THE NIGHT BEFORE Jules went up to Townsville for his Nan’s eightieth, we cut each other’s hair. In all the time we’d been together, he’d always cut mine in the kitchen, and I didn’t see why I should fork out at the hairdresser just because we’d split up. We were in the late, polite stages of a separation.
His hair was shoulder length, but he’d promised his nan he’d cut it off as a birthday present. I’d never cut anyone’s hair before. I was hesitant, and eventually he grabbed the scissors and started lopping it off himself. The towel slid from around his neck; straggly locks of hair fell to the linoleum.
‘I’m going to leave a rat’s tail,’ he said. ‘You can remember how to French braid, can’t you?’
When he was done it was cut choppily, odd tufts sticking up.
‘You look like a baby chicken,’ I said. We went to stand... Read more
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