[Closed] This Weight Upon My Shoulders

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Early Evening, 18 Bethas 2720
Outside Charlie's Flat

Chrysanthe breathed in deeply, and out once more. This was, she thought, absurd; everything about it was absurd. She’d known it absurd even as she retraced her steps through the Rose from almost a week before, the early morning walk two-thirds remembered.

She hadn’t known, not really, that she should be able to find it until she was standing in front of the building. There had been an element to pure luck of it; there was no particular reason she ought to have seen the name of his street, and less still to have remembered it. She had not, in the least, intended to note it down; she had not really intended to see Charlie Ewing again.

Yes, of course – he was a competent mechanic. The piece he had installed at the factory continued to work well – unexpectedly well, and although that was naturally due chiefly to the design, that it had been installed at all owed a good deal to Charlie. And, in fact, she was not… entirely sorry to have spent the tenth with him. That was – it wasn’t how she had intended to pass the night, of course. She had sent Adelaide an apologetic note, and had not corresponded further when Adelaide had sent one back inquiring as to how she was feeling.

It was, Chrysanthe felt, cowardly, but she had thought it best to put the entire night behind her. Contemplation of it – of how much she had drank, of the sort of things she had said, of what she had done and where she had ultimately slept – was not in the least wise. Chrysanthe knew a good deal about putting such things aside, and she had thoroughly intended to. The only part which was hard was that she did not quite regret it, not as she knew she should have.

All the same, here she was. It was pure chance that someone was coming out as Chrysanthe went in; he glanced at her, but held the door when she strode purposefully towards it. It clicked shut behind her; Chrysanthe set her hand lightly on the railing of the stairs, and breathed in deeply. Then she began to climb, quickly and steadily making her way up towards the fourth floor.

There was, Chrysanthe reminded herself, every chance he was not home. It was scarcely even evening; she had hurried over, as best as she could, thinking it likelier to catch him now than later. She was sure he spent every evening busying himself with debauchery of one sort of another, except, she supposed, for those he spent ensconced in the deep mechanical workings of processing plants.

Chrysanthe came up to the fourth floor; she knocked, and then, heart pounding in her chest, she knocked again.

Charlie opened the door, and Chrysanthe scarcely gave him time to breath. She held a hand out between them, shears clenched tightly in her fist, and swallowed hard, looking down to meet his gaze across the doorway. “I need your help,” Chrysanthe blurted out. She grimaced, and then went on. “Please.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Early Evening
Charlie's Flat

Maybe he should go out. It wasn't healthy for a young man to stay cooped up inside all the time. Charlie had been out not two nights prior, and then a few nights before that, and of course on the tenth as well--that was all much beside the point. The point being: he should be out, now, on this evening, and he wasn't.

What he was actually doing was sitting and frowning at a bit of machinery that refused to clocking function. It had at one point--he knew it had, because he had built it with his own two hands and it had done so at the time. Then quite inexplicably, it had stopped. He had taken the fucking the apart entirely and put it back together, just as he had the first time, and it remained stubbornly non-functional. Charlie was starting to get rather cross with it, a sure sign he needed to stop and do something less frustrating with his evening.

But going out sounded tedious too; he would have to get dressed properly, not just in battered denim pants that had clearly seen much service and suspenders he didn't mind getting grease on. Also, a proper shirt, and not just the undershirt he had on that had also seen markedly better days than it was enjoying at present. As had he. So they were a pair then, Charlie and his singlet. There was dirt under his fingernails, which was vaguely appalling.

He had passed a good house this way, muttering to himself about how he should just stop and go out, and then talking himself out of doing just that. It was getting tedious, even to his own ears. He had thought he was about to arrive to some decision at long last when he heard a knock at the door.

Shit. The rent? No, it was the eighteenth. Surely he had paid the rent already. He must have done. The fucking old woman below him did like to complain to their landlady that he made too much noise. Perhaps that's what this was about. No matter the explanation, Charlie was not a man who often got visitors and was accordingly quite certain that the only person who would be knocking on his door was, in face, his landlady. Mrs. Parrish was a stout woman of middle age, who tended to call Charlie dreadful things, like "dearie" and "pet". Once, she had even gone so far as to pinch his cheek.

