Big changes by Layton leib

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The late afternoon light slanted across Jamie Blake’s bedroom, painting golden bars on the floorboards and the open pages of his book. He sat cross-legged on the rug, elbows resting on his knees, eyes squinting through the shaggy blonde fringe that refused to stay put. Every few seconds, he’d huff and swipe it aside, only for it to fall again like a curtain of defiance.

The paperback was good—some fantasy thing with a lost prince and a storm—but Jamie kept losing the thread. His hair was winning.

A knock, then the door creaked open.

Rowan Blake stepped in, boots soft against the wood. Her presence filled the room like a shift in weather—not loud, but unmistakable. Cropped hair, olive-green hoodie, and the kind of posture that said she’d done drills before breakfast. Her eyes scanned the room, then settled on Jamie.

"How’s it going?" she asked, voice dry but warm.

Jamie looked up, blinking through the fringe. "Okay. Just... this hair’s kind of annoying."

Rowan crouched beside him, studying his face like she was assessing a tactical situation. "Want a hand with it?"

Jamie hesitated, brushing it back again. "Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just in the way all the time."

Rowan nodded, thoughtful. "We could clean it up a bit. Nothing drastic. Just enough to see the page."

Jamie gave a small smile. "Yeah... that might help."

Rowan stood, offered a hand. "Come on. Let’s sort it."

Jamie set the book aside and followed her down the hall, not with dread, but with quiet curiosity.

The bathroom was warm, lit by the soft hum of the overhead bulb and the fading gold of evening light. Jamie stood near the tub, arms loose at his sides, watching Rowan rummage beneath the sink. The air smelled faintly of lavender soap and old tile.

She emerged with her clippers—matte black, worn smooth in places—and snapped on a number 2 guard with a practiced click.

"Take your shirt off," she said gently. "It’ll be easier to clean up after."

Jamie hesitated, then peeled off his hoodie and T-shirt, folding them neatly on the counter. "Feels weird," he muttered. "Like I’m about to get dissected."

Rowan smirked. "Just trimmed. No scalpels today."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You sure this won’t look... ridiculous?"

Rowan patted the edge of the tub. "Lean forward. Head down."

Jamie obeyed, settling into the curve of the porcelain. His heart thudded—not with dread, but with the strange anticipation of change.

The clippers buzzed to life.

Rowan placed a steady hand on the nape of his neck and began at the back, guiding the clippers upward in smooth, deliberate strokes. The first pass sent a tuft of blonde tumbling forward, landing between Jamie’s arms. He blinked at it, surprised—and then smiled.

"Oh," he said softly. "That’s... kind of nice."

"See?" Rowan murmured. "You’ve been hiding under all this fluff."

Hair fell in pale sheets, sliding down his shoulders, gathering in the tub. Jamie stayed still, eyes half-closed, letting the hum of the clippers fill the space between them.

"Did you ever have long hair?" he asked.

Rowan chuckled. "Once. Back in cadet school. Thought it made me look older. Wiser. Like I knew what I was doing."

Jamie snorted. "Did it?"

"Not even a little. I was halfway down a zipline when the wind whipped my hair into the pulley. Yanked my head back so hard I saw stars."

"Ouch."

"Got stuck dangling ten feet off the ground while everyone shouted instructions. Had to be rescued by a guy named Moose."

Jamie lifted his head slightly. "Moose?"

"Six-foot-five and terrified of heights. Took him twenty minutes to reach me. I was crying from laughter by the time he got there."

Rowan shifted to the side of his head, guiding the clippers with quiet precision. "That night, I borrowed a pair of clippers from the quartermaster. No guard. Straight to the scalp."

Jamie peeked at the growing pile in the tub. "That’s kind of hardcore."

"It was freeing," Rowan said. "No more tugging, no more hiding. Just me, clean and sharp and not getting caught in anything."

She paused, met his eyes in the mirror. "Sometimes you don’t realize how much you’re carrying until it’s gone."

Jamie was quiet for a moment. Then: "You think I’m hiding?"

Rowan shook her head. "I think you’re growing. And sometimes growing means letting go of what used to fit."

Jamie nodded slowly. "Okay."

Rowan clicked the clippers back on. "Good. Because we’re halfway there."

She cleared the crown and sides, each pass revealing more of his scalp, more of the shape beneath the shag. Jamie didn’t flinch. He didn’t protest. He just breathed.

