"I showered after him, inspecting my skin. then we talked about hair, that his was platinum blond as a child, but the sun couldn't keep it blond. he says there's an old photo of him in a cornfield, where his hair blended into the maize.
I told him I've never been to a hairdresser, that I didn't deserve it as a child and now it's ingrained. that surprised him. he asked me what a treat would have been, and I paused for too long, then said "probably a theme park, from those vouchers on cereal boxes". I guess it's a curated childhood, I wanted to earn his sympathy.
I described such values as a deep-rooted weed. this turned into a speech from him about parenting and forgiveness, he said it could be a flower, not a weed.
the whole time I was staring at the shaved hairs growing back on his chin and above his lip, the single long hair catching the light, the field of hairs on his arm that swayed with his gestures. I wanted to pluck out all those hairs with tweezers. I so desperately wanted to ask him the question, but my tongue wouldn't have let me."
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