Buzzing filled the silence. With each swipe of the clippers, my Robert’s pure-white scalp revealed a dot-to-dot pattern of moles, and a lone kidney-shaped birthmark. My throat tightened a bit when the straight blade shaved away years of forgotten memories: our child’s laugh during a gripping pull, winter-morning walks that gathered frost, and the years of kisses cushioned in warmth and the smell of his day.
The hairdresser looked to me in the mirror’s reflection.
He stood. The drape fell onto the floor’s litter of salt-and-pepper hair. Our eyes met: his seeking and vibrant in the vulnerability of change.