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He wasn’t sure what to expect from a first therapy session, but it wasn’t that.
It made sense for Galina to ask about Irina. She knew of the Foundation’s mission and Ilya’s role in that, his history. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, for her to connect his own depression with his mother’s. That didn’t make it any easier to talk about her, or her struggles, or his similarities to her.
And after, trying to talk to Shane. He couldn’t tell him, not yet, not when he wasn’t even sure whether he’d be going back. Ilya couldn’t stand racking up one more tally in the loss column with Shane, not when it already felt like everything was going to shit. But he tried, sending that picture taken at the NHL awards all those years ago, baring that one little piece of his heart Ilya had kept safely to himself this whole time. And all Shane had thought of that was “Should I cut my hair?”
Ilya stood in the bathroom, as if he could wash the therapy and the memories off, looking at his reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. His eyes, his nose, those were inherited from his father. But his hair, those golden curls were all mama. Irina has haunted his dreams, the voice in his head, and his hazy reflection, and it’s all too much.
The rookies had all been given buzz cuts at the start of training camp, hazing or initiation or something in between. The clippers had been unused since then, probably, Ilya thought as he dug through his bathroom storage to try to uncover them. Now that the idea had taken hold he wouldn’t be deterred, he’d get the kitchen shears out of the butcher block if needed. Anything to carve away this piece of Irina that he couldn’t bear to look at for one more minute, couldn’t stand sharing with anyone else, letting them see her even if they didn’t know.
Finally uncovering the black Wahl case, tucked away in the back of the bathroom closet, Ilya plugged the clippers into the outlet next to the vanity. The steam had diffused enough by now that his reflection was more clear, the definition giving him pause for only a moment before switching them on. Ilya didn’t bother with a guard, just dragged them down the middle of his scalp on the shortest setting. No turning back now, Ilya thought to himself, and he wondered if swallowing a handful of pills would lead to the same thought. At what point had it been too late for Irina to change her mind, to change her fate? Was it already too late for Ilya? Would he even know when he passed the point of no return before it happened? He shaved another stripe down his head, choking down a laugh or a sob, and another, and another. If his hand was shaking, it was probably just from the vibrations.
Tufts of hair fell on his shoulders, by his feet, on the counter, in the sink basin. The tear tracks down his cheeks were determinately ignored as Ilya evened out the cut - he’d need another shower now anyways, it all could be washed down the drain. Setting the clippers down, Ilya took in his new silhouette. It hasn’t been this short since just after the funeral. Then it had been Grigori not wanting to see Irina’s spectre in his house, and now it was Ilya’s turn. He'd always been told he was his mother's son. Lazy, weak, sensitive. Never her kindness, her grace, her love. But Ilya was his father's son, too. His anger, his fear burned in Ilya's veins. He inherited the worst of both of them, maybe.
Ilya spent a long minute looking at his reflection, trying and failing at finding any trace of her left in it. That’s what he’d wanted, right? So why was he left feeling more raw, more hollow than he had walking out of Galina’s office. Stupid, the voice in his head that didn’t always sound like his own told him. His mother’s heart, her mind, her mental illness, those had all taken root in Ilya long ago; foolish to think that cutting off her hair would even make a dent when playing with that stacked of a deck. Ilya stepped into the spray of the shower, too impatient to let it warm. He scratched at the texture, new and old at once, and scrubbed away the fragments of hair clinging and scratching at his skin.
Toweling off, Ilya realized, maybe belatedly, that Shane would inevitably find out about his hair-related freakout. He should call him. Should tell him about the hair, the therapy, the thoughts and worries and doubts that brought him to this point in the first place, all of it.
Otherwise Shane would find out on his own, from his couch in Montreal probably, watching Ilya’s next game or maybe just the highlight reels, or seeing a picture from the post-game press scrum. He'd be surprised, but he could process and come to terms with it on his own by the time Ilya had to deal with the consequences.
Ilya could take the coward’s way, it was his birthright after all.