Read Online Thanks for the Memories by Cecelia Ahern - Free Book Online
Authors: Cecelia Ahern
Tags: Fiction
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tug-of-war is played out. He wins. “I’ll just place it here for you.” He talks to me as though I’m a patient out on a day trip. “So what will it be for you, madam?”
“All off,” I say, trying to avoid my reflection, but I feel cold hands on the sides of my hot cheeks raising my head, and I am forced to stare at myself face-to-face. There is something unnerving about being forced to look at yourself when you are unwilling to come to terms with something. Something raw and real that you can’t run away from. I see in the mirror that I am not okay. The truth of it stares me in the face. My cheeks are sunken, small black semicircles hover below my eyes, my red eyes still sting from t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 5 9
my night tears. But apart from that, I still look like me. Despite this huge change in my life, I look exactly the same. Tired, but me. Yet the mirror told me this: you can’t know everything by looking at me. You can never know just by looking at someone. I’m five foot five, with medium-length hair that is midway between blond and brown. I’m a medium kind of person. I’m pretty, not stunning, not ugly; not fat, not skinny; I exercise three times a week, jog a little, walk a little, swim a little. Nothing to excess. Not obsessed, not addicted to anything. I’m neither outgoing nor shy but a little of both, depending on my mood, depending on the occasion. I like my job, but don’t love it. I’m okay. Nothing spectacular, but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart. I peek at the man beside me, and I see the same.
“Excuse me?” The hairdresser breaks into my thoughts. “You want it all off ? Are you sure? You’ve such healthy hair.” He runs his fingers through it. “Is this your natural color?”
“Yes, I used to put a little color in it but I stopped because of the—” I stop as my eyes fill, and I look down to my stomach, which is hidden under the gown.
“Stopped because of what?” he asks.
I pretend to be doing something with my foot. An odd shuffle maneuver. I can’t think of anything to say, so I pretend not to hear him. “Huh?”
“You were saying you stopped because of something?”
“Oh, em . . .” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If you start now, you will never stop. “Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, bending over to play with my handbag on the ground. It will pass, it will pass. Someday it will all pass, Joyce. “Chemicals. I stopped because of chemicals.”
“Right. Well, this is what it’ll look like.” He takes my hair and ties it back. “How about we do a Meg Ryan in French Kiss ?” He pulls clumps out in all directions, and I look like I’ve just woken up. “It’s 6 0 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
the sexy messy bed-head look. Or else we can do this.” He messes with my hair some more.
“Can we hurry this along? I’ve got a taxi waiting outside too.”
I look out the window. Dad is chatting to the taxi driver. They’re both laughing and I relax a little.
“O . . . kay. Something like this really shouldn’t be rushed. You have a lot of hair.”
“It’s fine. I’m giving you permission to hurry. Just cut it all off.”
“Well, we must leave a few inches on it, darling.” He directs my face back toward the mirror. “We don’t want Sigourney Weaver in Aliens , do we? No GI Janes allowed in this salon. We’ll give you a side-swept fringe, very sophisticated, very now. It’ll suit you, I think, show off those high cheekbones. What do you think?”
I don’t care about my cheekbones. I just want it off.
“Actually, how about we just do this?” I take the scissors from his hand, cut my ponytail, and then hand them both back to him. He gasps. But it sounds more like a squeak. “Or we could do that. A . . . bob.”
American man’s mouth hangs open at the sight of my hairdresser with a large pair of scissors and five inches of hair dangling
“All off,” I say, trying to avoid my reflection, but I feel cold hands on the sides of my hot cheeks raising my head, and I am forced to stare at myself face-to-face. There is something unnerving about being forced to look at yourself when you are unwilling to come to terms with something. Something raw and real that you can’t run away from. I see in the mirror that I am not okay. The truth of it stares me in the face. My cheeks are sunken, small black semicircles hover below my eyes, my red eyes still sting from t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 5 9
my night tears. But apart from that, I still look like me. Despite this huge change in my life, I look exactly the same. Tired, but me. Yet the mirror told me this: you can’t know everything by looking at me. You can never know just by looking at someone. I’m five foot five, with medium-length hair that is midway between blond and brown. I’m a medium kind of person. I’m pretty, not stunning, not ugly; not fat, not skinny; I exercise three times a week, jog a little, walk a little, swim a little. Nothing to excess. Not obsessed, not addicted to anything. I’m neither outgoing nor shy but a little of both, depending on my mood, depending on the occasion. I like my job, but don’t love it. I’m okay. Nothing spectacular, but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart. I peek at the man beside me, and I see the same.
“Excuse me?” The hairdresser breaks into my thoughts. “You want it all off ? Are you sure? You’ve such healthy hair.” He runs his fingers through it. “Is this your natural color?”
“Yes, I used to put a little color in it but I stopped because of the—” I stop as my eyes fill, and I look down to my stomach, which is hidden under the gown.
“Stopped because of what?” he asks.
I pretend to be doing something with my foot. An odd shuffle maneuver. I can’t think of anything to say, so I pretend not to hear him. “Huh?”
“You were saying you stopped because of something?”
“Oh, em . . .” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If you start now, you will never stop. “Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, bending over to play with my handbag on the ground. It will pass, it will pass. Someday it will all pass, Joyce. “Chemicals. I stopped because of chemicals.”
“Right. Well, this is what it’ll look like.” He takes my hair and ties it back. “How about we do a Meg Ryan in French Kiss ?” He pulls clumps out in all directions, and I look like I’ve just woken up. “It’s 6 0 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
the sexy messy bed-head look. Or else we can do this.” He messes with my hair some more.
“Can we hurry this along? I’ve got a taxi waiting outside too.”
I look out the window. Dad is chatting to the taxi driver. They’re both laughing and I relax a little.
“O . . . kay. Something like this really shouldn’t be rushed. You have a lot of hair.”
“It’s fine. I’m giving you permission to hurry. Just cut it all off.”
“Well, we must leave a few inches on it, darling.” He directs my face back toward the mirror. “We don’t want Sigourney Weaver in Aliens , do we? No GI Janes allowed in this salon. We’ll give you a side-swept fringe, very sophisticated, very now. It’ll suit you, I think, show off those high cheekbones. What do you think?”
I don’t care about my cheekbones. I just want it off.
“Actually, how about we just do this?” I take the scissors from his hand, cut my ponytail, and then hand them both back to him. He gasps. But it sounds more like a squeak. “Or we could do that. A . . . bob.”
American man’s mouth hangs open at the sight of my hairdresser with a large pair of scissors and five inches of hair dangling
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