Page 46 of The First Kind of Love
When I yank the brush to try and free my damaged hair, an unforgiving burn claws across my scalp like the opening act of a migraine. A defeated whimper escapes from my lips, but not before getting stuck in my throat and turning into a helpless gurgling sound. I can hear Fulton shuffling around in the other room, but I’m preoccupied with contemplating surgically removing this instrument of destruction from my head.
“Shi, you almost ready to go?” he asks, and before I can scream at him not to come in, Fulton’s already invaded the bathroom with his six-foot-one body.
His eyes double in size at the carnage, and whatever words he was about to wield have deserted him.
I can feel a fresh batch of tears pawing at the backs of my eyes. “I’m not going,” I huff, plopping down on the closed toilet seat and hearing a would-be worrisome tearing noise from some undetected seam on my body.
Fulton cloaks my glut of frustration in his full-coverage sympathy. “Oh, Sunshine.”
“I look terrible, Ful. My hair isn’t cooperating. My makeup isn’t symmetrical. My romper is too tight, but it’s the nicest thing I have to wear. I can’t go to a party with all your A-list friends looking likethis.”
“You look beautiful, okay? My friends are hardly A-listers. It’s a kickback. It’s nothing fancy. We just want to spend some time together, and I would really love for you to be there,” he tells me. “But I understand if you aren’t feeling up for it. I’d never force you to do something you don’t want to do.”
“I do, it’s just…” With my throat constricting around a grievance, I opt for gesturing to the Nightmare on Hair Street.
Fulton perks up a bit. “I can help.”
As much as I appreciate his eagerness, sweet, sweet Fulton is sorely mistaken. Asian hair can be tricky to take care of, especially when it’s frizzy. It’s not that I’m worried about him making everything worse…it’s more that I’m trying to preserve his feelings from getting hurt when the outcome is, um,subpar.
“It’s kind of har?—”
He cuts me off with a dismissive flick of his hand, crouches down to assess the damage with an eye that is far too analytical, then hums to himself like he knowsexactlywhat’s wrong and how to fix it.
For once, Fulton doesn’t reek of hesitation…which is strange, because hesitationishis personality. No, he’s sheared away all that self-doubt and stands before me a changed man—one whom exudes a very attractive hubris.
“Alright, I’m going to use some Philip Kinsley’s Preen Cream on your hair, then gently detangle the area with a wide-toothed comb, starting at the ends and working my way up to the roots. I also read that Oribe’s Imperméable Anti-Humidity Spray is great for reducing frizz.”
What. Just. Happened.
My mouth gapes in shock, and once I get over the initial disbelief, admiration conducts my heartbeat to mirror the rhythmical flow of the tide.
Fulton reaches for a small, cylindrical bottle in the medicine cabinet, then clambers to his knees in front of me. “We’re going to figure this out,” he says, beginning to section off strands of my frizzy hair.
“How do you know how to do all of this?” I ask, watching him squirt a white paste into his hands.
“When you mentioned the humidity our first night here, I read up on Asian hair care in case you ran into another complication. Then I thought it would be good to stock up on some supplies.”
With a sizable dollop of cream, his deft fingers work in the moisturizing product, letting it soak thoroughly into each tress. Finally able to catch my breath for the first time in ten minutes, I reassess the state of my half-completed face, formulating the most efficient plan to clean up my wings, reapply blush, and fill in missing chunks of foundation from when I went windshield-wiper-happy with the makeup remover wipes. Fulton’s made everything seem so…salvageable.
He’s moved on to the intimidating lump of tangles, and I feel myself quiver like a guitar string. “You did all of that…for me?” I whisper, looking up at him with tears pooling on my lash line.
“I’d do anything for you, Sunshine. It doesn’t matter how trivial you think it is. If spending five hours educating myself on Vietnamese hair care was guaranteed to make you smile, I’d spend the rest of the day memorizing the first fifty Google pages.”
I know a declaration like that might not seem like a big deal, but Fulton’s practically offering me his heart. No one’s ever gone through that much trouble for me. Not my parents, not Revlon. And don’t get me wrong—I don’t hold it againstthem. I just didn’t know that this is what people do when they like one another.
It makes me feel special, and that’s a feeling I’ve been chasing my entire life.
With the sun dropping into the mountain’s gullet—and spilling shades of red over the sky like blood from a cut artery—Fulton moves at a speed that could rival his skate time, wetting and conditioning the thatch of obnoxious locks clinging onto my brush for dear life. Refraining from pulling, he feeds the wide-toothed comb through my ends, subsequently raking a pathway up to my roots. Pressure pulses in places all over my skull, but I can start to feel the hair and brush lovechild give under Fulton’s ministrations.
Thankfully, he’s too busy to notice the teary runnel that just scaled down my still-pigmented cheek. Guilt over ruining his night still sits heavy on my chest. I’m like sun-damaged carrion melting on the sidewalk, picked apart by the vultures of self-loathing and pessimism.
“Thank you. For doing all of this. I know it’s probably not how you wanted to spend your Friday night.”
An expert comb cuts through weak, sodden follicles, loosening the bonds enough to detach them from the bristles without any major hair loss. He’s so gentle with me. He treats me like I’m delicate, but not because I’m incapable of standing my ground—because he views me as something to be cherished and worshipped with the utmost respect.
Fulton’s voice is cold, detached, and his fingers halt. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
