Page 67 of Halstead House

I ran my hands through my hair again. It had gotten a few inches longer in the two months I’d been away. I normally went to the salon every month on the same day and had my hair trimmed exactly one inch. Now I felt a scandalous joy over the fact it was two inches longer. No one would notice. Not one soul on earth would look at me and see anything different, and suddenly I just knew I had to do something that would show the world that I wasn’t the same person I had been.

I was going to cut my hair short. Maybe a pixie cut. Or better yet, a pompadour, with the sides shaved and the top a different color. Nowthatwould be something no one would overlook.

My eyes flew to the ticket office with one goal in mind: scissors. I jumped up and jogged toward the building. The bricks were warm on my feet as I reached the edge of the lawn and darted into the open courtyard area. The ticket office was dark and I knew it was probably locked, but I tried anyhow. The door didn’t budge. I chewed my lip and looked around. I needed another option, and it couldn’t be inside the big house where someone would try to talk me out of it.

The carriage house. I knew there was a section I hadn’t been in, because I’d never seen Lucas’s motorcycle when I’d been inside either the display portion or the garage portion. It was worth checking into. I tried the main door, but it was locked. Next I tramped around back to the garage portion. To my knowledge it was left unlocked, and I was giddy when the knob turned. The inside of the garage was dark, so I turned on my phone flashlight and weaved my way around the cars until I spotted the motorcycle in a back corner that I’d not noticed before. Disappointment over having found nothing helpful began to make my heart slow, but then I spotted a small door behind the motorcycle. I reached for the knob with shaking fingers and was thrilled to find it was unlocked too. How could I be so lucky?

I let myself in and blinked a few times to adjust to the darkness. Even with my phone it was hard to see. The room wasn’t big, and there was only one small window up high. It looked to be an office of some sort, with a desk in the center of it. Perfect. Desks have scissors.

I risked flipping on the light and moved to the desk. The top was dusty and worn, and a cloud puffed up when I sat down on the chair, causing me to cough lightly as I waved a hand in the air in front of my face to clear it.

The drawers squeaked as I opened them one by one, searching for scissors. At this point I was pretty sure whatever scissors I found would be rusty, but it wasn’t like I was going to cut food, or medical supplies, or my own skin. I was going to cut my hair. I could wash the rust and grime out of it afterwards.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I understood that I did not, in fact, want purple pompadour hair. Nor did I want to cut it myself in the dusty forgotten office of the Halstead House carriage house. I did, actually, care that my hair would be rusty and disgusting, and knew that I’d probably cry as I watched it fall to the floor.

Still, I pressed on, because I also understood that I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t be the power-suit-wearing, chignon master anymore. I needed to be Grace. It was essential to discover who she was and then let her breathe a little. It had been easy to play New Grace when Mother was far away in Providence, but now was the true test and I needed to prove that I could be myself anywhere and around anyone.

At last, I struck gold, or rust, as the case may be. Scissors, browned and dull, appeared in the next drawer I opened. I pulled them up and held them at eye level, as though I really had unearthed something precious. I turned them this way and that, like Gollum with his ring, staring intently and letting the flickering office light strike off them as I thought about where to make the first cut.

“You look like you’re expecting those scissors to answer life’s great questions,” a familiar voice interrupted from the darkness outside of the office doorway.

The scissors clattered to the desk as I let out a shriek. “Do not sneak up on a person who is holding scissors,” I said more sternly than I’d meant to.

Lucas entered the room. “As your friend, it’s okay to tell me if you have a scissor fetish. Do you collect them? That pair looks pretty antique.” His lips smiled, but his eyes were watching me carefully.

“I’m going to cut my hair,” I stated as I picked the scissors back up off the desk.

“With those?”

“Why not?”

“They’ve got to be completely dull.” He came closer to the desk, and his cologne came with him. I nearly closed my eyes in pleasure as the smell reached me.

“Still...”

“Still what?”

“I’m going to cut my hair.”

He nodded and leaned casually against the desk, as though this was a sane conversation. “What look are you going for?”

“A pompadour.” I looked back down at the scissors and put my fingers through the holes. I tried to open and close them a few times, but it took effort. They were old.

“Sorry, but I’m not sure what that style is.”

I didn’t look up but kept working the scissors. Open, shut, open, shut. “It’s where the sides of your hair are cut really close, almost shaved, but the top is still there. Kind of like a mohawk, but not spiked.” I finally glanced up at him, and he shook his head like he didn’t quite understand. “You’ll see soon enough.”

“You’re doing this yourself?” Rather than answer I lifted the scissors in the air and wiggled them around. He nodded. “Do you need a mirror?”

I chewed my lip. “That would probably be a good idea. Is there one out here somewhere?”

“I’m afraid not. Unless you think a rear view mirror would do the trick.”

I went back to looking at the scissors. The anger was wearing off a bit but not quite enough to make me put them away. “It might.”

“Well, then, follow me.” He stood and gestured for me to join him in the garage. I stood and followed. My feet were still bare, and they slapped lightly on the garage floor as I caught up to him. “No shoes?” he asked when I’d come to stand next to him.

“I threw them into traffic.” I shrugged.

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