So I started cutting. He didn’t stir once. Not when I lopped off handfuls of blood-flecked hair. Not when the buzz of the clippers filled the silent living room. Not while I carefully—with the most delicate touch—trimmed and combed that formless bush covering half his face. It kept shrinking and shrinking, until I had uncovered the full, soft lips and the sharp cheekbones and the promise of the chiseled jaw I knew was beneath.
So bodily autonomy just goes out the window then, huh?
