Thanks for the Memories. Cecelia Ahern

Maybe I showed him a property. Maybe he’s famous and I shouldn’t be staring. I become embarrassed and I turn away again quickly.

      My hairdresser wraps a black cape around me and I steal another glance at the man beside me, in the mirror. He looks at me. I look away, then back at him. He looks away. And our tennis match of glances is played out for the duration of our visit.

      ‘So what will it be for you, madam?’

      ‘All off,’ I say, trying to avoid my reflection but I feel cold hands on the sides of my hot cheeks, raising my head, and I am forced to stare at myself face to face. There is something unnerving about being forced to look at yourself when you are unwilling to come to terms with something. Something raw and real that you can’t run away from. You can lie to yourself, to your mind and in your mind all of the time but when you look yourself in the face, well, you know that you’re lying. I am not OK. That, I did not hide from myself, and the truth of it stared me in the face. My cheeks are sunken, small black rings below my eyes, red lines like eyeliner still sting from my night tears. But apart from that, I still look like me. Despite this huge change in my life, I look exactly the same. Tired, but me. I don’t know what I’d expected. A totally changed woman, someone that people would look at and just know had been through a traumatic experience. Yet the mirror told me this: you can’t know everything by looking at me. You can never know by looking at someone.

      I’m five foot five, with medium-length hair that lands on my shoulders. My hair colour is midway between blonde and brown. I’m a medium kind of person. Not fat, not skinny; I exercise twice a week, jog a little, walk a little, swim a little. Nothing to excess, nothing not enough. Not obsessed, addicted to anything. I’m neither out-going nor shy, but a little of both, depending on my mood, depending on the occasion. I never overdo anything and enjoy most things I do. I’m seldom bored and rarely whine. When I drink I get tipsy but never fall over or get ill. I like my job, don’t love it. I’m pretty, not stunning, not ugly; don’t expect too much, am never too disappointed. I’m never overwhelmed or under it either; just nicely whelmed. I’m OK. Nothing spectacular but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart. I look to the man beside me and I see the same.

      ‘Excuse me?’ the hairdresser breaks into my thoughts. ‘You want it all off? Are you sure? You’ve such healthy hair.’ He runs his fingers through it. ‘Is this your natural colour?’

      ‘Yes, I used to put a little colour in it but I stopped because of the—’ I’m about to say ‘baby’. My eyes fill and I look down but he thinks I’m nodding to my stomach, which is hidden under the gown.

      ‘Stopped because of what?’ he asks.

      I continue to look at my feet, pretend to be doing something with my foot. An odd shuffle manoeuvre. I can’t think of anything to say to him and so I pretend not to hear him. ‘Huh?’

      ‘You were saying you stopped because of something?’

      ‘Oh, em …’ Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If you start now you will never stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I mumble, bending over to play with my handbag on the ground. It will pass, it will pass. Someday it will all pass, Joyce. ‘Chemicals. I stopped because of chemicals.’

      ‘Right, this is what it’ll look like,’ he takes my hair and ties it back. ‘How about we do a Meg Ryan in French Kiss?’ He pulls hairs out in all directions and I look like I’ve stuck my fingers in an electric socket. ‘It’s the sexy messy bed-head look. Or else we can do this.’ He messes about with my hair some more.

      ‘Can we hurry this along? I’ve got a taxi waiting outside too.’ I look out the window. Dad is chatting to the taxi driver. They’re both laughing and I relax a little.

      ‘O … K. Something like this really shouldn’t be rushed. You have a lot of hair.’

      ‘It’s fine. I’m giving you permission to hurry. Just cut it all off.’ I look back to the car.

      ‘Well, we must leave a few inches on it, darling.’ He directs my face back towards the mirror. ‘We don’t want Sigourney Weaver in Aliens, do we? No GI Janes allowed in this salon. We’ll give you a side-swept fringe, very sophisticated, very now. It’ll suit you, I think, show off those high cheekbones. What do you think?’

      I don’t care about my cheekbones. I want it all off.

      ‘Actually, how about we just do this?’ I take the scissors from his hand, cut my ponytail, and then hand them both back to him.

      He gasps. But it sounds more like a squeak. ‘Or we could do that. A … bob.’

      American man’s mouth hangs open at the sight of my hairdresser with a large pair of scissors and ten inches of hair dangling from his hand. He turns to his and grabs the scissors before he makes another cut. ‘Do not,’ he points, ‘do that to me!’

      Mullet man sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘No, of course not, sir.’

      The American starts scratching his left arm again. ‘I must have got a bite.’ He tries to roll up his shirtsleeve and I squirm in my seat, trying to get a look at his arm.

      ‘Could you please sit still?’

      ‘Could you please sit still?’

      The hairdressers speak in perfect unison. They look to one another and laugh.

      ‘Something funny in the air today,’ one of them comments and American man and I look at one another. Funny, indeed.

      ‘Eyes back to the mirror, please, sir.’ He looks away.

      My hairdresser places a finger under my chin and tips my face back to the centre. He hands me my ponytail.

      ‘Souvenir.’

      ‘I don’t want it.’ I refuse to take my hair in my hands. Every inch of that hair was from a moment that has now gone. Thoughts, wishes, hopes, desires, dreams that are no longer. I want a new start. A new head of hair.

      He begins to shape it into style now and as each strand falls I watch it drift to the ground. My head feels lighter.

      The hair that grew the day we bought the cot. Snip.

      The hair that grew the day we picked the nursery paint colours, bottles, bibs and baby grows. All bought too soon, but we were so excited … Snip.

      The hair that grew the day we decided the names. Snip.

      The hair that grew the day we announced it to friends and family. Snip.

      The day of the first scan. The day I found out I was pregnant. The day my baby was conceived. Snip. Snip. Snip.

      The more painful recent memories will remain at the root for another little while. I will have to wait for them to grow until I can be rid of them too and then all traces will be gone and I will move on.

      I reach the till as the American pays for his cut.

      ‘That suits you,’ he comments, studying me.

      I go to tuck some hair behind my ear self-consciously but there’s nothing there. I feel lighter, light-headed, delighted with giddiness, giddy with delight.

      ‘So does yours.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      He opens the door for me.

      ‘Thank you.’ I step outside.

      ‘You’re far too polite,’ he tells me.

      ‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘So are you.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he nods.

      We laugh. We both gaze at our taxis queuing up waiting, and look back at one another curiously. He gives me a smile.

      ‘The first taxi or the second taxi?’ he asks.

      ‘For me?’

      He