Two Wolves Read Free

black handles and looked over at Ben. Then they walked up the driveway to an old station wagon parked in the street.

Clumps of hair fell to the ugly orange tiles of the motel bathroom.
    â€˜Hold still,’ Mum said.
    â€˜How much are you cutting off?’ Ben asked. ‘I don’t wanna have a haircut.’
    â€˜Don’t be silly. We’re all having haircuts.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Holiday haircuts,’ she said. ‘That’s what you do on holidays.’
    â€˜As if,’ Ben said. The only guy he could remember coming back from holidays with a haircut was Robert Dewar, who lived two doors up from Nan. He’d fallen asleep chewing gum and it went all through his hair and he had to have it shaved. He’d returned to school bald.
    â€˜It’s looking better already,’ Mum said. ‘I forgot you had eyes.’
    â€˜Have you ever cut hair before?’ Ben asked, doubtful.
    â€˜You know I’ve always wanted to. I’m going to cut mine in a minute,’ she said, snipping carefully away at his fringe. Ben could see her fingernails in close-up, bitten back to the nail bed. The tips of her fingers looked red and sore.
    â€˜I hope you do as bad a job on yours as you’re doing on mine,’ Ben said. ‘And why aren’t you cutting Olive’s?’
    â€˜Her hair’s too beautiful. She can wear pigtails or a bun. Look down,’ Mum said, her tongue poking out as she concentrated on steering around Ben’s ear.
    â€˜Why don’t we just wait till morning and go to a hairdresser?’ Ben asked.
    They had been driving for about five hours when the rain became too heavy to see the road. The wipers on the car Uncle Chris had lent them did not work well. The car was even older than the Green Machine. Ben couldn’t work out why they had bothered swapping. So they had pulled off the highway into Rest Haven, a deadbeat motel with a flickering fluorescent sign out the front.
    â€˜Don’t use your whiny voice,’ Mum said.
    She often accused him of whining, so Ben said in his deepest, most manly voice, ‘Why don’t we just go to a hairdresser?’
    â€˜It’s more fun this way,’ she said.
    â€˜What’s fun about having your hair hacked off by a maniac with a pair of nail scissors?’
    â€˜Mind your tongue,’ she said. ‘Head down.’
    Ben watched another handful of thick brown hair drop to the tiles. There was more hair on the floor than Ben remembered having on his head. Another large clump fell. He looked up into the mirror again and a tiny scream leapt from his mouth. His hair was an inch long.
    â€˜I think it looks good,’ she said. ‘More like a boy.’
    â€˜Good? I look like a toilet brush!’
    â€˜Oh, stop complaining, you big boob,’ she said.
    â€˜Boob?’ he said, raising his voice and standing up. ‘I’m not a “boob”. People are going to be cleaning toilets with my head.’
    â€˜Sit!’ Mum said, like she was speaking to Golden, their dog.
    â€˜No,’ Ben said.
    â€˜Oi!’ he heard from the next room.
    He looked at Mum, thinking for a second. There was no point getting Dad upset. He turned and studied his reflection in the mirror. ‘This room is where hair comes to die.’
    â€˜It’s a new look.’
    â€˜Holiday haircuts,’ he grunted as he flopped back into the chair.
    A grin spread over Mum’s lips as she tidied up the sides.
    â€˜I’m hungry,’ Ben said.
    â€˜Well, we don’t have anything. It won’t hurt you to skip a few meals.’
    Ben looked at her in the mirror. She knew he was paranoid about his weight because he’d told her the things kids said at school. She gave him an apologetic look and kept cutting.
    â€˜Ow!’ he said, grabbing his ear. He looked at his hand. Blood.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Let me look at it.’
    Ben