The Things We See in the Light

by Amal Awad

  ‘You didn’t flake,’ says Inez in welcome, her hands resting on the back of a chair that’s clearly meant for me.

  The shop is empty, one side lined with chairs lit up in the half-dark.

  ‘Where are we exactly?’ I ask.

  ‘My friend Tessa’s salon. She’s letting me use it after hours in exchange for cake and a free make-up job.’

  ‘Generous friend,’ I say, as Kat practically shoves me into the seat.

  Inez steps in front of me, so close that I can smell the rose-scented perfume she wears as she runs her fingers through my long hair. ‘A trim?’

  I touch the top of my head. ‘I was thinking something a bit more …’

  ‘We’re going to chop it all off,’ says Kat.

  Inez ignores her, still assessing my hair. ‘Don’t listen to Kat. If she had her way, everyone would be shaving their heads.’

  I glance at Kat, who looks mock-offended. She runs a hand across her semi-shaved head and shrugs. ‘And why not? I guess not everyone can rock this look.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Inez, threading her fingers through my hair, reading me. She begins questioning me, searching for a history, asking for my story so that she can give me the right haircut. ‘How did you get your hair so long? It’s so thick and healthy, too.’

  By now I’m seated and facing myself in the mirror. ‘It’s been under a headscarf for a few decades, remember?’ As I consider my hair, I have to concede that it’s healthy, but it’s wog hair. Frizzy, wavy, ready to grow large at the first sign of humidity.

  ‘I’m surprised that didn’t affect it.’

  ‘It did for a while.’ My hair would fall out in clumps in my early days of wearing the headscarf. But somewhere along the way, balance was restored. I hadn’t even noticed how thick it was until Lara’s gig.

  ‘So,’ says Kat, dropping into the seat beside me. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Short, but not too short.’

  Kat studies me. ‘OK, let’s try again,’ she says, softer. ‘What do you want to feel?’

  I pause, surprised by the emotion when I finally exhale, uncertain about what’s rising up. It’s just hair, a physical trait, non-defining. And yet it never has been. Never can be. Cutting it all off almost seems like a cliché. But I need to do something with it.

  Kat waits patiently. I glance up at Inez, who gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Everyone thinks chopping off their hair will feel good. It does for a couple of days, then they realise short hair isn’t that exciting. Trust me. I know.’

  Inez, with her beautiful glossy looks and hairstyles from another time.

  Kat nods. ‘This isn’t a costume change you can take off after the show. It should reflect who you are now. Who you are becoming.’ She demonstrates by folding my hair to show me how I would look with it short. Not particularly good, it turns out.

  ‘That’s a lot for a haircut to do,’ I say.

  ‘That’s why we’re here to help,’ says Kat.

  I try to find the words that will capture the essence of what the haircut means to me. ‘I want to feel like it’s the most normal thing in the world to have my hair out. I want it to look like I’ve never thought twice about it.’

  I’m sure I make no sense, but Inez nods with approval. ‘I like it.’

  Kat reaches over to a stack of magazines on a side table. ‘Want some inspiration? I mean, I’m not a pro, but I can do most things.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I trust you.’

  Kat’s smile is modest as she gets up and ruffles my hair. ‘Sometimes a new colour can make all the difference,’ she says.

  Inez leads me to the sink station, and for the first time, I can see her tattoos in full. There’s an illustration on each of her upper arms, with titles: the one on her left arm reads ‘The Fool’, and features a man, chin up, a small pouch on a stick hanging over his shoulder. A little dog yaps at his feet and he’s about to step off a cliff. The one on her right is called ‘The World’; it’s a striking image of a naked woman adorned in a wreath of leaves, arms outstretched, surrounded by symbols.

  I take a seat in front of a sink, my back resting comfortably against the basin. ‘What are those images on your arms? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  Inez looks for second like she’s forgotten that her arms are painted. ‘Oh, they’re tarot cards. I love to read them.’ She fiddles with her phone then the room fills with music. She powers up the water hose. ‘Tell me if the temperature is OK.’

