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“A dress code,” Foggy says, the paper crinkling in his hand. “They have a dress code, and the acceptable male hair length is measured in inches, Matt, and it’s very few inches.”
“How few?”
“Few,” Foggy says.
“That’s what you get in exchange for all the glass and steel and prestige,” Matt says, sinking down next to Foggy on his bed and patting his knee comfortingly.
“Acceptable male hair length,” Foggy repeats, scoffing. “Gender isn’t even real.”
“Don’t you think it’s a worthy sacrifice to make?” Matt asks, smiling.
“It’s the source of all my power, Matt,” Foggy says, sadly. “I’m like Samson, being dragged down by corporate America.”
“That is not how the story of Samson goes,” Matt says, smiling wider.
“You are not taking this nearly seriously enough,” Foggy says.
Matt laughs and reaches up to tug at Foggy’s hair.
“When are you going to get it cut?” he asks.
Foggy sighs.
“Tomorrow,” he says, leaning heavily into Matt. “You coming with me?”
“Yeah,” Matt says. “I’ll hold your hand.”
“That better not be a joke,” Foggy says.
*
Matt does hold his hand, and the hairdresser coos over them before she says, “Do you want to save some of the hair or something? We could give you a bag. You seem distressed.”
“I am distressed,” Foggy says, gravely.
“We could burn it,” Matt says. “Ceremonially.”
“We could give it a viking’s funeral in the Hudson,” Foggy agrees. “Yes, please, to the bag.”
“Will do,” she says. “Alright, first cut.”
Foggy makes a sad noise and squeezes Matt’s hand, and then there’s the sound of scissors and the barely-there sound of the hair hitting the floor. Foggy lets out a long breath.
“It’s happening,” he says. “Life as I knew it is over.”
“Okay, buddy,” Matt says, grinning. “Tone it down.”
Foggy doesn’t let go of his hand until the hairdresser is finished, sweeping the plastic cover off his shoulders so the remaining hair scatters on the floor.
“How do you feel?” she asks.
Foggy’s silent, but Matt thinks he can hear his fingers combing through his hair in short strokes before he says, “Okay. This is okay.”
“You look really good,” she says.
“I hope you’re not saying that for tips,” Foggy says, “because I regret to inform you that I am in law school.”
“How does it look?” Matt asks, thinking a little too hard about touching Foggy’s hair again.
“Respectable,” Foggy says. “Like the death of youth, my friend.”
He touches his fingers to Matt’s shoulder, familiarly, to let him know exactly where is, and Matt gives in and reaches up to card his fingers through Foggy’s hair a few times. It’s softer than normal, untangled and cut right above his shoulders. Foggy’s heart speeds up.
“Looks nice to me,” he says, softly.
“Well,” Foggy says, like he has to catch his breath, “That means a lot coming from you.”
He ends up over-tipping the hairdresser, but Matt doesn’t mention it.
*
That night, they burn the hair in a makeshift floating pyre made of kitchen sponges, in their kitchen sink. It smells like death, and they set off their fire alarm, but Foggy seems satisfied.
“Touch my hair again and tell me I look pretty,” he jokes, once their apartment is mostly smoke-free, throwing himself on the sofa.
Matt sits down next to him and happily complies.