When she finished, Rowan clicked the clippers off. The silence felt sudden.

Jamie straightened, brushing loose strands from his arms. He caught his reflection in the mirror—shorter, lighter, still him.

Rowan crossed her arms, surveying the result. "Alright. That’s the bulk gone."

Jamie tilted his head. "It feels better already."

Rowan nodded, then reached for the clippers again. This time, she slid the guard off and set it aside.

Jamie blinked. "Wait—what’s next?"

She met his eyes, calm and steady. "Now we shape it."

Rowan slid the guard off the clippers and set it aside with a quiet click. The hum of the motor returned—lower now, sharper.

Jamie glanced at the exposed blades. "That looks... serious."

Rowan met his eyes in the mirror. "It is."

He swallowed. "You’re not done?"

"We’re shaping it now," she said. "Back, sides, and the middle. Everything but the arc."

Jamie blinked. "Wait—the middle too?"

Rowan nodded. "That strip down the center? It goes. It’s called a horseshoe."

Jamie tilted his head slightly. "A horseshoe?"

"Yeah," she said, guiding the clippers to the base of his neck. "It’s a military cut. Clean, sharp, no nonsense. You shave everything except the ring around the top—like the shape of a horseshoe."

She began cutting, slow and deliberate. Hair fell in finer wisps now, drifting like ash. Jamie watched it slide down his chest, pale against his skin.

"Why do they wear it?" he asked.

Rowan’s voice stayed steady. "Discipline. Utility. It keeps the head cool under a helmet, doesn’t get in the way, and it shows you’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to show up."

Jamie breathed in. "I didn’t know I needed that."

Rowan moved to the top of his head, fingers steady. "Tilt forward a bit."

Jamie adjusted, and Rowan began on the landing strip.

She didn’t rush.

The clippers buzzed softly as she worked down the center of his crown, removing the strip in slow, measured passes. Each stroke was deliberate, clearing just enough to reveal the scalp beneath while preserving the arc around it. Hair fell forward in soft clumps, gathering between Jamie’s arms.

Jamie watched it fall. "That’s the part most people hesitate on?"

Rowan nodded. "The middle feels exposed. Vulnerable. But once it’s gone, it’s like clearing fog."

She paused to brush loose strands from his shoulders, then leaned in again, adjusting the curve with quiet care. Her fingers brushed his scalp, steady and sure.

"You’re being really... gentle," Jamie said, voice low.

Rowan met his eyes in the mirror. "You’re my son," she said simply. "Of course I’m going to be gentle."

Jamie didn’t answer right away. He just breathed in, letting the words settle. The clippers resumed, softer now, like they were part of the silence.

Rowan triple-checked the shape, smoothing the edges with short, precise strokes. The horseshoe emerged—clean, stark, mythic. Jamie didn’t speak. He just watched the shape take form, piece by piece.

Rowan stepped back, clippers still humming in her hand. "Alright," she said softly. "Now we shave."

Rowan turned off the clippers and set them aside. The hum faded, leaving only the soft drip of the bathroom tap and the hush between them.

Jamie sat still on the edge of the tub, bare shoulders dusted with pale hair. The horseshoe was shaped now—clean, stark, and waiting.

Rowan opened the cabinet and pulled out a tall, heavy can of shaving cream. It was matte silver, dented near the base, with a thick plastic cap. She gave it a firm shake—shh-thh-thh-thh—then popped the lid off and set it aside.

Jamie watched her with quiet curiosity. "That’s... a lot of shaving cream."

Rowan smiled. "You’ve got a lot of scalp."

She pressed the nozzle and let a thick mound of foam bloom into her palm. Then she set the can down and rubbed her hands together, warming it.

"No brush?" Jamie asked.

"Hands are better," she said. "More control. More care."

She stepped forward and began to apply the cream—fingers gliding gently over his scalp, smoothing it across the back, the sides, and the center of his crown. Her touch was slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial.

Jamie closed his eyes. "That feels... nice."

"It’s supposed to," Rowan said. "This part isn’t just about smoothness. It’s about finishing what you started. Making it real."

Jamie breathed in. "It already feels real."

Rowan didn’t answer. She rinsed her hands, then reached for the straight razor wrapped in cloth. She unrolled it slowly, revealing the blade—slim, worn, and waiting.

