Charlie's Flat
Then, gingerly, Chrysanthe took hold of her hair.
It was very strange, she decided. She was immediately more conscious of the weight of it; her scalp prickled slightly at the feel. She tried to envision herself carrying the lot of it solemnly through the Rose and pitching it into the Mahogany; it seemed absurd. She tried, too, to think of leaving it in the garbage outside Charlie’s apartment; that, too, seemed rather odd.
“I don’t think it’s long enough to sell, really,” Chrysanthe said after a moment. “Perhaps if I’d gone from the scalp. May I use your bucket?”
Chrysanthe settled the coil of hair into it, filthy though it was. It was not, she thought ruefully, as if it mattered much. “Perhaps I shall...” Chrysanthe trailed off. She had thought of burning it, but she had a vague sense that burning hair smelled rather awful. She shifted, looking down at the bucket.
Chrysanthe raised her hands to her newly short hair; she began to drag the brush through, the other holding it down. It was startling, the first time, for it to stop so suddenly. She held very still; she smiled again.
Chrysanthe set about brushing her hair more steadily. “I shall throw it out,” she said, looking down at the bucket, and then back at Charlie with a smile. “Though the picture of me mournfully releasing locks into the Mahogany is very sorrowful, like something from a novel.” She found she was outright grinning now, unfamiliar and likely inappropriate. She wound the brush through her hair again.
“We had best finish cutting first,” Chrysanthe said, steadily taming the now much shorter hair. Good lady, but it really was uneven. “It shall make a mess. We can spread something out, if you like, beneath...?” She glanced around, as if a tarp might appear, or a drop cloth. Surely a man who worked on such things in his apartment would have... Chrysanthe thought better of the supposition. “And throw it out all together.”
Chrysanthe paused, looking at Charlie. “I shall go to a hairdresser,” she promised him, “to take the last of it off. If we can just get it,” her fingertips rested on two strands, feeling the half-inch length difference between them. She raised her eyebrows, “passable. Perhaps enough for a drink...? I should say I rather owe you one.”