Perhaps if he remained as disreputable-looking as he did now when he answered the door, she would stop doing at least that last bit. It was unlikely--she was an undaunted woman, that Mrs. Parrish. Still, there was no harm in trying. Charlie even mussed his hair a bit more, for effect.

Rather unfortunate, then, that he opened to door not to Mrs. Parrish, stalwart middle-aged landlady, and instead to Chrysanthe Palmifer. Clutching something in her hand, which she shoved between them--shears? Charlie blinked and opened his mouth to say something, only to be cut off rather abruptly by a request for... his... help? His mind moved rather sluggishly at first, he could admit that. There was nothing mechanical, or at least not requiring of a mechanic, to the shears. So what could she possibly...?

"Absolutely not," he declared, eyebrows flying up somewhere near his hairline. It had dawned on him rather all at once--she was, at last, cutting off all that godsdamned hair she kept complaining about. But Charlie knew better. He might not be a great scholar of the fairer sex, but he knew enough to know he was taking his life in his hands if he cut her hair and it turned out poorly.

Still. She had asked. It was sort of gratifying, although he couldn't imagine why she had come to him of all people. Possibly because he kept egging her on to do it. He hadn't moved out of his doorframe; he narrowed his bright blue eyes at her as if trying to divine the future of this little escapade there. After a moment he sighed and opened the door more fully, gesturing for her to come inside.

"Not until I wash my hands." He wiggled his filthy fingers in her face, as if that was his only objection. It was just cutting hair. How hard could it be?

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Early Evening, 18 Bethas 2720
Outside Charlie's Flat

Chrysanthe had felt that if she did not speak immediately, she should lose her nerve. She had gone into it straight away; it was only after she had finished that she had the shock of seeing Charlie in a singlet and overall, leaving a great deal of shoulders bare, considerable more than she should have liked to see. Chrysanthe kept her gaze firmly on his face, and refused to consider the rest of him in any meaningful way.

Charlie refused, and Chrysanthe jerked back as if he had slapped her. She clenched her jaw rather tightly, biting back the unkind words which sprung to mind – not least because she worried regarding what might emerge if she spoke. The silence hung taut in the air between them, and then Charlie relented with a sigh, easing the door back and opening it wider.

Chrysanthe followed him in, somewhat gingerly.

She had wondered; she had hazy, rather drunk memories of the apartment. The morning afterwards, she had been rather focused on her awful hangover, and hadn’t really thought to contemplate her surroundings. Afterwards, she had half convinced herself that she had imagined all of it.

But no. It was every bit as she remembered: the couch like a hingle’s nest, the messy workbench leaking grease everywhere, too many strange dirty odds and ends to count. Chrysanthe stepped gingerly in nonetheless; today she wore her usual sturdy, practical boots, and a gray skirt suit which, if not terribly exciting in color, was comfortable, and nice enough over a pale cream blouse. She found she was still clutching the shears, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to put them away.

“Thank you,” Chrysanthe said after a moment. She came a bit further in still, and did her best not to look around. Since she had also determined not to look at Charlie, that left her with very little to consider. Her gaze dropped down to the shears in her hands, instead; she studied them intently, and saw almost nothing.

Her hair was braided today, two long plaits from either side of her head. It itched; it was heavy. It had itched, all day; it had been hot work today, close to the Fourcault machine, and she had scarcely been able to focus for the heaviness of it. How had she born it so long? How had she done this for so many years – and why?

“I think it will be better if I unbraid and make a tail of it,” Chrysanthe said; she glanced up at Ewing, regretted it, and cast around for a chair or something like that instead, trying not to linger overlong on any particular sight. “So that you need cut – only once.”

Chrysanthe didn’t know – wasn’t sure – whether to ask if they might get drunk again afterwards. She found herself wanting to make a joke that she knew, now, how to get back to her room; she couldn’t quite summon up the courage for it. Her hands tightened slightly on the shears, and then relaxed, and she sighed.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Early Evening
Charlie's Flat

Because he was a master of human nature and all its subtleties, Charlie did not miss the way Chrysanthe had jerked back from his initial refusal. He must look much more disreputable than he assumed--or she was much more desperate.

She did look rather more like he would have expected than she had on the tenth, at least. All sturdy sensible shoes and unexciting grey suit. Charlie decided to take these as optimistic signs that if he did not do the most ideal job with this haircut, she wouldn't be upset. She didn't seem particularly fashion-forward.