  My scalp tingles at the force of the warm water and I nod.

  Inez massages shampoo into my scalp, and I’m dizzy with the calming sensation it delivers. ‘The Fool is the first Major Arcana card: setting out on a journey, not knowing where it will lead but working out the risks before you take the leap. The World is where you land eventually … hopefully.’

  ‘You get what you want?’

  ‘It’s liberation,’ Inez says, switching on the hose again. ‘It’s everything.’

  Two and half hours later, I consider Kat’s work in the mirror with admiration. All she’s done is cut my hair so that it sits at my shoulder blades, but there are layers, and subtle tints of golden brown. It has body and shape. It looks like hair you just have and don’t have to think about.

  ‘The layers will look even better if you straighten it.’ Kat holds up a mirror behind me, moving it left and right so that I can get a proper look at the final result.

  ‘I love it.’

  Inez begins to sweep up the hair that’s scattered around me.

  ‘You should get Nez to read your cards some time,’ Kat says.

  Inez nods, all smiles. ‘I’d love to. If you’re up for it.’

  ‘I don’t usually buy into that stuff,’ Kat says with a shrug. ‘Bloody Greeks are like your lot – superstitious about everything. But Nez tells a nice story.’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ I say, rising from the seat, feeling oddly renewed.

  Despite my curiosity about tarot cards, my haram senses are tingling. I’ve never doubted the power of intuition. I’ve always acknowledged, even as I’ve ignored, my gut instincts. But cards? My mother would stop speaking to me if she were around to disapprove.

  ‘Do you see bad things?’ I ask.

  Inez leans against the broom, staring into the distance like a story’s playing out in her mind’s eye. ‘I get a feeling about you, about what’s happening. I don’t think of it as good or bad … just that there are emotions and things to deal with.’

  ‘And it helps?’

  ‘I think so. If you pay attention and do the work.’

  Kat scoffs. ‘She’s a witch. She warned me about infidelity. A couple of weeks later, I found out my girlfriend cheated on me.’

  I raise my eyebrows at Inez. ‘I thought you don’t tell people bad things.’

  Inez gives a small smile. ‘I showed her the way. That’s not bad. The truth can be uncomfortable, but it will set you free.’

  After Inez has locked up the salon, we commence walking down King Street, me wedged in between the 1960s queen Inez and Kat with her labourer look. We must be a sight. I realise that I’m still the plain one; always the one to blend into the background. My clothes aren’t remarkable. I lack a style. The only thing that’s distinctive is that I’m now rarely without a pair of earrings.

  Kat slows down. ‘OK, so, we’re headed to a party. It’s a queer dance party. Mainly wogs. What do you think? Don’t worry, no one’s going to crack on to you.’ We start walking again, moving carefully to avoid running into people headed the other way.

  ‘They might,’ says Inez. ‘She’s cute. And well, now she has hair by Kat.’

  ‘We could always go back and punk you up.’

  ‘Bite your tongue,’ says Inez. ‘You’re perfect, Sahar.’ She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.

  ‘By the way, Luke’s going to be there,’ Kat says.

  ‘Ugh.’

  The sound is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  Kat laughs, her fac
e etched in surprise. ‘Wow, she emotes!’

  I blush. ‘Sorry. He just annoys me sometimes.’

  ‘He annoys everyone. Don’t take it personally. The dude is stuck somewhere in his teens and hasn’t grown up, you know … emotionally. Some people are addicted to suffering.’

  I don’t want to give shape to Luke’s character. ‘Is he gay?’

  ‘No. But he lost a bet.’

  ‘What kind of bet?’

  Kat squirms a little and scrunches up her face. ‘About how long you’d last. Don’t be mad. We do it with everyone. Not many people can handle working with us, and especially with Luke.’

  ‘Why does Maggie put up with him?’

