Elizabeth lofted the black cape as I watched it billow in front of me like a sheet blossoming on a clothesline. She fastened the buttons around my neck, placed her hands on either side of my head and whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“This,” she said, gesturing around us. “I have to let you go.”

Still, she reached into a black case and pulled out scissors and a comb. The scent of freshly cut grass drifted through an open kitchen window along with the squeals of neighborhood children.

“Who will cut your hair?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

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For more than 22 years, roughly 264 haircuts, we had shared this ritual. She would run her hands through my hair, nudging my head forward and sideways, her fingers mere inches away from the secret thoughts and desires swirling inside of my skull.