Page 229 of Seizing Control: Part One

“I know.” Striding toward the exit, I nod to myself. “But all the best men are.”

Across the road from the Blackards MMA gym is a shopping mall. I head inside without waiting for Cub and Toker to catch up to me. The old man in the white jacket takes one look at my face and ushers me into the closest chair. It’s early in the morning, barely past his opening time, but he seems to accurately gauge my desperation, so he doesn’t comment on my haste.

Instead, he gets busy organising his equipment.

My SAA is cursing me when he hurries into the barber shop.

“Of all the stupid fuckin’ things to do—you run off without your sergeant-at-arms.”

“Don’t need ya to babysit me while I get a haircut.”

“Swear you’ve got a death wish.”

My Tech officer takes one look at my face, then he shakes his head. “Nah, Toker... I think he’s finally screwed his head on straight.”

The barber secures the black cutting gown around me. He lifts my hair out of the way to press the snap closure shut at the back of my neck. I stare at myself in the mirror, doubt already creeping in as I take in the long hair that’s been my trademark since I was eighteen.

“Whaddya want done, son?”

I look at Cub, then at Toker. “Take it all off—give me a full crew cut.”

“You’ve lost ya fuckin’ mind,” Toker exclaims. He brushes his palms over his scalp, his own buzz cut needing a touch up since we’ve been away from home longer than expected. Glaring at me, he declares, “She’s gonna blame me—I’m gonna end up with half an ear missin’ the next time she cuts my hair.”

“Calm down, brother.” Cub slings an arm over the agitated man’s shoulders. “Let’s go and get you a donut... surely someone makes a good one around here.”

The barber jerks his chin toward the door. “The deli on the corner makes one filled with jam.”

Sufficiently distracted by the promise of his favourite snack food, Toker huffs, “Well, I suppose we could go and check ’em out.” He pins me with a heated look. “You better tell Cherub that I tried to stop you.”

“Sure.”

Toker takes my agreement at face value. “Alrighty then.”

After they exited, the barber grabs his clippers. “Object now, or forever hold ya peace.”

“Have at it.” Straightening my shoulders, I meet my own eyes in the mirror. “It’s time for a change.”

“Money or woman?” he asks.

He swipes the clippers down the middle of my scalp.

I watch the first section of hair drop into my lap.

A sense of rightness settles over me when removes another strip.

“Woman,” I tell him.

“It usually is.”

There’s silence for a moment while the barber continues stripping me of one of my defining features. As my hair falls to the floor, the angst that’s been stalking me since I lost control and pounced on my duchess after the Apologies to Medusa concert starts to uncoil within me.

“My wife is fierce.”

“The one’s worth fightin’ for usually are.”

“She’s pregnant and raisin’ the kid I had with another bi—woman.”

“Sounds like you might have grovellin’ in your future.”

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