  ‘Eh. He’s good. Knows pastry and chocolate. She can get a million juniors but Lukes are harder to find.’

  ‘So, he wasn’t being extra horrible to win the bet?’ I say.

  ‘God no,’ says Inez. ‘He’s not cunning enough to do that.’

  ‘He’s just an arsehole,’ says Kat. ‘Which is why I’m very confident in placing bets. And right now, I’d wager you’ll have a good time if you join us.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this for me,’ I say.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Make me over like I’m a full-time job. Not that I don’t appreciate everything you’re doing.’

  Kat pulls out a box of cigarettes and retrieves one. ‘Would you look at this one?’ she says to Inez. ‘She thinks we’re trying to save her.’ But then she winks and I have to smile.

  We reach the door to the venue and Kat and Inez swivel to face me like a pair of judges.

  ‘Well? Are you coming in?’ says Kat.

  ‘I don’t think I can dance like that. And I’m not gay.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ says Inez.

  ‘They’re not going to check your sexuality at the door,’ Kat says.

  ‘It’s just an experience. You can dance or not. You can have some fun. Maybe have a tipple,’ says Inez like a gentle counsellor.

  I agree to go inside. Luke is the first person we encounter. He’s standing at the bar, sipping on a drink when he sees us and waves us over. This is a proper dance festival, open to all kinds of personalities – even stuffy, uptight chocolatiers.

  Luke, as always, studies me before saying hello. He gives me a smile, but I’m not sure if it’s dry or sincere. ‘Nice hair.’

  I’m left wondering if he means it. It’s possible he does, but then he said it in that annoying Luke way where the words can’t be faulted but the tone grates.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, embarrassed.

  I am a wallflower for most of the night. Kat is dancing with Inez and another woman. They look over to me, try to get me onto the dance floor with waves and shoulder movements, but while it’s invigorating being here, I’m tired and my bedroom is looking more attractive by the alcohol-soaked, trance-music minute. Just as I’m ready to make my exit, Luke comes to stand beside me.

  ‘Usually at dance parties people dance.’

  ‘I don’t feel like dancing.’

  ‘You don’t drink. You don’t dance. What did you come for?’

  ‘The girls asked me and I didn’t want to offend them.’

  ‘I just mean, aren’t you bored?’ he says, gentler in tone.

  I shake my head. ‘Not at all. It’s nice to see so much happiness in one place.’

  Luke gives me an odd look.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, glancing at him, ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  ‘I don’t dance either.’

  ‘That’s right. You lost a bet.’

  Luke is momentarily taken aback by this revelation.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘Lose the bet, you’re designated driver.’ He raises his glass, which I see contains water, downs the rest, then places the empty glass on the bar. ‘Want to get some fresh air?’

  ‘I think I’m going to leave, actually.’

  ‘OK. Let me walk you out.’

  ‘Will you tell Kat I had to go?’

  ‘Kat is busy and doesn’t give a shit.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The outside air is cool and refreshing, and I take a deep breath. We walk in silence up a set of brick stairs that lead onto the street.

  ‘I can’t figure you out sometimes,’ says Luke.

  ‘I’m not a crossword puzzle. We just have to work together.’

  Luke flashes a smile. ‘Fair enough.’

  I start to walk away when he calls out to me. ‘You’re doing better.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘At Maggie’s. You’re doing good things.’

  I’m surprised and touched, a bit emotional at my own response. For months I worried about proving myself because I began work at Maggie’s feeling like I went from top of the class to a beginner – a fresh kind of hell for me, the eternal perfectionist. I realise now that I was good but not great.

  ‘Thank you. That means a lot.’

  ‘You were never terrible, by the way. But you know … a commercial kitchen isn’t a home one. And tempering some shards of chocolate for a cake topping doesn’t make you a chocolatier.’

  ‘Got it.’

  I want to leave before he ruins the moment.

  ‘Will you be right getting home?’

  ‘It’s a walk.’

