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His golden curls now fall past his shoulders. During all these long months in Scyros I have grown used to his hair this way. I secretly revel in twirling and weaving long strands of it through my fingers in our moment of tenderness; pulling back fists of it in our moments of heat like the reins of a horse.
The time of disguise has ended. He cannot return home and set off to war—to claim his true name and his prophetic glory—while still assuming the dress and long golden ringlets of ‘Pyrrha’. He will return home as Prince Achilles. Warrior. Half-god. Aristos Achaion.
It is the night before we are to board the ship home with Odysseus and Diomedes. He had told me earlier in the day about his plans to see the king’s barber about cutting his hair.
“Let me,” I asked.
“You? Surely that is not a task befitting you. It is a servant’s job, not my sworn companion’s.”
“I wish to. Please.” He must have seen the desperate glimmer in my eyes and known how much my request meant to me.
“Alright. I will see if we can get you the proper shears.”
“Thank you.”
I don’t know why I am so desirous to do this for him but I am grateful he has agreed.
We are in my chamber. The sparsely furnished room is all cold gray stone but for the hot glittering fire of the hearth. He sits besides the fireplace and dancing light catches the golden glints of his hair. I don’t know which is more blinding or brilliant: him or the flames.
From the palace barber Achilles managed to procure several different sized shears and combs as well as cleansers. I have filled a large circular basin with a mixture of soapy warm water and cleansing citrus juice. Another small jar contains almond oil.
I have placed the basin of citrus cleanser on a small side table and he leans the back of his head into it. He breathes out a contented sigh as I begin. I start by massaging his temples then press my fingers firmly along the lines of his eyebrows and down his jaw. Then I drag my fingers in slow deep circles from the base of his neck up around his whole scalp. I am not afraid to use my fingernails, to dig deep. He lets out a soft moan, keeps his eyes closed. His lips are parted in pleasure and I swell with pride at all my hands are capable of; the many ways I am able to bring that soft smile to his lips. I rub the cleansing mixture into his hair, working it into lather. Then I lift a small pitcher and—as gently as I can—tip out warm water to rinse the mixture out.
He sits up and I gently pat his wet hair with a towel. When I comb through his hair, it reaches down to the tips of his bare shoulder blades. His hair is darker now that it is wet; but like a magpie, my eyes seek out all the hints of gleaming gold. Water droplets form thin rivulets down the arch of his spine and I marvel at the sight of his bare back; his already defined muscles etched even deeper by the play of shadow and firelight.
With the shears in my right hand, I use my left to pull his hair taut so I can make an even cut across. I know his hair will be shorter and curlier once it is dry so I decide to make the cut just below his ears.
I extend the winged blades of the shears. I am suddenly willed with fear and dread. Sweat beads on my brow. I cannot make the first cut.
He knows me so well that even though he cannot see my face he must sense my hesitation by my sharp intake of breath and the stiffening of my body.
He turns around to face me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I…I don’t know exactly. I lifted the scissors and it was as if my hands and arms suddenly were made of lead.”
“Are you afraid that you’ll make a zig-zaggy mess and I’ll be the mockery of the entire army?”
I know he is making a joke to appease me but I am still filled with unease.
“Maybe this is a task for a trained barber after all,” I say. I loathe the defeat I hear in my voice.
“No, I want you to do it.” He stands up and cups my face. “It’s just hair, you know? Even if you screw it up and I need to wear my woman’s headdress for another month it will still grow back.”
I smile then and he kisses me. The heady scent of the citrus mixture makes me think of the orchards of Phthia. Our many childhood days spent under the lemon trees. Him basking in the sunlight, me basking in him. My love was unspoken then, but he must have known it all along. I still can’t believe he chose me. How lucky I am. I breathe him in. I will keep breathing him in until we take our final breaths.
He sits back down and says, “Now are you going to get this over with or shall I do it myself?”
I playfully jab his shoulder and say, “I’m the one holding these shears now so I’d be careful if I were you.”
He gasps in mock surprise. I pull his wet hair down straight and without giving myself time to think it over too long, I make a long quick cut. The sound of the sharp blade skimming against his hair sends a little thrill down my spine. Six inches of hair drops to the floor. I watch the strands float down as if they were feathers.
After the first cut, the rest is not so difficult. I try to make the lines as even as possible. Give a little shape to the back and sides. When I am satisfied I take the container of almond oil and pour coin-sized drops into my palms so I can work it through his still-wet hair. The aroma is both sweet and musky. My hands are slick. I use the oil to reshape his ringlets. They glisten.
I came around to face him and kneel so I can make sure the front of his hair is as even as the back. He takes the almond oil and pours some into his hand as well.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like?”
With one hand he guides my slick palm down to his lap. I feel him harden at my touch and he smiles with sparkling eyes. With the other hand he pulls me closer and reaches under my tunic. When he takes me in his hand with his confident oiled fingers, I gasp as if it were our first time feeling each other like this. Then I melt into the joint rhythm of our steady pulsing strokes. He kisses me again and again and I am undone.
We somehow end up in a tangled jumble on the floor. When we are finished we wipe ourselves clean and lay ourselves down on a blanket by the fire, legs and arms entwined. Bits of his shorn hair are strewn on the stone floor beside us.
I say, “Do you think it’s true that Sampson’s hair was the source of his strength?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“I think that is why I was afraid. I did not want to take away any of your strength. I mean, you have so much already, but I could not stand to diminish it even a little bit of it.”
“I assure you, Patroclus, I am no Sampson. The key to my strength lies elsewhere.”
“And where is that?”
“Right here in my arms.”
I feel my throat thicken with impending tears and I lay my head on his chest so he does not see them form. I stare at the swirling blue center of the fire. I wish we could stay like this forever. Part of me even longs for us to be boys again, careless and free to roam the beaches and orchards of his father’s palace. But if we went back to that time he would never know the depth of my love for him or him for me. There is no way but forward. Even to death. I trace my fingers along his chest and stomach and hope he understands why I can’t bear to speak right now.
A few moments later he untangles himself from me and gets up and throws a tunic on.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “And don’t move. You look too perfect right there to move a muscle. I want you right in the same spot when I return.”
When he comes back he is holding something in his hand but I cannot tell what it is.
“Shut your eyes,” he says. I oblige.
I hear him rustling around but keep my eyes firmly closed.
“Open,” he says. And I see that he has placed an open gold locket in my hand. In it is a strand of his hair.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“Deidameia gave it to me, before she went away to her confinement. To remember her by.”
“I cannot accept it. This is a gift to a husband from his wife.”
“And what if I wish it to be a gift from a husband to a husband?”
I have no words to say thank you, so instead I take him in my arms and press his lips to mine. I press myself into him so tight that not even a breath or sigh of breeze can move between us.
He shuts the locket and clasps it around my neck.
He says, “Now you’ll carry a bit of my strength with you, always.”