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It’s hard to be impulsive on a spaceship. Every tool, every meal, every bolt was discussed at length and accounted for, before the ship was even built. And living on the ship means everything is a finite resource.
I keep my clothes on rotation so I can wear them out evenly. I know what I’m going to eat and how much of it I’m going to eat down to the hour. I skip toothpaste every other day so it’ll last longer. Same with deodorant. It reminds me of grad school, up to and including the dread looming around every corner, and smelling bad.
Rocky and I made a weekly schedule when we realized we were going to go crazy without one. Weeks were an arbitrary measure of time to him, but he let me pick the units. They do pass, but they pass like molasses.
Like everything, the change in my hair is slow. A little limper, a little coarser. It’s too fine for Rocky to notice a difference unless he really tries, but I explain it to him anyway. He uses the hands of his pressure suit to observe the strands up close, and he keeps doing it when he realizes how much I like it.
He’s relieved to learn the hair loss doesn’t hurt on its own. A lot of the things wrong with me now tend to hurt.
Yeah, it doesn't hurt. The hair doesn’t matter. Just a human culture thing. Some people are completely bald and choose to be, Rock, isn't that wild? I wonder if I can pull that off.
A few weeks later, I find out the answer is no.
I’m brushing my hair, and a clump of it comes away. Not a huge clump, but any amount of hair described as a “clump” is too much hair to lose in one go. I think it came from the back of my head. I feel for the spot, try to comb over it like my old principal who refused to admit he was going bald. Strands come away between my fingers. They're so brittle and I see their outlines on my shoulders. They look silver against the black fabric.
I don't freak out. I don’t panic. I’m actually super cool and calm when I grab the electric razor and start shaving my head.
I did the same thing when I dyed my hair in college. Just went for it, you know? Marissa had to help me even the color out, and I realized green didn’t do my complexion any favors, but it’s just hair. It grows back. I said this a lot to my middle schoolers, because an embarrassing haircut or bad bleach job is a rite of passage for any teenager.
When I’m too far gone to stop, I realize my hair might not grow back. Not while I’m actively starving, at least. It’s a biological numbers game. Hair versus my internal organs, who needs the protein more? Sure, it might have all fallen out on its own. But I just took away that possibility.
It takes so much longer than I thought it would. The burning impatience fueling my iron grip on the razor is snuffed out. I’m still holding onto it and I’m still passing it over my head, but my arm feels so much heavier. I can't see the back of my head with only one mirror. Marissa isn’t here to help me. I miss her.
I don’t recognize myself. My hair had gotten long, and now it was gone. Mostly. I can’t get a close shave with this thing. But whatever. Was my forehead always this big? Why did no one tell me that? No wonder I preferred bangs – even when I styled them back, they gave my face something to bounce off of. Now it’s just my face. And it’s pretty bad!
That’s not fair. I’m sick. Of course my eyes are bloodshot and sunken into my face. The Hail Mary had one tube of chapstick that I lost months ago, and my lips are suffering the consequences. But I’m probably too far gone for it anyway. My collarbone casts a shadow. I haven't seen sunlight in years. I'm not counting light from Tau Ceti. Taulight?
I’ve felt sick for a while. But now I look sick.
My hair sits in a pile in the sink, like a blonde, freshly-dug grave. Here lies Ryland Grace’s self esteem. I can’t wash it away because the drain is only for water and it goes directly into the filtration and reclamation system. Finding hair in my watered-down coffee will make me lose it. Lose it more.
I leave it there along with the razor. I’ll deal with it later. Maybe I’ll use it to stuff a very tiny pillow.
Rocky doesn’t notice right away. He’s always passively listening to me, but he’s working on a project and isn’t focused on fine details like my hair or the slightly raised design on my shirt. “I had potential.” I sure did. So we just talk and everything’s fine.
When I sit at the lab bench, a chill runs up my spine. One of the air vents points directly at this spot. The temperature on the ship is so consistent, I’d never noticed. But without hair, my neck and head are exposed. So much more skin to feel artificial breeze. Even if it grows back, I’ll never feel the ocean breeze in my hair again. It'll never curl slightly from the salt in the air.
I pull the hood of my jacket up. It helps, but now I can feel where every blunt hair touches the fabric. There’s no cushion. Turning my head feels like rubbing the wrong way on a velvet curtain.
Maybe a hat would be better. I get up to get a hat. I get up, sit down on the floor, and gasp into my hands.
It’s embarrassing how used to this Rocky is by now. But I really didn’t give him any warning. He drops his tools and scrambles over, singing my name.
“I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine. I’m not — This is stupid.”
“Grace always say is stupid,” Rocky says, tapping away against the barrier. “Explain and I decide if stupid or not.”
It’s so much harder to say than it should be. “I shaved my head.”
Rocky freezes. After a moment he makes a little “oh!” sound. I see his posture relax. Right. He probably thought I was bleeding out or something. I’m not. I’m just crying like Jimmy did when he came in after spring break with a bowl cut. It’s just hair. It might grow back. It might never look the same.
I move a hand to grab — nothing. I don't have bangs to run my fingers through. Oh, I hate this. Why did I do this?
