A/N: wowza I did not mean to make y'all wait so long for a new chapter! Christmas and the new year is always a busy, hectic time, for all of us, but regular updates should resume now. In the meantime, a happy new year to everyone! 3
6 June 1959
Lucien kept all of the essentials - a razor, a brush, a comb, a small pair of scissors, a bit of cream - in a leather travelling pouch, neatly rolled up and tucked away in the cabinet below the sink. Counter space was at a premium in the cramped downstairs bathroom, and despite his somewhat lackadaisical approach to personal tidiness he had been too long a soldier to go leaving his things strewn about. He gathered up his pouch quickly, trying his best not to think too long or too hard about what it was he meant to do. What it was Jean had asked him to do. There was something monumental about her request, not just that she had come to this decision, but that she had sought his help, rather than Mattie's. Oh, Mattie was asleep just now, and perhaps Jean simply couldn't wait another second longer, but still she had come to him, and he was determined to do right by her, to make the experience as painless - both physically and emotionally - as he could for her. She deserved that much, he thought, deserved care and kindness and a tender hand.
With his kit tucked on his arm he marched once more out of the bathroom, and stopped off in the kitchen on the way, scooping up one of the chairs from around the table so that Jean might be able to sit comfortably while the work was done. Thus burdened he travelled across the parlor and through the open doors of the studio, back to the bathroom that had been renovated for Jean's use. The bathroom had originally belonged to his mother, and had been a sanctuary of sorts, for her; in his youth the room had been dominated by an extravagant claw-foot tub, and a pedestal sink that had always been splashed with different shades of paint. In the flurry of activity that had preceded Jean's installment in these rooms all the old odds and ends had been stripped away, replaced with modern accoutrements. It was an astronomical expense, but Lucien had justified it to himself, saying both that Jean had need of a serviceable bathroom, and that restoring the room would only add value to the house, should he one day decide to sell it. He had no notion of selling the house, now or ever, but it was somehow easier to reconcile the expense if he treated it as an investment in the property itself, and not just in the comfort of his comfort of his housekeeper.
She was waiting for him, in the middle of the room, surrounded by sparkling clean tiles, and the sight of her drew him up short. Jean looked...small, somehow, wrapped in a thin blue robe he'd not seen before this night, her arms crossed tight over her chest. It had been weeks since she'd gone about the house uncovered, and for the first time he looked upon her hair as it was, in the unforgiving glow of the harsh light overhead, and he could not help but lament, for her, for what had been. That beautiful hair, dark and warm, those vibrant curls that seemed to shimmer like gold in the sun, most all of it was gone, now, and what remained was thin, and wispy, and barely clinging on. The paleness of her scalp, the wild sheen of her eyes, left her looking vulnerable, somehow, spoke so eloquently of the disease that had ravaged her organs, and the medication that was continuing that work now.
I did this to her, Lucien thought, wretched and sorrowful. He was the reason for her exhaustion, her nausea, the total upending of her life and the loss of her beautiful hair, and though he knew he had only done this thing to save her still guilt seemed to gnaw at him. What if I was wrong? He asked himself. What if the treatment was worse than the disease; what if instead of prolonging her life he had only stolen it from her? It would be months before he knew for a certainty, and the outcome was not guaranteed.
"Ready, then?" she asked him in an unsteady voice. Her words spurred him into action, and he began to move at once.
"I thought you'd be more comfortable if you could sit," he told her, placing the chair in front of the new vanity. It was bigger than his own, with a deep sink and a long mirror, and with Jean settling into the chair he could almost pretend they were in a barber's shop - the strangest, saddest barber's shop in all the world - and not in his mother's studio, late in the evening, on the verge of madness.
"How do you want to do this?" Jean asked. She was watching him in the mirror, and he caught her gaze there, staring at the pair of them as if watching a film, she small and scared, he huge and awkward, looming behind her with his kit in his hands.
