Page 101 of Exquisite Things
I pull out another article. From just a few weeks ago. December 13, 1981.First UK death from mysterious gay illness. “There you go,” I say. “You can ignore the warnings all you want. Perhaps it’s just a prelude now. An overture.”
“The man who died in Brompton had just returned from the United States,” Bram says with the kind of authority that might convince anyone but me. “All we need to do is avoid the United States. There’s a whole world where gay men arenotdying. Besides,wewon’t die.”
I shake my head incredulously. “You’re insufferable,” I say. “It’s not my own death I’m concerned with. It’s that I can’t—I already lost a generation of loved ones. I can’t lose another so soon.”
“Right.” He contemplates this. He hasn’t lost anyone he’s loved yet. “Please. Let me cut your hair.”
“Why? Do you think the hair is the source of my melancholy?” I laugh. “Like Samson’s hair was the source of his strength?”
He pulls my hair back. “I think it’s a symptom of your melancholy. Perhaps treating the symptoms one by one will help. First, we’ll cut the hair. Then the beard gets shaved. Next, we’ll get you to play the music that makes you happy again. Over time, the fog will lift. You’ll see.”
I take a deep breath in. “I’ll let Lily cut it. Not you.”
He leaps up. Opens the door. Changeling hops off the bed. “LILY! LILY, COME QUICK BEFORE HE CHANGES HIS MIND!”
I realize our secret journal is still in my hand. I stuff the articles back into the journal. Something in thatNew York Timesarticle catches my eye. The sheet music for the national anthem is an advertisement for a bank. “Happy Independence Day from Independence Savings Bank Member FDIC.” I hear an ominous new melody in my head. The sound of freedom itself being bought by banks and corporations. A new era of greed is upon us.
Why can’t everyone else hear its ominous overture underscoring our lives?
Lily sets me up for a haircut in the kitchen. Towel around my shoulders, Bram and Maud by my side, thrilled to observe this moment. I realize I haven’t had a haircut since coming to London. It seems symbolic. Frightening almost. Like I’m tempting fate by making such a drastic change. Donna Summer sings in the background.Running for cover. I’m just so scared that he’s out tonight.Even Donna’s music has changed. She used to sing of ecstaticlove. Of spring affairs and hot stuff and being queen for a night. Now she’s running for cover. Cautioning of devils hiding in city parks in D minor. It’s still a song you can dance to, but within the song is a warning that it could be, well, your last dance. We’re running for cover. From the virus killing our brothers in New York and San Francisco. From the serial killer we all know is targeting young gays in London. From the police who still gleefully stop Black youth on the streets, desperate for revenge since the uprising.
“I’ve made us all new outfits just for tonight,” Lily announces as she wets my hair and brushes its knots away. “Poppy has been cooking all day. It will be a fantastic party.”
“Are we all going to match?” Maud asks. “Like ABBA?”
Lily cackles. “Knowing me, knowing you, I decided against matching outfits.” She takes a long chunk of my hair in her hands. Indicates a potential length. “Up to here, Oliver?”
“Shorter,” I say.
“Here?” She moves a little closer to my scalp.
“Maybe shorter?” I can’t see myself. No mirror to reflect my youthful face.
“I won’t be buzzing your hair off,” Lily insists. “I despise this new gay uniform of buzz-cut hair. Why do queens want to look like the skinheads who want them dead?”
“Maybe to confuse the skinheads,” Bram ponders.
“Maybe because they hate themselves, yeah?” Maud offers, and Lily gives her a nod of agreement. Maud has kept her promise since the fire. She asks us no questions. Has told Lily nothing about what happened.
Lily cuts a long chunk of my hair. Still leaves enough to run a hand through. “Self-hate. That’s what they’re counting on. If theycan’t destroy us, they’ll make sure we destroy ourselves. Promise me you’ll never do that.”
Maud nods. “Yeah, never,” she says quietly.
Bram and I eye each other. Afraid of making any promises. Then again, never self-destructing is the one thing wecanpromise. We are indestructible, after all. We both make the promise. Maud’s eyes seem to catch every moment of hesitation in our glances. Her eyes have been like that since the fire that left us unharmed, full of suspicion.
“I’ll take the helpline shift today,” I say. “Unless someone else wants it.”
Lily chops faster now. Lets long heaps of hair fall onto the stained linoleum floors. “It’s a holiday.”
“I know, but it’s still a weekday,” I explain. “The sign saysweekdays. Besides, I want to end the year doing something... meaningful. Something that feels... intentional.”
I know what Bram is thinking. He’s already accused me of taking excessive helpline shifts because I enjoy hearing from the maudlin callers. He said I’m looking for evidence to prove that my blue vision of the world is the right one. He’s not wrong.
Once Lily has shorn off my long locks, she grabs a razor. Cleans my neck up. Sizes up my sideburns to make sure they’re symmetrical. “Very handsome,” she says. Changeling paws at the locks of hair on the floor like they’re a toy.
Bram kisses the top of my head. “Beautiful,” he says.
I long for Maud to say we make her sick. To tease me for looking stupid in my new haircut. To mock us with the playful ease that was once our trademark as siblings. But she just nods and says, “You look just like you did when you arrived.” She turns to Bram. “You do too, come to think of it.” She squints, piecing somethingtogether. “I’ve grown at least two inches since I got here. My tits got bigger. I wear a different size.”
