Irina brushed her slivery-blond hair in front of the hotel room mirror. It was perfectly cleaned (and it should be the room cost a pretty penny). The analog clock blinked nine o clock in the morning as Irina paused. How long had it been since she last had a day to herself? When had she last slept late? Irina never had a cozy life. She was unaccustomed to lazy days, waking up whenever and lazily showering after sunrise. Although, she mused, it was not at all unpleasant. Though she found the perfumed soaps and shampoos the maids provided impractical (any scent, no matter how small, can give a spy away), she secretly enjoyed how her hair smelled like roses. All of the tangles had been brushed from her hair, but still, she pulled the bristles through. Her light hair stood out against her deep blue eyes. So light she had received many comments on how pale her hair was. From so many people. ** Approximately fifteen years ago**
Irina, he whispered. She sighed, letting her head fall back.
Rin, you are so beautiful. A smile twists red lips. She runs her hand through his dark brown hair, cut short.
Never cut it, he says, releasing the clip that held Irina s long, gold hair out of her face. Promise me. If you want me to respond, Irina breathed, You need to take your lips off my *gasp* neck. **
She closed her eyes in front of the mirror. Her hair had been cut short all too soon.
What as a mere promise to an espionage agent?
(It was everything, but Irina would never admit.)
**When Nikolai was seven years old**
He reached over and playfully tugged a lock of her hair.
Ow! Irina batted her son s hand away, his small fist taking with it two light strands. Sorry! Nikolai yelped. I didn t mean to! It s hair, darling, she said as she ruffled his own. I have more. Nikolai nodded in agreement. Me too. He reached up to pull one of his hairs, then laid his collection on the table. His dark brown hair had gotten long, Irina noticed, and nearly impossible to comb.
Mother, why isn t my hair like yours? The boy asked.
He received no reply.
Was his hair like mine? Irina stood and stiffly walked out of the room, leaving her son alone on the couch with a mix of hairs and memories. **
Irina brought her hand to the mirror, dirtying it with handprints. Perhaps she would check out early.
Perhaps she would start on another mission.
Perhaps she would do some snooping. Perhaps she would don a costume and makeup, become someone else. Perhaps she would wear a wig.