It was only when she came more inside the room that Charlie thought to look around. There was considerably more light in it now, the sun not yet quite set. Also, considerably more clutter, which was something of an achievement. He had been in the middle of a project--or several projects, really--for the last few days and it showed. He'd been less attentive than usual to tidying up. Charlie considered, very briefly, apologizing for the mess--he shrugged off the feeling as soon as it came. She had been here already, he thought. And it was still his flat, and his help she needed. So that was all fine. Probably.

"Don't thank me yet," he warned. "I'm not sure my natural genius extends to women's hair styling. So I am stating this now, for the record: if you cry I will... I will..." Charlie struggled to think of the appropriate threat. Other than doing her this favor, he had very little leverage. "I will have no pity at all." There. That wasn't the best of threats, but it was true and that would have to suffice for the moment.

Chrysanthe's refusal to quite look at him was what finally reminded Charlie that he was dressed--or not dressed, as might be more accurate--for puttering around by himself, not for company. He sighed, and reconsidered his semi-drunken declaration from last week that Chrysanthe Palmifer was a friend. Friendship seemed terribly tedious, if this was any indication. Not that they were--friends, that is. He had said so, but he knew he had been full of shit even when he said it. Chrysanthe went on to suggest she change the arrangement of her hair, looking briefly at him and then away. Charlie nodded sagely, as if that made sense to him.

"Of course," he agreed loftily. Of course--yes. Only cutting the once was probably for the best. He looked at the shears clenched in her fists, and then at the sheer amount of hair she had. "Once" seemed rather optimistic. He kept this thought to himself. "You do that then and I'll clean up, I suppose."

Charlie didn't wait for a response, but instead retrieved a semi-clean work shirt from somewhere on his floor and disappeared into the bathroom.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Early Evening, 18 Bethas 2720
Charlie's Flat

Chrysanthe leveled a gaze at Charlie, cool and even. “I am unlikely to cry,” she said, her tone more sardonic than reassuring. “If I do, you may be assured that it is no concern of yours.” She raised her eyebrows, still fixing her gaze squarely on his face; it seemed the best of all possible places to look.

Chrystanthe watched Charlie make his way into the bathroom. She did not look too closely, but was thoroughly relieved to notice him holding a shirt. There seemed to be no appropriate place to sit - it was very hard to believe she had slept on the couch, and she preferred not to think of it unduly.

Well enough; Chrysanthe could manage her hair standing. She found a place to set the sheers down, at least, and her reticule as well, a little large for fashion and the color a match for her suit. She began to undo the braids with easy, practiced motions, her fingers combing business-like through her hair as she went. She let down the first, and then the second, the long heavy weight of it loose against her back.

Charlie had finished his ministrations before she returned; Chrysanthe largely ignored him, focused on her task. She opened up her purse, and took out a brush; slowly, steadily, she set about dragging it through her hair. There wasn’t much in the way of snarls, not with the braids, but with the length some were almost inevitable.

It was long, all the way down to the small of her spine, thick sheaths of pale blonde. It was lovely; Chrysanthe could concede that it was lovely. That was not the problem; that had never been the problem.

Why had she started growing it out? She couldn’t really remember anymore. There had been a time, as a small girl, when her hair had been short; she remembered the feeling of locks swishing about her cheeks. Some time towards her earliest days in Brunnhold, Chrysanthe supposed, she had started growing it out and then - she simply had not stopped. Once it was long, it had seemed sensible to keep it that way; after all, she had put so many years of work into it already.

It wasn’t that she didn’t remember it fondly. She thought of sitting in Amaryllis’s dorm at Brunnhold, reading, her sister combing out her hair; she thought, rather more embarrassingly, of the feeling of another, undoing the braids with her fingers. There was pleasure in both memories; they were lovely to think on. She wouldn’t lose them, Chrysanthe thought, just with the losing of her hair.

Chrysanthe ran one last long smooth stroke through; she set the brush down, back away. She took one of the ribbons which had secured her braids, and set about tying it firmly at the back of her head. After a moment of thought, she tied the second one midway down the long tail, to hold it together as it hung down her back.

She did not think she should look at it again; it didn’t seem wise.

