The Collateral Haircut / Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos

 

The Collateral Haircut / Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos

Photograph by Nataliya Vaitkevich / Pexels

You feel in control for about a minute and a half as you snip, snip, snip, then panic. But Carole Bouquet got away with it… though the woman was James-Bond-girl-stunning and could pull off any haircut she wanted. Shit, shit, shit, what have you done?

#

Your brother, your blood, applied for a loan and asked you to co-sign—the younger brother you’d been raised to look after, to serve. It was your duty and your chore. You’d forgotten all about it.

#

You cut ten centimetres off your long luscious hair—that’s such a lie; you’ve had a bad hair day all your life. Not straight, not curly, not sure what to be, pathetically insecure. Definitely not luscious. No regrets. You stare straight ahead as the way-too-bright light above the mirror hurts your eyes and your feelings. You’ll feel better after, you know it. At least you hope so—it’s just like being at the hairdresser’s. Too bright. Too hopeful. Shit, shit, shit, what have you done?

#

Your brother, your blood, didn’t repay the loan. How were you to know the creditors would come after you? How were you to know he would love every single moment of the downfall he brought upon you?

#

Shit, shit, shit, what have you done? It’s not straight at all! No need to panic. It’ll be fine. Everything is under control. You’ve got this.

#

Your brother, your blood, disappeared on you, leaving you to deal with the emails and letters full of legal terms you barely understood flooding all your boxes. When you begged him to take care of it, he shouted that he had and to leave him alone. You were such a bitch for doubting him. You’d always been such a bitch and had ruined his childhood.

#

Shit, shit, shit, what have you done? Should you cut it further? You have to now. Concentrate, woman. You’ve got this. Breathe. In and out. And cut straight for pity’s sake!

#

Your brother, your blood, laughed when you cried until you grew tired of fighting. If he could ignore the whole thing, so could you. You hid the pile of legal documents under newspapers, books, carpets. It was his mess. Not yours.

#

Shit, shit, shit, what have you done? Inhale and cut, inhale and cut, inhale and…

#

Your brother, your blood, owed too much, but owned nothing. You owed nothing, but owned too much. After a while, the bank sold the debt to a collection agency. The sharks took over, and they wanted your books, your coffee machine, your car, your dog, your computer, your food, your cat, your blood, your flat, your hair… It got nasty. You got a lawyer.

#

Shit, shit, shit, what have you done? It’s so not straight. At. All. You keep cutting. You have no choice. What on earth made you think you could cut your own hair? You get a sense of déjà vu.

#

Your brother, your blood, disappeared. It was your problem, not his. Your lawyer threatened to sue the collection agency when they ignored every effort made to find a solution, when they took no heed of your calls, emails, when every day wasted added to the interest you owed.

#

Your hair is too short, but you keep cutting anyway. You don’t care. Forget Carole Bouquet. You’ll go full Sinéad O'Connor if need be.

#

Your brother, your blood, was nowhere to be found when the collection agency finally agreed to a meeting. The threat of a costly lawsuit made them more amenable. They offered to lower the debt, gave you a discount. A haircut, they called it. A collateral haircut.

#

You turn around, walk away from the hirsute chaos you created, but blame your brother, your blood for. But he is your duty and your chore. But this is your home. Your exposed neck gives you the shivers. You grab a glass of wine and put on some music. You feel better, like you knew you would, until you walk by the mirror in the hall, and jump in fright. You look like your brother, your blood. Shit, shit, shit, what have you done?