“Grace is…okay?”
Physically? “Yeah. I mean it, this is actually stupid. I’m just upset.”
“Upset counts as not okay.”
I don't have anything to say to that. I try to stop crying. Pulling on my hair is something I did without thinking about it, apparently. So fittingly, I hadn't thought about not having it to pull on. My hands keep moving on their own. The strands are too short. Rocky comes back in his pressure suit and sits next to me.
“Why did Grace shave head?”
“Because it was falling out.” I don’t remember the last time we talked about it as a symptom, but I know Rocky does, so I don’t elaborate. He makes an understanding noise.
“Grace miss hair.”
It feels weird to say that. It’s been less than an hour. But, “Yeah.”
“Is important. For expression.”
“Yeah. I—” I cough, scrubbing at my face. “I don't know. It's stupid. I never thought of myself as handsome.”
“New word?”
Really? I guess, yeah, it's not a word we've needed before. “Handsome is like, attractive. Beautiful. Something that looks good. Or someone. Usually people.”
“Oh, yes. 🎵🎶.”
“People called me handsome.” I probably sound like an ass, but I’m too upset to care. “Someone at a party called me— called me a ‘catch’ once. I swear I thought that was something people only said in movies.”
I’d gone home with her, even, because it seemed like the kind of thing I was supposed to do. Also, because she looked me dead in the eyes and said “you're coming home with me,” and I said “sure, I guess.”
Nothing happened. No, that's a lie. Some thing definitely happened. Like, fifty seven percent of something. She ran her fingers through my hair (my hair, damn it) and it felt nice. The kissing was fine. She smelled good. The second her fingers touched the skin under my waistband, my mind went blank and my mouth started running a mile a minute. I did sleep there that night, but nothing else happened. She was disappointed but tried to hide it. I don’t remember her name, but I remember the look on her face when she closed the door on me.
A lab partner in college said my hair was “wasted” on a man who didn’t appreciate it. I didn’t know what to say to that. Still don’t.
Linda said I had nice hair. She liked to play with it, and it was a sure-fire way to turn me into a puddle. Then I realized she did it when she wanted sex. Not that— gosh, that makes it sound worse than it was. She wasn't manipulating me, or trying to… you know. But she would play with the strands at the base of my neck for a few minutes, then ask if I wanted to move to the bedroom. I really didn't. She always asked, because she was a good person and I loved that about her. And she didn't do it every time. But enough times that, when her nails found my scalp, my body would tense up like one of Pavlov’s dogs hearing a bell. Or the people in that study who chose to shock themselves because feeling pain was better than feeling nothing.
I’d rather her not touch it at all than touch it as a preamble to something else. Something “more important.”
(It hits me now that Rocky can't play with my hair anymore. It never needed to be anything other than what it was. But now he can't.)
“I just. I dunno. I don't like to think about it. And now I’m like, really ugly by human standards. And that's really stupid. I’m never—”
I’m the only human who will ever see me again. I'm lucky to be alive, but heaven forbid I don’t like what I see in the mirror. I let my tears soak into the fabric of my pants. My knees are sharp against my cheekbones.
Rocky moves so our sides are touching.
“I decide this is not stupid.”
“Huh?”
“You say ‘is stupid,’ and I say I decide if it is or not. Official. It is not stupid.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Is important to you, so it is not stupid.”
I lean more of my weight against him.
“Can I touch?”
“Uh.” My instinct is to say no. I force myself to take a breath, and I pull my hood down. “Go crazy.”
“Will not,” Rocky says. With one hand, he taps a claw feather-light near my temple.
“Interesting. Head bone is not smooth.”
“Skull.” I wipe my face with my sleeve again. “That’s another reason I regret it. You don’t realize how bumpy a head is when it’s covered in hair.”
Rocky hums. With a touch more pressure, he runs two claws along my hairline. Above my ear and around the back of my neck. Goosebumps race up and down my arms. I laugh involuntarily.
“Is funny?”
“Not funny. But it feels nice.”
Rocky makes a self-satisfied sound, and does it again. The texture is still strange, but not bad. I can feel the individual hairs and where they start and end, and how they bend when Rocky moves them. My skin tingles. Rocky can play with my hair, there’s just less of it now.
“Hair will grow back?”
“Hopefully.” If I’m healthy enough one day to live on Erid, then yes. I just don’t know how long that will be, and I don’t want to think about it. I let my mind drift a little while Rocky scratches my head. I feel like a cat, but I don't mind.
“Eridians absorb minerals from environment,” Rocky says. He doesn't stop his movements. “Food is important source. But environment matters, too. Is big big in culture. Not for health, but… 🎶. Like choosing clothes, or what room looks like.”
“Fashion. Or, uh, aesthetic. Kind of a catch all for how something looks.”
I almost call it a “vibe.” If I do, I have to explain that it’s short for vibration, and I have to explain that to an alien that uses vibrations to exist in everyday life. I don’t want to open that can of worms right now.
