‘You don’t have to wear that hat night and day do you?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ she said, slowly pulling off her beanie. ‘Though it does get rather cold.’
The noise of the television faded to a murmur. The living room walls turned grey. Philip’s hand froze on Jonah’s back. Our mouths dropped open in unison. My beautiful, feminine daughter was completely bald. Her face seemed unaccountably small without its usual frame of hair.
She’d been looking so pretty lately. We’d been buying good shampoo. I’d lent her my hair dryer and heard its reassuring roar every morning.
‘Your hair!’ I finally choked.
I wondered if she was making a statement – or if it was something more worrying.
‘Cool!’ chirped Katharine, the eternal mood smoother. ‘Did it hurt?’
Lydia shook the pale boiled egg that was her head. The old volcano of anxiety rumbled in my gut.
Whatever the cause or her intentions, I knew overreaction would be futile. Any explosion on my part would push her further in whatever direction it was she was toying with.
‘Wow!’ said Katharine, patting her sister’s scalp. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I borrowed an electric razor.’
‘Did someone help you?’ Kath asked.
‘No. Did it myself.’
‘Whose electric razor?’ I asked stupidly.
‘Just a friend’s,’ Lydia replied blankly, clearly indicating further questioning wasn’t welcome. I imagined curtains of her glossy golden hair dropping to the floor of Just A Friend’s flat.
‘Lots of boys have electric razors, don’t they, Lyds?’ Katharine cajoled.
‘Was it Ned’s razor?’ I asked, almost hopeful she was seeing him again.
‘No, he’s getting married.’
Just as I began conjuring up the possibility that she’d shaved her head in reaction to his upcoming nuptials, Lydia read my mind. She told me not to worry. She was relieved, in fact happy, that he’d found someone else.
The last time I’d seen the full shape of her head had been when she was a baby after she’d shed the first dark fluff she’d been born with. Her head was pretty then, rounded and curved in gracefully over the back of her neck, ears daintily tucked in at the sides. But even then, I’d waited eagerly for her hair to grow.
Now my daughter’s head glistened under the halogen lights. I was reminded of the Ancient Egyptian statue of Nefertiti. She looked so . . . vulnerable.
‘Are you doing it for a fundraiser?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.
‘No. I’m going back to the monastery.’
The sentence hit me like a landslide. Lydia and I had grown closer through my illness and building the garden together. Even though I’d been nervous about the intensity of her spiritual aspirations, I understood them on some levels. But this announcement summoned all my old fears of losing her and, worse, Lydia losing herself.
Philip showed no emotion. Jonah blinked up at her from his lap. Katharine became suddenly engrossed in an outdated magazine.
My daughter was bald, devout and heading to a monastery for the third time. It could only mean one thing.
‘You’ve decided to become a nun?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered. ‘I just want to see how it feels for a while.’
I asked what she meant by ‘a while’. A few weeks? Months? A lifetime?
She said she wasn’t sure. Again. How I loathed those words.
‘Can’t you wait till you’ve finished your degree?’ I asked.
‘I can do that any time,’ she replied offhandedly.
I’d thought her rebellion phase was over. If there was anyone behind this I knew who it had to be. That monk. Why couldn’t she be honest with me?
Trying to assemble my emotions, I wondered what she was thinking. Caring for disabled people and vegetarianism were fine and admirable. Shaving her head and becoming a Buddhist nun was a step beyond the realms of normality. Was she aiming to become a Generation-Y saint?
I’d been researching saints. They tend to come from middle-class families. Buddha himself, Saint Francis of Assisi and his sidekick St Clare were raised in comfortable homes. They’d all rejected the abundance their parents had provided.
St Clare’s parents were devastated when she refused to marry. Their anguish is recorded on a fresco in the church dedicated to St Clare in Assisi. While the facial expressions aren’t particularly informative (apart from one nun glowering at St Clare’s mother), the title says it all – ‘Clare clinging to the altar to prevent her family bringing her back home.’
It would be the same for us if we tried to drag Lydia away from her altar of choice.
Gazing at our bald daughter, I tried to dredge positives out of the anxiety. Number one consolation was that the Sri Lankan civil war was over. The likelihood of her being in mortal danger had reduced. Bizarre as it seemed, at the age of just twenty-five Lydia was already a seasoned traveller who knew how to avoid trouble. Going by the phone calls I’d overheard, she had reasonable mastery of Sinhalese. Her teacher and the nuns would be meeting her at the airport and taking her straight to the monastery, which she knew well.
And if this strong-minded young woman really wanted to shut herself away from the world for the rest of her life on some remote island, I couldn’t stop her.
Weariness washed over me. Truth to tell, I’d run out of fight. There was no point railing against the more outrageous aspects of our daughter – nor, for that matter, our cat. All I could do was live my life – and allow them the freedom to do the same.
Besides, Lydia had helped celebrate and soothe me through all the changes I’d been through recently. It was time I stepped back and accepted she was a woman in her own right.
‘Well . . .’ I said, sensing the others were waiting for me to explode in one of my old-time tirades. ‘If you want to be a nun, and it’s the right thing for you, I won’t say I’m over the moon but I’ll fully support you.’
And, to my surprise, for the first time I actually meant it.
Needled
A cat’s scratch can be a badge of honour
Watching Lydia pack over the following week, I became increasingly curious. Not in the old way, when I’d been threatened by every aspect of Sri Lanka. I longed for a better understanding of the world she wanted to be part of and began to wonder what it would be like to visit the monastery. Physical hardship, possibly even danger, might be involved.
Closer to home, I had more prosaic challenges to contend with. While Lydia prepared for her departure, I was gearing up for the final phase of breast reconstruction: the nipple tattoo.
Philip claimed that, as the fake nipple’s chief inspector, he was perfectly happy with it, but it looked albino alongside its partner. Having got this far, I figured the job might as well be finished.
But tattoos involve needles. Plus there’s no man in a gown to knock you out during the process.
While I was mulling this over, Jonah insisted on a fishing rod session. Watching him spiral through the air, I wished I could be more like a cat. Even a neurotic one like Jonah didn’t waste time fretting over needles.
When he finally collapsed on the rug, his glossy sides heaving in the sun, Katharine gathered him up.
‘Oh, Jonah!’ she said, burying her nose in his fur. ‘You’re such a good de-stresser!’
Maternal alarm bells jangled.
‘What’s worrying you?’ I asked.
‘My IB presentation on immigration,’ she replied, running a finger down Jonah’s nose. Our cat adored nose rubs.
Katharine was demonstrating a passion for refugees. On weekends she taught English to children from the Sudan. I’d already noticed an accusatory glint in her eye. Just as Lydia implied we didn’t do enough for the disabled, Katharine was disappointed by our lack of commitment to refugees. I’d been made uncomfortably aware that Shirley’s proportions were generous enough to accommodate several Sudanese families.