Chrysanthe glanced at Charlie again. “If you can,” she said, “one cut, I think - through the midst of it. Then I shall take it take it down, and we can see about evening it out. Perhaps shoulder length or a bit longer to start, so there is room if…” she took a deep breath, and persevered, “anything seems uneven.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Early Evening
Charlie's Flat

Charlie was not entirely convinced by her mocking assurance that she would not cry--not in the least. But if that's what she wanted to believe, who was he to dissuade her?

"Of course not," he snorted. Charlie would not be concerned in the least if she did cry; it was just that he didn't want to be expected to deal with it. He had disappeared into the bathroom after that, to wash his hands, put on a shirt, and contemplate just why he had agreed to this.

On the edge of the sink he kept a small stiff brush, for scrubbing underneath his fingernails. They were quite often in their current state. Charlie was used to it, but not particularly fond of this unavoidable reality. He attacked the grime there mercilessly, until no trace of it remained. He also splashed his face and neck with cold water, drying it very carefully with a somewhat ragged towel. Yet another arena in which Charlie was fairly fastidious; it was bad for the skin to tug at it.

The work shirt was not such an area. It had been white at some point, he thought. It was sort of an off-grey, now, with flecks and splotches here and there from Lady only knew what. He tried very hard not to think about it. The shirt was at least less disreputable than he looked presently, so he put it on. The washing and the shirt-dressing did at least have the positive effect of making him feel somewhat less irritable.

As carefully as he had washed and dressed, Chrysanthe still wasn't quite finished with setting her hair when he re-emerged. Gracious Lady she had quite a lot of it. He had known so before, of course, but it had much more impact when it was all down like this. Pretty, he supposed. But if just re-tying it had taken her this long, Charlie did not begrudge her the desire to be rid of it in the least. If anything, he was shocked she had dealt with it for so long.

"Clocking shit that's a lot of hair--how the hell do you even wash it all?" Charlie crossed the room to where she stood, and looked down at the shears. He then looked back to that thick tail of pale gold. He frowned. One cut. Sure.

"Yes. Well. Hmm. Right then. I'll uh, just get to it, shall I?" Charlie made no move to pick up the shears. The edges of them seemed to pick up all the light in the room. It was rather ominous. If he didn't know better, he would have thought he was nervous. That, of course, was ridiculous. He had no stake in this madness, so why would he be nervous?

"I want a smoke." The declaration was sudden, but firm. Yes, that was what he needed--a cigarette, to steady his hands. No sense in having unsteady hands for this venture. He moved again, coming around to his workbench and searching through the clutter there until he found, at last, his metal cigarette case and the box of matches. He put one to his lips, but before lighting it thought the better of it and crossed to crack open a window. Mrs. Parrish did hate it when the tenants smoked inside. He wasn't about to start going out of doors to do it, of course, but he would make the small concession. He could be magnanimous.

Window opened and the cold spring air waiting to carry at least some of the smoke away, Charlie lit his cigarette. The smell and the feel of it was immediately relaxing as he crossed the room to where Chrysanthe stood. These were nicer than what he'd had last week; he had, in the end, spent most of his pay from the Pargeter job on indulging himself. Good tobacco was a pleasure well-worth any expense.

"Would you..." Charlie hesitated; he was less willing to share these than the cheap shit he'd offered so many of to Chrysanthe before. But, well. They both might need it. Also, she was trying to quit--maybe she would refuse. If he was lucky. "Would you like one?"

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Early Evening, 18 Bethas 2720
Charlie's Flat

Tediously,” Chrysanthe said, glancing at Ewing when he asked how she washed her hair. He was wearing a rather grubby sort of shirt, but could at least said to be covered, if perhaps not decently. She had not thought him conscious enough of her sensibilities to bother dressing so; she had doubted he had the sensibilities to mind for his own sake. She was pleased to have been wrong on at least one count.

“Though not so much as drying it,” Chrysanthe went on; her lips pressed together.

I’ll get to it, Charlie said, and Chrysanthe nodded. She thought perhaps - she took a deep breath in and out, and settled herself to it. She had had her hair trimmed many times, of course; she knew it would not hurt. And yet she braced herself for it - like a rush of heat from machinery, the backlash of a spell going wrong, Mr. Pargeter calling her into his office - as if she could prepare herself, and in the doing so lesson the ache.