“Yes. Eridians grow as they age. Absorb minerals to build more layers, but type of mineral will change appearance. Change ‘aesthetic.’ Big big market for certain kinds. When I left, 🎶🎶 was very popular.”
I make a note to have Rocky write the chemical formula for that one. It sounds familiar. Maybe a silicate? But first:
“Wait. Rocky, are— how big are you compared to other eridians?”
Rocky pulls his arm back and folds lower to the ground. Now I feel like an ass, and I am an ass.
“Sorry, I didn't meant to—”
“Is okay. Is why I mention it. Have always been small. Born small. Now, have not been on Erid in long long time. No extra minerals. Will be even smaller for age.”
Rocky is on the low end? I imagine an eridian as tall as me, or even taller. I’ll need to circle back to that to be properly freaked out. Not the time right now.
“Is that bad for you? I mean, you have your food, right?”
“Food will keep me healthy. But only help me grow a little bit.” Rocky pinches two claws together, which I think is a gesture he picked up from me. “This is longest time eridian has been away from planet. Doctors study this before mission, think it is okay. Not normal, but not dangerous. Probably.”
I'm once again reminded that Rocky and his crew were the first eridian astronauts. Ever. It humbles me every time.
“Rocky is…” He clicks two of his hands together, tapping a third on the ground. He makes a sharp sort of noise. “Promise Grace will not laugh.”
I’d rather die than make Rocky feel bad about this. “Promise. Cross my heart.”
Rocky mimics the motion back at me. He has five hearts, so I think he just picks one at random.
“Am not ‘handsome’ by eridian standards. Below average. Small. And carapace is not interesting. But Adrian is…🎵🎶.”
I recognize some of the disparate sounds in there, but not the whole word. Rocky explains before I can ask, or argue.
“Adrian is many things. Amazing. Smart. And most most most beautiful. ‘Catch,’ like Grace said. Not just saying that because we are mates. Is objective. Other eridians say so. Other eridians wonder why we are together.”
“What?” I uncurl myself so I can face Rocky properly. “Rocky, you're brilliant. I've never met Adrian but I know they’re crazy about you. You've been together for 180 years!”
“186.3 years.”
“186.3 years. Even longer!”
“Adrian say this. Try to believe, but can't help but worry. Adrian could have any mate on Erid. Wish I was better match.”
“You're smart, you're funny, you're stupid brave.” And the most amazing someone has ever been to me. I try to keep that last one silent, but a version of it tumbles out of my mouth anyway.
“I wouldn't be here without you. I mean, literally I wouldn't be alive, but also… you mean a lot to me. Like a lot a lot. I like spending time with you and I'm not just saying that because we're on this ship together.”
At some point I grab Rocky’s carapace — as close as I can get to grabbing his face in my hands. He's as close as I’ve seen to the eridian equivalent of hiding yourself in embarrassment.
“Besides. You're the most beautiful eridian I’ve ever seen.”
“Ahhh, is joke.”
“And it’s true! It doesn’t matter what your carapace looks like. It’s brown, I’ve told you that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Right. It has different shades. It…it looks like Earth. Like soil, where trees and plants grow from. And you have these lighter blue spots. Not just where Adrian’s stone is. It fits right in with the rest of your skin.”
“Do not have skin.”
“You know what I mean.”
Rocky turns back and forth, but not hard enough to shake me off. “Is true?”
“One hundred percent. Clearly, you two were made for each other. And hey, if you were any bigger, it’d be pretty cramped in here. You could be a foot tall for all I care. Gosh, if you were that small I might be able to pick you up.”
“Then thank 🎶 I am Rocky size. Too much power for Grace to have. Who knows where we end up?”
I laugh. I fold over him in a hug. He puts two arms around my back and one on my head. He scratches at the spot above my ear and I basically melt on top of him. This might be too much power for Rocky to have over me. I don’t care.
“Grace is most beautiful human to me.”
“Hey—”
“Saved me. Very brave. Smart smart smart with science. Watches sleep. Only one pair of air bladders and still sings pretty pretty pretty. Handsome.”
Pretty. Have I ever been called pretty? I mean, my voice isn’t the same as me being pretty, but it still makes the tip of my ears warm. The smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it.
"Ooh, hear blood in face," Rocky chitters. "Grace is embarrassed."
“Hey! You have a mate. I’ll tell Adrian about your flirting.”
“Noooo, is not human courting ritual. Is true!”
“Flirting isn't the same as lying.” What have I been teaching him?
“Point is,” Rocky jabs me in the ribs. “Hair do not change how you sound to me.”
My eyes well up, but I don’t let the tears fall. Rocky complains when I leak on his suit. “Well, as long as it's the two of us in here, we can be the pinnacle of our species.”
“Best of evolution.”
I expect Rocky to start another rant about how Eridians are a conceptually better species. I’d be lying if I said I was ready for him to insult me again, even as a joke. He doesn’t, because he knows that, because he’s amazing.
“Rocky?”
“Yes?”
“How tall is Adrian?”
“How tall is Grace?”
Huh? “Uh, six feet-ish.”
“Hm. Adrian is this tall.”
“What?”
“Six feet. “ish.” Maybe more.”
“What?!”