Then she pulled out a small sharpening stone—dark grey, smooth, and slightly damp.

She didn’t rush.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic shhhk-shhhk of steel against stone. Rowan’s movements were steady, focused. She angled the blade carefully, drawing it across the surface again and again. The ritual stretched, quiet and reverent.

Jamie watched her. "You always sharpen it that long?"

Rowan nodded. "Always. It’s about respect. For the blade. For the person."

She tested the edge one last time, then stepped forward.

"Lean forward," she said gently.

Jamie obeyed, and Rowan placed her hand lightly on the crown of his head.

She began with the landing strip.

The blade whispered as she shaved from the back of his crown forward, clearing the center in slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass revealed smooth skin beneath the foam, the horseshoe shape sharpening with every inch.

Jamie didn’t flinch. He just breathed.

"You’re doing great," she murmured.

"Feels like I’m being... rewritten," Jamie said.

Rowan paused. "Not rewritten. Revealed."

She rinsed the blade, then continued—temples, nape, crown. Her movements were steady, reverent. Jamie sat still, fully surrendered.

When she finished, Rowan wiped his scalp clean with a warm cloth, then ran her fingers over the skin, checking for missed spots.

She nodded, satisfied. "There. That’s it."

Jamie opened his eyes. "Can I see?"

Rowan gestured to the mirror. "Go ahead."

Jamie stood slowly, brushing a few stray hairs from his chest. The bathroom felt different now—quieter, like something sacred had just happened.

Rowan stepped aside, giving him space.

He turned toward the mirror.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

The reflection staring back was stark and unfamiliar: scalp smooth, the horseshoe sharp and clean, the arc of hair framing his crown like a symbol. His face looked clearer somehow—more deliberate. More present.

Jamie frowned slightly. "I don’t know," he murmured. "It’s... a lot."

Rowan didn’t answer. She just waited.

He leaned closer, studying the shape. Then he reached up and touched the arc of remaining hair—soft, deliberate. His fingers traced the curve, then slid down to the bare skin at the center of his crown.

He paused.

Then he rubbed it again—slowly this time, both hands moving over the smooth scalp and the horseshoe’s edge. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation settle in.

"It feels... good," he said quietly. "I didn’t think it would."

Rowan stepped forward, quiet behind him.

Jamie opened his eyes and looked at her in the mirror. "You were right," he said. "I wouldn’t have picked this. But I’m glad you did."

Rowan’s expression softened. "I knew you could carry it."

Jamie nodded, still rubbing the crown of his head. "It’s strange. But it feels like me."

Then Rowan stepped close behind him and gently placed her hands on his head—one at the crown, one at the nape. She tilted his head forward, then to each side, inspecting the shape with quiet care.

"Hold still," she murmured.

Jamie obeyed.

She ran her thumbs along the arc, checking the symmetry, then traced her fingers down the center—slowly, reverently—following the landing strip from crown to nape.

Jamie exhaled softly. Her touch was firm, warm, and grounding. He didn’t just tolerate it—he liked it. The feeling of someone else’s fingers moving gently across the bare skin, confirming what was there, made the change feel real. Safe.

Then Rowan leaned in and placed a gentle kiss at the center of his scalp.

"I’m proud of you," she said.

Jamie closed his eyes.

Jamie didn’t rush to dress.

He stood in the soft light of the bathroom, bare-chested, scalp smooth, the horseshoe clean and sharp. His fingers drifted back to the landing strip, tracing it again—slow, thoughtful. The sensation still surprised him. He liked it. The contrast. The clarity.

Rowan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. She didn’t speak. Just watched.

Jamie glanced at her, then back at the mirror. His posture was different now—shoulders relaxed, chin lifted slightly. Not proud, exactly. Just... settled.

He pulled his shirt over his head, then paused halfway, letting the fabric rest around his neck.

"When can we do it again?" he asked, eyes bright.

Rowan blinked. "You want it cut again already?"

Jamie nodded quickly. "Yeah. I don’t know—I just... I liked it. All of it. The clippers, the shaving cream, the way it felt when you rubbed it after. I want to keep it sharp."

Rowan smiled, stepping forward to brush a few stray hairs from his shoulder. "I can shape you up next week," she said. "If you want."

Jamie grinned. "I definitely want."