She did not close her eyes, though, and so she could see from the edge of her gaze that the shears were still sitting unattended on the counter. Charlie made no move towards them. Chrysanthe waited, and waited a moment more.

Charlie announced he needed a smoke; he moved away, going quickly to the window. Cold air washed in as he opened it; he lit up a cigarette, rather better smelling than what he had offered her before, and rather better smelling than the odd, stale, greasy air of his apartment.

“Sure,” Chrysanthe said, after a moment. She took one of the cigarettes; she lit a match and breathed in deep until the end glowed soft red. Her eyebrows raised, and she glanced up at Charlie. It was a much smoother tobacco. “Thank you,” Chrysanthe said, uncertainly.

She crossed to the window; she leaned against the wall next to it, letting the cool breeze wash over her face.

She had tried. She had found a stylist in King’s Court, tucked off a pleasant street on the wharf, a man. He had refused to do more than trim the edges; he had laughed and said she would regret cutting it, that any woman would. It was as if, Chrysanthe thought bitterly, she did not know her own mind. It was as if by virtue of being a woman she could make no choices for herself, as if the fact of her sex meant that a man - any man - knew better than her on the subject of her own body. It ached, still; she had not been ready to try again when this - foolish, absurd, desperate - idea had occurred to her.

“I can do it myself,” Chrysanthe said, quietly, after a moment. She turned back from the window; she met Charlie’s eyes across the room. “The first cut, anyway. Not quite so short as I want it, but - shorter. If you can clean it up, afterwards, just to even it out.”

Chrysanthe took a deeper drag on the cigarette, savoring the taste of the tobacco. She ashed it out the window, letting the flakes scatter into the wind, and looked back over at Charlie. She raised her eyebrows, then, half a challenge; she stood very straight still, all of her a long line, with her hair running down the center of it.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Early Evening
Charlie's Flat

Charlie had not been lucky, and Chrysanthe took a cigarette after all. That was alright, he supposed. He had offered; he wouldn't make that mistake again with the good stuff. Probably. They were both there, standing against the cracked window and smoking--he was feeling steadier about this whole farce now, so that was also fine.

"I'll do it," he snapped, irritable. He hadn't said he wouldn't do it! All of it, whatever that meant! Just because he wanted a cigarette first didn't mean he wasn't going to do it. If she didn't think he would, why was she here? The absolute nerve of that challenge in her face and that primly straight posture. He crossed back to the counter where the shears were and gestured her over impatiently.

He picked them up. Just one cut, right through the middle. He could do that. Yeah, he could absolutely do that. The cigarette was still in his mouth, and the ashes were falling to the floor. When Chrysanthe came to stand in front of him again, he stubbed it out on a scrap of corroded metal that was also on the counter. He clearly had been using it for the purpose, as there were little round marks all over it.

Well. This was a little strange. He realized, suddenly, that he would have to touch her hair in order to lop it off. That was. Very weird, wasn't it? Charlie tried to think of the last time he touched a woman's hair. His memory failed him. It seemed like one of those things one just didn't do, although he couldn't think of why. It was just hair.

"I'm going to have to, uh. Touch your hair? So don't move or anything." Charlie frowned. Then he smiled, seeing a solution to his dilemma. He would just grab the tail by the ribbon Chrysanthe had tied in the middle, and use that to hold it still while he hacked off the rest of her hair with the shears. Charlie took it as gingerly as possible, trying to avoid any actual fingers-to-hair contact. He took a breath, quietly, and then there was no more avoiding it.

Charlie cut through her hair.

Well half of it--there was, in the end, way too godsdamn much, like he thought. It took two cuts in the end, but he managed and suddenly he was standing there just sort of weirdly holding on to a lot of Chrysanthe Palmifer's hair. He hadn't made it to her shoulders, but a couple of inches below. It was decided not even, but he wasn't sure how to go about that bit. Maybe it was fine. He wasn't really sure.

"Er. Well. Hmm." Charlie looked at the shears, and the hair, and the sudden expanse visible of Chrysanthe's back. That hadn't been so bad, really. Very strange, but not so terrible. Although she hadn't yet seen it, so Charlie wasn't quite willing to say that she wasn't going to cry. Not yet.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Early Evening, 18 Bethas 2720
Charlie's Flat

Charlie scowled, put out, half glaring at her. Chrysanthe felt an enormous rush of relief. She could have done it, she wanted to protest; she could have. She couldn’t deny it would be easier to have Charlie make the first cut. It didn’t mean anything to him - how could it - and for all his faults at least he thought it a good idea. Perhaps his faults were why he did think so; that was not, Chrysanthe reflected, the most encouraging train of thought to have taken just now.