"Erm," Lucien said. He hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Shaving, like sewing, was one of those skills that he had honed both in his medical training and in the army. Oh, the nurses often did the shaving, while he was training to become a doctor, but every now and then he had to pitch in himself, and there were all sorts of reasons a patient might be shaved. Legs, heads, arms, backs - other places, in the case of childbirth, though he'd not ever done that himself. And sewing, too; a surgeon must be able to sew, quickly and neatly, for sutures. A soldier must learn to shave his own face under all sorts of conditions, to shave his mates' heads, should lice run rampant in barracks, and he must learn to sew, for an army uniform was covered in buttons, and in a warzone seamstresses were thin on the ground. He knew he was more than capable of performing the task that had been laid in front of him, but she wasn't a fellow soldier in the camp, trying to avoid a bad case of lice, and she wasn't a patient about to undergo surgery, more concerned with hygiene than aesthetics. This was Jean, sitting in front of him, asking him to do this thing, and the moment felt heavy with intimacy, with comradeship. He had accepted responsibility not just for her physical appearance - which was more dear to him than he cared to consider - but for her heart, as well.
"I think," he said slowly, walking up to the counter and unrolling his kit, "We'll just dive in."
Taking a deep breath, then, he stoppered the sink, and began to fill it up with warm water.
"You won't be offended if I don't watch?" Jean asked.
Lucien looked up at the mirror, and found her with her eyes already closed, her hands clutched together in her lap so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.
"Not at all," he assured her. Actually, he rather thought things might go easier without her bright eyes following his every move.
"I never dreamed I'd do anything like this," Jean told him. There was something anxious, tense in her voice, as if she felt she had to speak, as if the sound of her own thoughts was unbearable to her, as if the words simply came pouring out of her, without her consent or direction.
"No," Lucien agreed. "I don't imagine that you would have." With the sink nearly full he took a bit of cream, and began to work it into a lather on the bristley tips of his brush.
"It was different when I was young," Jean said. "We never...my mother never bothered with setting her hair."
Never had the money for it, that's what she meant to say, and Lucien knew it. In those dark days of their youth, most of the farm women wore their hair in plaits and called it good. The world had changed rather a lot since then, and even the poorest girls had curlers, to set their hair for church on Sunday, but still farmwives couldn't afford the price of a set at the beauty salon in town. Jean didn't go to the salon either, Lucien knew. But surely she can afford it now? He thought to himself. Can't she? He'd not given much thought to her wages, just carried on paying her whatever his father had done. She didn't have to purchase her own food, or pay for lodging, but if Lucien were being perfectly honest with himself he didn't know just how much a woman might need for the other necessities in life. Somehow he didn't believe Jean would tell him if he weren't paying her enough, particularly not now, when she was hardly able to work, but perhaps, he thought, it was a matter they ought to revisit when she was well. If she ever is.
"And then the war came, and the styles changed. I did my best to keep up."
"Brilliantly, I'd say," Lucien told her, but the jovialty in his tone sounded forced, even to his own ears. His work with the brush was done and it was time to start the business that had brought them here in the first place, and so he walked slowly round behind her, and caught her grimace in the mirror.
"I'm a bit behind the times now, I'm afraid. These young things are all wearing their hair more naturally, now."
"I always thought your hair looked beautiful." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he regretted it at once; even with her eyes closed, he could see the sorrow in her face. He'd told her that her hair was beautiful, but he was even now running his brush over her scalp, preparing to take the last of it from her.
"It takes rather a lot more than a wash and a set to make a woman beautiful, though," he added.
"Oh?"
There was something of a challenge in that one brief word, as if he had wandered into dangerous territory. Which he had, of course.
"Every woman has her own beauty," he said. There was a nice thick layer of soap across the top of her head; it was time to get to work. Carefully he leaned round her, deposited his brush on the edge of the sink and took up the razor. "Her smile," he carefully set the razor at the edge of her hairline, and began to draw it back towards himself. "Her eyes," he continued, following the path of the razor with the fingertips of his left hand, trying to ensure that the skin was smooth and no stray hairs remained. "Her hips." Jean chuckled, and he rinsed the razor in the sink, watching the hairs slipping off the blade before returning to his work. "Her hands."
