By
Jennifer Lynn
Ken Hutchinson stood in front of his bathroom mirror staring at the face that reflected back at him.
Another day. Another
date. Another lonely night.
Maybe he was just getting older, or maybe he was beginning to stop caring about whether or not he scored anymore with the women he dated. The date he had just come home from hadn’t been that bad after all. In fact, it had been quite - nice.
Yes. He shrugged
his shoulders and raised his left eyebrow at himself, nodding a 'yes' to some unuttered, unheard question. The
date had been quite nice. Coward. And
wasn't that what it was supposed to be? He was nice after all. He had nice
friends, a nice apartment, a nice car, a nice, if sometimes stressful career,
nice clothes, a nice singing voice, a nice greenhouse filled with nice plants. Not even a Venus Fly Trap among the lot of
them.
The reflection
shrugged again, but the eyes… they never wavered, boring into him, daring him
to reveal the answer to a question he didn't want to ask. It didn’t bother him
– too much. Yet. He was good at
distracting himself. The date, the date.
Ah, yes. The date had been nice. No, good,
let's use the word 'good', please. He had taken her to a nearby restaurant
that had been reviewed recently in the paper. What made him pick that
particular restaurant had been the way the reviewer had liked the food and gone
on and on about the pleasant and - oh,
God, - nice atmosphere.
Just can't get away from that can you.
Everything nice and perfect. Everything in its place. Everything in my life
just so, just the way a Hutchinson is supposed to be. The reflection frowned.
The meal was good.
She was a very easy person to be with. They had talked a little about their
respective childhoods, a must on any first date it seemed, gone on to
discussions about various jobs each had held, and finished by sharing a nice
mud pie dessert, talking about the types of fine arts they both enjoyed.
Definitely nice. And easily forgotten.
It wasn't what he
wanted. Not anymore. Not by a long shot.
Lately, he had begun
to feel some sort of edge creeping in on him. Little things that had never
bothered him before were now starting to irritate him to the point that he was
beginning to take his frustrations out on some of the people around him. The
stress and tension of recent cases hadn’t helped any. Now headaches were
starting to invade his life quite frequently and he would find that with the
headaches the muscles in his face and neck would tense. He had to will himself
to relax. Even now, while he had been standing and looking at himself in the
mirror, he could tell that he had been tensing up.
He reached up and
smoothed out some of the hair that was tangled on the right side of his head. Please relax. The eyes closed for a
moment and he took a soul-cleansing breath deep inside his lungs. Some of the
tension washed away as he blew out the bad air and willed his muscles in his
neck and shoulders to relax. He opened his eyes again to see if there was any
noticeable change upon his continence.
No, you're the same nice person you've always
been. Only you are starting to lose some control. You can't really see it, but
I know you can feel it. And it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than simple
breathing to put your problems to rest.
A sigh.
Control this!
Suddenly and without
warning, he reached up with both of his hands and roughly ran them wildly over
his hair. Closing his eyes as he did so, he ran his fingers through and over,
forward and underneath, and around and around his head until he was sure he
would look crazy and disheveled in the mirror.
Stopping the frantic
movement, he caught a breath before opening his eyes. Feel better? Part of him was almost sure that no matter how he
messed up his hair, when he looked, it would automatically look neat and
normal. Nice. The way a Hutchinson should
look… should act… should be… should want…
The other part of
him knew what he would really see. A jumbled up, increasingly confused young
man slowly losing control over… things.
He snapped his eyes
open.
Idiot. What did you hope to accomplish? You pretty much look as you did before, just a little more… tousled. Like your mind. Changing your hair ain't going to do it for you, buddy boy.
Sighing again, for
the umpteenth time that day, he reached out his right hand for the door that
opened the medicine cabinet. Leaning left so he could maintain eye contact with
himself, he opened the mirror and reached inside, groping for the comb he kept
there. It was a fun game, to see if he could find it without looking. Finding it without looking. Yes, you weren't
looking, but you found it all right.
He found the comb
and gently shut the mirror. Slowly and deliberately, he started manipulating
the comb through his tangled hair, concentrating on putting every long strand
back in place.
And it was getting
mighty long too. Already Dobey had grumbled to him on more than one occasion to
get it cut. Too bad, too. Was thinking of
letting it get long enough so that I could have a small pony tail back there.
Like I had in college. But Dobey wouldn't like it any more than my father had,
way back when. 'It's not something any son of mine will have!' his father
had yelled at him. 'Not a Hutchinson living in this house!' So he had left,
only to return when he'd had to.
And he knew too that
there were police regulations about hair length anyways. And since you are a nice boy, and a good Hutchinson (no matter what my
father might think), you know you won't break those rules. Not that he
stuck to those rules at other times.
Such a big deal always made over my hair. Parents, bosses, women, even men had at one
time or another commented on his hair. Can't
control my hair length, can't control…
When his hair looked
nice again, he put the comb back and went about getting ready for bed. He
brushed his teeth and got ready to take a shower.
The warm water felt
good, cascading over his tanned skin, easing away some of the days tension.
Standing with his back to the spray he let the water hit his neck and
shoulders, while he gently rotated and stretched the muscles. Picking up the
soap he worked up a thick lather in his hands and briskly applied it over his
body. He reached for the shampoo to wash his hair.
When he was done, he
toweled off and found himself standing in front of the mirror once again.
Feeling drained, looking a little tired and definitely more than ready for bed,
he grabbed the comb again and held it poised over his now wet hair, pausing for
a second. What the hell. And he began
the task of putting his hair back in place again. Everything in its place.
Does anything ever really change?
Yes.
Finished with the
job, he replaced the comb on its perch, closed the mirror and reached over to
turn out the light. But an idea suddenly occurred to him. He looked at his
reflection again. Maybe…
Leaning forward so
that his forehead almost touched the glass, he brought up his right index
finger and laid it against the skin between his nose and upper lip. Rubbing
gently, he could feel the coarse hairs staring to grow there. In the morning he
would shave it all away. But maybe…
He couldn't grow his
hair any longer, he couldn't afford a new car, he couldn't change his voice, he
couldn't not be nice, he couldn't quit his job, he couldn't really break any
rules, and he couldn't tell his partner he was falling in love with him. But I could…
"Ah,
Starsk…"
…grow a mustache.