  ‘Let me walk with you. They’ll be ages,’ he says, indicating the subdued din below ground.

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’

  Luke swears under his breath. ‘Not trying to disempower you here, I’d just feel better knowing you got home safe.’

  I consider my options: walk Newtown’s backstreets late at night alone, or with someone who barely speaks to me? ‘OK. Fine. Thanks.’

  Luke closes the space between us. His expression softens and he seems to transform before me into a more relaxed, easier person. I wonder if this is him, who he has been all along, the edginess a mask I provoked him to wear.

  Thankfully, he seems happy to walk in silence. Neither of us forces a conversation, but as we pass Small and Sweet, he finally speaks.

  ‘I owe you a session in the studio for that list thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’s it going anyway? What’d Kat call it – The Experiment?’

  ‘Capital T, capital E,’ I say, biting back a smile.

  Luke chuckles. ‘Bloody Kat. Always so pushy.’

  I sense there’s more to this observation – Kat calls Luke’s ex Cruella, after all. Before I can talk myself out of it, I find I’m offering my own thoughts on the situation.

  ‘Luke, I know it’s none of my business, and you can tell me to bugger off, but whatever you’re going through … I know what it feels like to want something that never feels quite right.’

  I’m surprised by my own audacity, and Luke inhales.

  I didn’t time the moment well. We’re stuck at a pedestrian crossing. But instead of getting offended, Luke turns to face me. He holds my gaze, his eyes bright, and I feel an unexpected warmth in my belly.

  ‘Come in with some ideas next week,’ he says.

  ‘Ideas?’

  ‘Chocolate ideas. We need some new lines. No rush, but start thinking. I’m getting stale.’

  ‘I will think of plenty of ideas.’

  I know he’s not getting stale at all. He regularly invents new flavour combinations. His chocolates are immaculate, shiny the way tempered chocolate should be. I’m sure he gets some things wrong, but we never see it. He doesn’t get dramatic about failure, just determined and intense. I suppose he’s a perfectionist like me.

  The pedestrian light turns green.

  ‘I’m just a street away now. You don’t need to come the rest of the way.’

  Luke offers a bemused smile. ‘Text me.’

  I sigh, but then remember he’s been nothing but a gentleman. ‘OK. Goodnight.’

  I cross the street, and when I reach the other side, I glance back to find Luke still standing there, watching me, his hand
s in his pockets.

  As I trudge my way up the stairs to the apartment, my mind flits back to the look we exchanged. There was something about it that felt unnerving. The way he looked into my eyes. The fact that I let him.

  The warmth in my belly returns, but I try to crowd out the realisation with the task of finding my keys and getting into the apartment.

  Jordan

  The sixth year

  It’s my third year with the aid agency and I’ve graduated to shuttling international journalists around the camp, trying to manage their expectations when taking them to a women’s craft group doesn’t meet their brief for an exclusive. The refugees are always hospitable, but I see how some of them laugh at the attention behind the journalists’ backs. One day, I watch ruefully as two teenage boys walk home from school, role-playing an interview.

  ‘And do you still eat normal food in this camp?’ one boy queries, affecting the air of a seasoned journalist.

  ‘Only earth worms, sir!’

  The work has become significant. Other people’s trauma is not a backdrop to my unfulfilled love story. I love my job, even when it becomes repetitive. I’m now a familiar face.

  At one point, the agency asked me to travel to Lebanon and Palestine. Khaled drew the line. ‘It’s not safe,’ he told me. Naeem had not been back for over a year, so I knew it had nothing to do with him. I shrugged my reluctant agreement. Zaatari feels safe.

  As we feel the brunt of a fierce winter, I spend more time in the office demountable, catching up on paperwork, responding to emails, and working closely with the aid agency to create more programs. One afternoon, as rain batters the windows, I sense a figure approaching me in the dim light of the office. I’m typing when I hear my name. I look up to find Naeem standing before me in a heavy winter jacket, his hair more unruly than ever before, his eyes more piercing.