We’d get drunk and cut my hair even shorter. He’d snip huge chunks out with kitchen scissors while I sat at the table squeezing limes into beers. I eventually shaved both sides, leaving me with a tufty Mohawk. I lived in sneakers and his sweaters and I’d spend days with him without touching a makeup bag or a razor—a total first. We’d go for weekends on the coast and wash our faces and bodies and dishes in the sea. We set up a tent in his bedroom on Sunday nights when we were bored. It was pure and free and perfect.
