DIY Haircuts are Valid (Ransom Chapter 7.1)

Well...this is not going how I expected. Surely there should not be this much on the floor, right? Why is it so uneven?

Please don't be mad, please don't be mad, I pray as I chop off another chunk of Ransom's hair. Even though Don't screw up, Harlow is my current mantra, my scissors—or maybe my fingers—are rebelling and now it's just getting shorter and shorter and there won't be much left to cut.

But hey, at least that conditioner worked. Pausing, I risk another peek at the mirror, but things haven't magically improved and I can only see one eye.

Unlike Risa, I only had to tell him to sit still once; save for the slight movement of his shoulders as he breathes, he hasn't budged a single inch. I don't think he's blinked more than twice, his wide eyes fixated on the wall above the mirror.

"Um...just gonna even things up in the front and then we're almost done!" I force out a high pitched laugh and try to make the sides match.

When his gaze falls to meet mine, I scramble to keep the scissors from falling. Granted, I'm creating a travesty, but surely my haircutting skills aren't bad enough to warrant that petrified look.

Right?

"It's probably better if you don't look," I admit, staring at the tuft of hair between my two fingers. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and it's all I can do to keep my hand steady as I point cut the hair just like I'd seen in a YouTube video.

It's so much easier when it's long and straight, like Risa's. If I mess up on one of my mother's many stray children, it's not such a big deal, but I can't have Mrs. Perez thinking poorly of Ransom.

I need her to feel sorry for him. Though not originally part of my plan, this new hairstyle could do just that.

Yeesh, just looking at it makes me want to die. My salon days are over before they even began.

I should focus, finish this up fast; but I run my fingers through his hair and chew my lip.

I should just watch a YouTube video.

Like that's enough to save us? Are you blind, Harlow?

Okay, it's not that bad! We can fix this! Like, a comb over or...or like...

"We shave it all off?"

When Ransom's head whips an impossible amount of degrees around to gape at me, I realize I've said it out loud.

"Uh, definitely not going to do that, so no worries, Snake Boy."

Oh.

Oh no.

I really just said that.

Snake Boy.

My insides hate me so much they try to crawl away. I wish the floor would open up and swallow me into its ancient, permanently damp depths. Of course, it doesn't want me either.

"Are you done?" I swear he's translucent, save for the ashy purple circles under his eyes.

Unable even to speak, I just nod. There are no colors to let me know what I'm feeling, no words fighting in my brain; just this calm realization that I, Harlow, have screwed up.

"Thanks."

It takes me a moment to register he's said something because I can't tear my eyes away from this monstrosity I've created. This is so far from what the pictures online looked like I can't believe I did this with them in mind.

I check the image on my phone screen one more time.

Do I apologize, or play it off as an artistic choice? Or should I brave Risa's closet for a hat of some sort?

I've just decided on the hat plan when I notice Ransom's doing this weird thing with his face. He must be as disgusted as I am.

What is that...

He's smiling?!

Time seems to freeze, my jaw dropping as his eyes crinkle up.

"I love it!" Slowly, as if he can't believe it, he raises his hands to touch it, careful to not disturb the strands tumbling in too many directions. "I...It looks so good."

The boyish wonder flooding his voice brings a smile to my lips and I vow I will not be the one to tell him.

"Oh." Grabbing the plastic bag from the counter behind me, I dangle it over his shoulder for a second before dropping it into his lap. "These are for you."

I remove the towel from around his shoulders, shaking the hair onto the garbage bags I've spread beneath the chair. He doesn't acknowledge any of it, staring dumbly at the mirror. But when I leave to grab the vacuum, I hear him open the bag.

I return shortly and while he doesn't say anything, his eyes speak volumes. The fear has been washed away, leaving them a shade of blue I couldn't name with a color encyclopedia.

We do not speak as we throw the trashbags away and vacuum the floor or when we carry the chair back to the kitchen and stand there awkwardly for at least three minutes.

The bandaids on his arms say enough.