the words without a hint of emotion on her face. She leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She was dressed simply, as usual for our appointments: a muted beige shirt and paint-speckled trousers.
"So I am," I said. I looked at her hair: pale, wavy, and long enough to reach the small of her back. As instructed, she'd washed it, and it was still damp. "The usual?"
"Yes," said Ena, stepping aside to allow me into her cottage. I followed. It was an unseasonal summer afternoon: gray and gloomy, with a humidity that foretold rain. The smell of smoke hung around us, and in the amber lamplight, I noticed her ashtray overflowing with butts. Ena followed my gaze, and a sardonic smile quirked her lips. She opened a window to let the midsummer air in.
"Better?" Ena asked, bringing her cigarette to her lips.
I nodded as I looked around her living room. An old sofa faced two battered armchairs. Against the wall was a bookshelf crammed full of artbooks: Pissarro, Sisley, Renoir. A painting in the style of Monet's Water Lilies hung over the mantelpiece, where a radio sat. Down the hallway, an open door offered a peek into Ena's studio.
Not that she ever took me there. After all, I was only here to cut her hair, and Ena was hardly communicative during our sessions.
As I unpacked my equipment, Ena turned on the radio. Fuzzy piano drifted out from the old speakers: Debussy maybe, but I wasn't an expert. I laid out my tools, and Ena sat at the vanity. Sheets of paper covered the floor to catch the hair clippings. Where the lamplight fell, I noticed the faint lines of abandoned sketches on the other side. In them, I saw a longing for something unreachable—but I didn't remark on it. Ena never explained, and besides, these sketches were destined for the trash with the hair clippings.
I unfolded the chair cloth and fastened it around Ena's neck before drawing up a stool behind her. My comb, cutting shears, and thinning shears stood ready on the tray beside me. Before I began, I heard the pitter-patter of water. I glanced out the window and saw raindrops falling into the pond in Ena's garden, sending ripples across the surface, making the rushes sway gently.
I picked up my comb and began my work. Ena's hair flowed through my hands, smooth but tangled enough to require some effort. As I teased apart each lock, the smoke from Ena's cigarette drifted in lazy spirals toward the ceiling.