Page 131 of Promise Me Sunshine

She puts the poncho thingy on me and magically any modicum of attractiveness I’ve ever possessed is immediately gone. I suddenly look like a rodent that’s just gotten over the flu.

She’s studying my hair again. “Your ends are egregious but actually the rest is very healthy. How short are we going?”

I shrug. “I don’t care.”

She sucks her teeth at me. “I don’t careis how I end up with lousy Google reviews.”

“No, seriously, I’d love a bad haircut. Any haircut. I need to take the plunge.”

She considers this with an unimpressed look. “I don’t givebad haircuts. But if you’re not worried about going too short, then do you want to donate it?”

“My hair?” I haven’t considered this before.

“You’ve got more than enough for a donation to Locks of Love. They use the donations to make wigs for kids with cancer. I can cut it off as a ponytail and send it in.”

My stomach jumps. “Yes! Let’s do that.”

“Okay. Then, how about chin length? Just long enough to pull it back into a stubby ponytail if you want? That length will suit your bone structure and it’ll look cute under a winter hat.”

“Perfect.”

She ties my hair up and pulls out a pair of shears. I lean forward all of a sudden, out of her reach, and grab my ponytail, running my hands over it. Feeling the weight of it, the smooth parts in the middle, the familiar roughness of the ends. It’s just hair. But it was with me through everything. The chemo, the hospital, the hospice, the funeral, those lost and wandering months before Miles found me.

I pat the hair at the top of my head, all my new hair. The pat turns into a pet and I’m telling myselfGood job, Lenny. You’re doing so well.

I sit back up, tears in my eyes, and nod at the hairdresser through the mirror.

“Are yousureyou wanna do this, love?”

“Absolutely not!” I chirp resolutely. “I’ll probably be a total wreck. Let’s do it.”

She holds up the shears and gives them a snip-snip in the air. “Yeah?”

I point one finger to the sky. “Onward.”

—

He calls melater because of course he does.

Instead of saying hello, he says, “Current location.”

The wind almost carries his voice away, out to sea. I tighten my hood under my chin. “Staten Island Ferry.”

“Really?” There was something light in his tone but it immediately tightens down. “I’ll be right there.”

“Miles.”

“Yeah?”

“Everything is okay! I’m okay!”

“What? I can’t hear over the wind! I’m on my way!”

Forty minutes later, the ferry I’m riding lands in Manhattan and a sweaty, panting Miles collapses against the railing beside me. The gorgeous, glittering, underworld version of Manhattan sparkles up from the black water. Wind takes the hood off Miles’s head.

“Hi.”

“Hey…” He squints at me. “You look okay.”

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