Ethan watched carefully as she gathered the first section.
“Ready?” she asked.
He grinned.
“Please cut it. I’m tired of eating my own hair.”
The scissors closed.
A thick section of brown hair fell into her hand.
Ethan stared at it for a moment.
Then another section came away.
And another.
When she finished, he looked at himself in the mirror and burst out laughing.
“I look like I got into a fight with a lawn mower.”
“You look handsome,” I said.
“You’re legally required to say that.”
“I am not.”
“You literally gave birth to me. You’re biased.”
I laughed so hard that the stylist joined us.
But when the stylist placed his donated hair into a protective bag, Ethan became quiet.
He touched the back of his newly shortened hair.
“That’s really going to help her?”
“It will be part of the process,” I reminded him. “The wigmaker will combine it with other suitable hair if necessary.”