"Hands?" Jean asked, surprised, and Lucien smiled as once more he drew the razor back, once more followed it with his fingertips gentle against her skin.
"Oh, every part of a woman is beautiful," Lucien told her.
"Why am I not surprised you think so?"
"But none of that matters," he continued, ignoring her little tease, though it pleased him more than he could say to hear her address him so light-heartedly, "if her heart is not beautiful."
"An unusual sentiment, coming from a man," Jean muttered darkly. Lucien laughed and set his razor down, gently wiped her head with a nearby cloth and once more picked up his brush. He'd decided to work in sections, not taking too much at once, one neat, short row at a time until he'd covered her entire head. It would, he realized, take some time, but he was determined not to rush; Jean would not thank him if he cut her, or left her looking anything less than tidy. "I'd think the heart would be the last thing you lot notice."
"Oh, the young can be distractible," Lucien agreed, soaping up another section of her scalp. "But a pretty face holds less appeal, as time goes on. A pretty face is worth less than good conversation, than comfort, care and understanding. A woman's arms may be the loveliest part of her, because she holds you with them."
"A poet and a barber, Doctor Blake. You are a jack of all trades."
She meant the words to sound light, he knew, but there was a hitch in her voice just the same; perhaps, he thought, he'd said too much. When did Jean last have anyone to hold? Too long, too long, and such a shame it was. Her arms were lean and strong, and they would be warm, too, he thought, though he did not know for certain.
"And what is the most beautiful part of the man, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked her, thinking it would do them good to chat softly to one another, and distract them both from the work of his hands against her scalp, the hairs that slipped off his razor each time he rinsed in in the sink. The question he'd asked her had presented her a chance to tease him further, he thought, to make them both laugh, and a laugh would do them good.
"The smile," she said, without hesitation, and neither of them laughed at all. "You can tell a lot about a man by his smile. Some of them are smug, and some of them are false, but a genuine smile is sweet, and easy to spot."
Is it a sweet man she wants? He asked himself as still he worked his hands over her head in a steady, lulling rhythm. Had her Christopher been sweet? Brought her flowers and asked if he could kiss her, and smiled sweetly when she said yes? Somehow he doubted she'd ever describe Lucien himself as sweet.
"And the hands," she added. "A man's whole life is written on his hands. What he does for work, whether he's a brawler, whether he's married, it's all right there."
As she spoke Lucien looked at his own hands, running tenderly over her scalp. His skin was rough, toughened from years of labor in the army and years of scrubbing in the surgery after that, tanned from the time he spent out of doors, covered in small, silvery scars, each one a story of its own. His fingers were long and dextrous, which made him an adept surgeon and a passable pianist, but the knuckle of his right forefinger was bigger than all the rest, broken in a fight and gnarled ever since. What story would Jean see, written on his hands? What would she make of it.
"So you see," Lucien said slowly. "The hair doesn't matter at all, man or woman. Does it?"
"Not if the man has a nice smile," she answered quietly.
"Or the woman nice hips."
"Lucien!" she chided him, and he grinned. He'd said it partly to make her laugh, to outrage her with his cheek, but he had also said it in no small part because he thought Jean's hips were rather fine, and that was as close as he'd ever come to being able to tell her so.
For a moment they were quiet; Lucien folded his rag over and gently wiped the soap from the most recently shorn stretch of Jean's scalp, and followed it with his palm. The skin beneath his hand was soft and smooth, tender, revealed to the world for the first time now since birth. I shall have to remind her to wear a hat when she goes out, he thought as he touched her; it was winter, but still the sun could burn skin so pale and baby-soft as this.