He finished dressing, then stepped into the hallway. The air felt cooler on his scalp. He didn’t flinch.

Rowan followed, quiet behind him.

In the mirror by the stairs, Jamie caught another glimpse of himself. He didn’t stop this time. Just looked. Accepted.

Rowan reached out and gently adjusted the collar of his shirt.

"You’re good," she said.

Jamie nodded. "I’m good."

They didn’t say much after that. The ritual was complete. The silence between them was full.

As they passed the living room, Jamie hesitated.

He rubbed the landing strip again, then glanced at Rowan, cheeks slightly pink. "Is it weird if I ask you to... rub my head?"

Rowan tilted her head. "Weird how?"

Jamie shrugged. "I don’t know. It just feels nice. But maybe it’s a dumb idea."

Rowan stepped closer, her voice soft. "It’s not dumb. You liked it. That’s reason enough."

As she said it, she reached up and gently ran her hand over his head—fingers gliding across the arc, then down the landing strip in one slow, reassuring pass.

Jamie exhaled, shoulders loosening. "Would you? While I read?"

Rowan smiled. "Only if you read to me."

Jamie laughed, relieved. "Deal."

The living room was quiet, lit by the soft amber glow of the lamp and the hush of evening.

Jamie sat cross-legged on the floor, nestled between Rowan’s legs, his back resting lightly against her shins. A book lay open in his lap. He began to read aloud, voice steady, low.

Rowan’s hands moved to his head without a word—like they had when he was small and feverish, or tired from crying. Her fingers brushed over the arc of hair, then down the landing strip in slow, familiar passes.

She liked the feel of it. The warmth of his scalp. The shape she’d carved with care. There was something grounding in it—like folding laundry or smoothing a blanket over someone sleeping.

Jamie’s shoulders softened. His voice faltered slightly, then resumed. The words blurred, not from confusion, but from comfort.

He leaned back just a little, letting her touch guide him. The horseshoe was clean. The scalp smooth. Her fingers moved with quiet rhythm, steady and sure.

Jamie lost track of the paragraph.

Rowan didn’t correct him. She just kept rubbing his head, slow and maternal, like she was settling him into sleep.

Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the center of his crown—right on the landing strip.

"I’ve got you," she whispered.

Jamie closed his eyes.

The book stayed open. The story continued. But the ritual had shifted—no longer about clippers or shaving cream, but about presence, memory, and the quiet strength of being mothered.

The bathroom was warm with late afternoon light, quiet except for the soft hum of the clippers in Rowan’s hand.

Jamie sat on the edge of the tub again, towel draped over his shoulders. His horseshoe had grown out—thick enough to ruffle, a soft number 5. The landing strip and sides were no longer bare, just fuzzy with quiet regrowth.

Rowan clipped on the guard and gave the clippers a test buzz.

Jamie grinned. "I missed that sound."

Rowan smiled. "You’re early. I said next week."

"I know," Jamie said. "But I liked how it felt. I want it back."

Rowan nodded, stepping behind him. "Alright. Let’s shape you up."

She started with the horseshoe.

The clippers buzzed low and steady as she guided them along the arc, trimming the grown-out hair back to its clean edge. Hair fell in soft tufts, gathering in the towel folds. Jamie sat still, eyes closed, breathing steady.

"You’ve got good growth," Rowan murmured. "Comes in even."

Jamie smiled. "Thanks. I’ve been rubbing it a lot."

"I can tell."

Once the horseshoe was sharp again, Rowan removed the guard.

She moved to the sides and back, clearing the fuzz with short, practiced strokes. The clippers whispered close to the skin, tapering clean toward the nape. Her touch was firm, maternal—adjusting his head gently, tilting it to catch the light.

Then she leaned in for the landing strip.

"Head forward," she said softly.

Jamie obeyed.

Rowan guided the clippers from back to front, clearing the center in slow, deliberate passes. The strip reappeared—clean, pale, and stark against the arc.

Jamie exhaled. "That’s the part I missed most."

Rowan smiled. "I know."

She set the clippers aside and reached for the tall silver can of shaving cream. She shook it—shh-thh-thh-thh—then pressed the nozzle and let a thick mound bloom into her palm.

She rubbed her hands together, warming the foam, then began to apply it—fingers gliding gently over his scalp, smoothing it across the back, sides, and center. Her touch was slow, deliberate, maternal.