Charlie stalked over to the shears. Chrysanthe took a deep drag off the cigarette; her hands were not shaking, or at least not once she stilled them. Charlie gestured at her; Chrysanthe came over and turned away, fixing her gaze across the room. She took another drag off the cigarette, slow and steady, holding her shoulders as still as she could, and trying to move her hand with her arm only.

“Of course,” Chrysanthe said; her voice was as uneasy as his. She had not quite faced up to the reality of the act of it; of course he should have to touch her hair. Naturally strangers - hairdressers and maids - had touched her hair. This was surely no different, and it was absurd that she felt so strangely about it. It was only, she decided, that Charlie had made it weird.

She felt a soft prickle along her scalp as Charlie lifted her hair up. There was a heavy snickt, then, and then a pause, and a second repetition. Chrysanthe did not move; she held still a moment longer, breathing unsteadily.

Hmm, Charlie said.

Chrysanthe took a deep breath. She settled the cigarette between her lips and let it stay there, dangling; she reached up, and undid the tie that had held her hair in a tail. Her fingers ran through it, slowly; it was strange to come to a stop midway down her back. She found that she was shaking, which was frankly absurd; it was only hair.

“A good start,” Chrysanthe said, firmly, taking the cigarette from her mouth rather than trying to speak around it. “Let me brush it out, and we shall try to even it up.” She felt a strange sort of shortness of breath - like coming to stand for an examination - but in much the same way, her voice was cool and even.

Chrysanthe went to her purse; she took the brush out, and took another drag from her cigarette. She turned, then, and she looked; she looked at Charlie, and the enormous amount of hair he held in his hand.

“Circle,” Chrysanthe exhaled it out, slowly. She looked at him; she smiled, slowly, and then a bit wider. She reached up with the hand which held the brush, and touched the short locks just down her back again. “What should I... what should I do with it all?” She raised her eyebrows at Charlie, and took another drag from the cigarette. She set the brush down once more; she found she did need a moment to steady herself after all. It was strange to see it - to just see it, separate from her, to see the weight of it.

Her head felt light, Chrysanthe thought; dizzy, too, but more than that: light. She shifted it, back and forth; she felt the soft swish of hair brushing against her back. She smiled again, more easily than the time before.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Early Evening
Charlie's Flat

The hair was freed from the ribbon that held it to the back of her skull. "Hmm" had been his assessment of it before she did so; it remained his assessment now. Possibly a longer sort of "hrmm" because now it was more clear where it was uneven, which was all of it.

"Yeah--yeah, sure. Good idea." He squinted. She ran her fingers through it, and Charlie was just standing there with the rest of what had been attached to her head in one of this hands. Ticks was it ever heavy--Charlie tried to imagine walking around with all of this attached to him at all times, and he found just the contemplation of the hypothetical irritating. How and more importantly why Chrysanthe had done so for however long it had been this way, he had no idea.

Chrysanthe stopped touching her hair as if the magnitude of what they had done was actually starting to sink in and took a brush out from her purse. Then she looked at him, and the hair. Which he still, for some reason, had in his hand. He didn't really know where else to put it. The floor? That seemed weird and too disgusting even for him. The same with the counter, his workbench--he really had no idea what to do with it.

He raised his eyebrows at her smile, but one twitched at the corner of his mouth too. She did already seem lighter without it. Of course she was lighter, like, physically. That was rather the point of the whole thing. But her attitude, you know. That seemed improved too. Even if she had no more idea of what to do with the rest of it than he did, unfortunately.

"I'm sure I have absolutely no idea. We had to read a rather dreadful story in school where a woman sold her hair. Is that a thing? You could do that. Or throw it into Mahogany Bay--I don't particularly care. Here." He had tired of holding it and thrust the hank out in front of him, as if she should take it. No matter what the ultimate fate of it was, there was no option that included "Charlie Ewing holding on to it until he died", so she could take it back from him now.

"Enjoying yourself?" His tone was sharp, but the smile that had only caught the edges of his mouth before was there properly now.