"Still, though," Jean said. "A woman ought to have some hair." Her voice was full of lament, mourning for what she had lost, what she was losing even as Lucien once more set his razor to her head. It did not surprise him, that she was so preoccupied with the matter of her hair; appearance mattered a great to deal to Jean, and a great deal more to the people she socialized with, and those expectations of beauty and cleanliness which had been instilled in her from birth were all but impossible to fight against.
"There are plenty of cultures all over the world where women shave their heads," Lucien pointed out. "And their men think them beautiful, and love them regardless."
"That may be true out in the world," Jean said darkly, "but this is Ballarat. Who could loveā¦"
His heart dropped; she didn't finish her sentence, and he was left to fill it in himself. Who could love a woman without hair? Who could love Jean as she was? Was that what worried her? Did she lay awake at night, thinking of her future, wishing for love and fearing that now it would never come? Christ, he could think of nothing more devastating than that. She was so wonderful, was Jean, beautiful and clever, resilient and brave; she nurtured him, and made him laugh, and had turned this house into a home for the first time in Lucien's adult life. There was, he thought, no one more deserving of love than Jean, and yet she had none, worried she never would. If only it were within his power, he would have given it to her, all of the love that she had been denied, all of the love that by rights should have belonged to a woman as lovely as she.
He could not say such a thing to her, however. No matter the warmth of this moment, no matter how his heart cried out to her, desperate to soothe her, he knew that she would not welcome such a statement from him. What was he to her; a doctor, an employer, a friend, perhaps? None of those things granted him the liberty to speak to her of love. How then could he possibly answer her?
"It is not a woman's hair a man comes to love," he said, very quietly. He had nearly finished his work, and they were still, the pair of them hardly breathing as his razor traced over the back of her neck, carefully sheering away the last of her hair. "And you, Jean, have so much more to offer the world than your hair."
"Thank you," she breathed into the silence of the bathroom, and at last Lucien was done. He set his razor down on the sink, and one last time dragged the rag over her head, smoothing across her skin. She was warm to the touch, and soft, and he felt strangely protective of her, in this moment when she had delivered all of her doubts, her hopes, her vulnerability into his hands.
"All done," he said, brushing his hands over her shoulders, making sure no hair remained on her robe. "Will you look now, Jean?"
"I suppose I must," she said, and then she drew in a breath so deep he heard it, and he watched in the mirror as she opened her eyes, and took in the sight of herself, now completely hairless. The breath escaped her suddenly, sharply, and she reached for her head at once, running her own hand over the same skin Lucien had so recently touched. He watched her in silence, taking in not just her expression but the sight of her as she was now, without the hair to hide her. In the mirror she was, he thought, completely lovely. Her head was smooth and round, and her high, sharp cheeks, her soft red lips, her strong jaw, were so pronounced, now, the fierceness of her features so plain that he could not help but look at her. It was, he thought, a face that must be seen, that demanded the attention of every eye in the room, a face that any man would find himself in thrall to with one single glance, a face that had been set loose now, unfettered by convention or the softness of her curls.
"Well," she said, a bit wetly, still watching herself unblinking. "That's that, then."
"Did I do all right, Jean?" he asked, anxiously. He rather thought he had completed his task competently, completely, but he needed to know that she approved, for if she did not, he would do whatever he could to make things right.
"You did wonderfully, Lucien, thank you. It's not your work I take issue with."
"Well, Jean, I'm looking at you now, and I see nothing to take issue with at all."
In the mirror she caught his eye, and smiled at him, tears in the corners of her eyes, and he could not stop himself; she was so beautiful, and so sad, and he longed, with all his heart, to take some of that sorrow from her, and so he bowed his head, and gently pressed a kiss to the soft skin on the top of her head. She drew in her breath sharply, and he stepped away from her quickly, gathering up his things and hoping that in the movement of his body his own face was hidden from her sight, for he knew that if she looked at him then she would see in his eyes all the care he felt for her, all the affection and the grief and the terrible, slowly growing want that was building deep within his heart.