Jamie closed his eyes.

Rowan unwrapped the straight razor and pulled out the sharpening stone. She didn’t rush. The rhythmic shhhk-shhhk of steel against stone filled the room.

When the blade was ready, she leaned in and began to shave—short, careful strokes, always with the grain. The razor whispered across his scalp, clearing the last traces of stubble.

Jamie breathed in. "It feels even better than last time."

Rowan rinsed the blade, then continued—temples, nape, crown. Her movements were steady, reverent.

When she finished, she wiped his scalp clean with a warm cloth, then ran her fingers over the skin, checking for missed spots.

Her hand lingered at the center.

"If you like the smoothness," she said gently, "I could shave your whole head next time. No horseshoe. Just clean."

Jamie blinked. "You think I’d look okay?"

Rowan smiled. "I think you’d look strong. Sharp. And if you liked this, you’d love that."

Jamie rubbed the landing strip, thoughtful. "I kind of want to try it."

Rowan leaned in and kissed the center of his crown.

"Then we’ll do it," she said. "Next time."

Jamie closed his eyes.

Jamie sat on the edge of his bed, towel still around his shoulders, scalp freshly shaved and tingling. The horseshoe was clean again. The landing strip smooth. The ritual complete.

But the idea lingered.

No horseshoe. Just smooth skin. All of it.

He rubbed the landing strip absently, then leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed. The memory of Rowan’s voice drifted in—clear, steady, maternal.

> "If you like the smoothness,"
> "I could shave your whole head next time."
> "No horseshoe. Just clean."

He’d blinked at her then, surprised.
> "You think I’d look okay?"

She’d smiled.
> "I think you’d look strong. Sharp. And if you liked this, you’d love that."

Then her fingers had traced the landing strip, and she’d leaned in—

> "There you are."

—kissed the center of his crown.

Jamie breathed in, letting the words settle. He imagined it now: Rowan standing behind him, clippers in hand, no guard. The arc gone in one slow pass. Her touch steady. Her voice grounding.

He imagined the shaving cream, cool and thick. Her fingers smoothing it over his whole scalp. The razor gliding across the top of his head, slow and deliberate. Her hand resting on his shoulder. Her final check. Her kiss.

Jamie rubbed his head again, thoughtful.

It didn’t scare him.

It felt... clean. Like starting over. Like being seen.

He smiled, just a little.

Jamie stood in the bathroom, clippers in hand, staring at the mirror.

The towel was already around his shoulders. His scalp still gleamed from the shape-up two days ago. The horseshoe hadn’t grown much. The landing strip was still smooth. But the idea had settled in.

Rowan walked past the open door, then paused.

She stepped back, leaned against the frame, and looked at him.

Jamie didn’t turn. Just kept staring at his reflection.

"I want it shaved," he said quietly. "I want it all shaved off."

Rowan stepped into the room, voice gentle. "You’re sure?"

Jamie nodded. "I keep thinking about it. I want to feel it. All of it."

Rowan crossed to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Okay," she said. "But I’ll keep asking."

She took the clippers from his hand and turned them on. The buzz filled the room.

"Last chance," she said softly.

Jamie met her eyes in the mirror. "I want this."

Rowan nodded, then brought the clippers to the top of his head.

She didn’t rush.

The first pass was slow—deliberate. She guided the blades through the arc, watching his face as the hair fell away. Pale skin emerged beneath, smooth and quiet. Jamie’s breath caught, just slightly.

Rowan smiled to herself.

She moved carefully, clearing the crown in slow, even strokes. The clippers whispered through the grown-out horseshoe, and Jamie leaned into the rhythm. His eyes softened. His shoulders dropped.

"You’re really doing it," Rowan murmured.

Jamie closed his eyes. "Feels good."

Rowan paused. "Still sure?"

"Still sure."

She moved to the temples, then the curve of his head, taking her time. Each pass was gentle, precise. She watched for his reactions—the way his jaw relaxed, the way he tilted toward her hand.

When the buzz was complete, she reached for the shaving cream. The foam hissed into her palm, thick and cool. She rubbed it between her hands, then smoothed it over his entire scalp—back, sides, crown, center.

Her fingers moved slowly, reverently.

Jamie exhaled.

