I shaved my wife’s head in the garden

Dear Delyara, My wife asked me to shave her head before chemotherapy took the choice from her. She did not want to do it in the bathroom because she said she did not want hair blocking the drain, so we carried a chair into the garden. It was late afternoon. Our neighbour was mowing his lawn, birds were fighting over the feeder, and somewhere a child was practising the same three piano notes again and again. Ordinary sounds continued while I cut away the hair I had watched turn grey beside me for thirty-two years. My wife made jokes at first. She said her head was shaped like a potato and that I had finally become useful with clippers. Then the final long piece fell across her shoulder, and neither of us spoke. When I finished, she rubbed her scalp and asked whether she looked ill. I said she looked beautiful. She replied, “That isn’t what I asked.” So I told her the truth: yes, she looked ill, and I was frightened. She leaned her bare head against my chest. The wind lifted strands of her hair across the grass, and I wanted to gather every one. Instead, we left them there until the birds began carrying pieces away for their nests.