Rowan sharpened the straight razor, the rhythmic shhhk-shhhk filling the room. Then she leaned in and began to shave—short, careful strokes, always with the grain. The razor whispered across his scalp, clearing every trace of stubble.

She wiped his scalp clean with a warm cloth, then reached for the small tin on the shelf. She opened it, scooped out a bit of balm, and warmed it between her palms.

Then she rubbed it in—slow circles across his crown, temples, nape. The scent was soft and herbal. Jamie sighed.

Rowan smiled. "Want it smoother?"

Jamie blinked. "Smoother?"

She nodded. "I can go against the grain. It’ll be baby-smooth."

Jamie hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Let’s do it."

Rowan re-lathered his scalp, slow and steady. The foam was cool again, her fingers smoothing it with care.

She resharpened the blade, then leaned in.

This time, she shaved upward—against the grain. The strokes were shorter, firmer, more precise. Jamie’s breath deepened. His scalp tingled with each pass.

Rowan worked in silence, watching his face. He looked peaceful. Grounded.

When she finished, she wiped his head clean again, then reached for the balm once more.

She warmed it in her hands, then rubbed it in—slow, steady, maternal. Her fingers moved with care, sealing the ritual with touch.

Her hand lingered at the center.

She kissed the crown.

"There you are," she said.

Jamie didn’t speak. Just breathed.

Jamie stood in front of the mirror, towel still around his shoulders, scalp freshly shaved and gleaming. The balm Rowan had rubbed in left a soft sheen, catching the light.

He leaned in slowly.

No horseshoe. No landing strip. Just smooth skin—clean, pale, uninterrupted.

His hand rose instinctively, palm brushing over the crown. It felt unreal. Soft. Bare. Like something new.

Rowan stood behind him, quiet.

Jamie tilted his head, studying the curve of it. The way the light moved across the surface. The way his features looked without the frame of hair.

He didn’t look older. Or tougher. He looked... clear.

Like someone who’d stepped into something deliberate.

Rowan stepped closer, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

"You okay?" she asked.

Jamie nodded. "I like it."

She smiled. "You look strong."

Jamie kept staring. Not out of shock—but out of awe. The ritual had stripped something away, but it had given something back too.

He touched the crown again, then let his hand fall.

"When will I need it shaved again?" he asked.

Rowan looked at his scalp, then rubbed her thumb gently across the crown.

"If you want to keep it smooth like this," she said, "I can do it daily. Just a quick pass. Balm after. Keep the shine."

Jamie blinked. "Every day?"

Rowan nodded. "It’s up to you. Some people like the feel. The ritual. You’ve got the head for it."

Jamie smiled, just a little. "I think I want that."

Rowan kissed the top of his head once more.

"Then we’ll make it part of the day," she said. "Like brushing teeth. Like checking in."

Jamie closed his eyes.

Morning light spilled across the bathroom tiles, soft and pale.

Jamie sat on the edge of the tub, towel around his shoulders, head tilted slightly forward. His scalp was still smooth from yesterday’s shave, but a faint shadow had begun to return—barely there, but enough to dull the shine.

Rowan stood behind him, sleeves rolled, razor already sharpened.

"You ready?" she asked.

Jamie nodded. "Let’s keep it smooth."

Rowan smiled, then reached for the shaving cream. She didn’t rush. The foam hissed into her palm, and she warmed it between her hands before smoothing it over his crown—slow, steady, maternal.

Jamie closed his eyes.

She shaved with quiet precision, short strokes against the grain. The blade whispered across his scalp, clearing the faint stubble before it could settle. Her hand rested gently on his shoulder, keeping him steady.

Jamie breathed in. The rhythm was familiar now. Comforting.

When she finished, she wiped his head clean with a warm cloth, then reached for the balm.

She rubbed it between her palms, then massaged it into his scalp—slow circles, soft pressure, sealing the smoothness with care.

Her hand lingered at the crown.

Then, gently: "Do you think you’ll grow it back?"

Jamie opened his eyes. "I don’t know."

Rowan waited.

"I liked the horseshoe," he said. "It felt like me. But this does too."

Rowan nodded. "You don’t have to decide yet."

Jamie smiled. "Maybe I’ll go back to the horseshoe. Just for a bit."

Rowan kissed the top of his head.

"Whatever you choose," she said, "we’ll make it feel right."

Jamie closed his eyes again.

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