The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart (3 page)

‘How slutty,’ I say, thinking that it’s slightly ironic that Fran finds the lack of bra the disturbing part of this conversation. ‘Right, I’ve got to run.’

‘OK, have a nice weekend!’

‘You too,’ I say, waving as
I practically run out the back fire escape. I don’t want to see that trampoline ever again.

The fresh air hits me and my thoughts turn to the photos I’ve just seen. I knew the last few weeks had been hard on me mentally, but I didn’t realise they’d left such a physical mark too.

I walk home briskly, cursing Joseph and his ‘I don’t think we want the same things from life’ speech that ended our
lovely romance. Before that I was a normal, sane human being. One that could get up in the morning without being reduced to tears at the sight of a box of cornflakes that bore his fingerprints.

It’s been four weeks and I don’t seem to be getting over him at all. In fact, absence truly has made the heart grow fonder and I feel like I miss him more and more each day.

I hurry back home, desperate
to hide away and mope. I practically run up the steps to the entrance of my block of flats. Usually I’d take a moment to look out at the view of the tree-lined common and the seafront beyond it, but not today. Instead I want to reach the sanctuary of my flat as quickly as I can.

I unlock my front door, and I’m immediately hit by the smell. It’s a musty combination of stale wine and Chinese food.

I walk into the living room and it’s as if I’m seeing it for the first time. It looks like a teenager’s been left at home alone for the first time. My open-plan living room is littered with takeaway cartons, wine bottles and half-eaten bags of crisps. It’s hard to tell where the kitchen area ends and the lounge starts.

I hover in the doorway, wrinkling my nose. How have I been living like this?

It’s not just that my flat’s in a mess, I think, as I catch sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror in the hallway – I am too. I turn to study myself.

The bright lights of the photo shoot might have amplified the puffy, panda eyes, but they’re definitely visible. I rake my hand through the knotty hair that’s hanging limply down my back. I puff my cheeks out and prod the bags under my
eyes, but it doesn’t change anything. All I see when I look in the mirror is the woman that Joseph dumped.

I’ve desperately wanted him to see the error of his ways and come back to me, but what on earth would he think of me and the flat if he did?

I suddenly know what I’ve got to do.

I walk over to the kitchen and grab a pair of scissors out of the knife rack. I scoop my hair up and hold it
as if I’m putting it into a loose ponytail.

Positioning myself back in front of the mirror, I take a deep breath before taking the scissors up to my hair and snipping. I wince slightly as the blades squeak as they cut through, but it only lasts a second and then I’m left clutching nine inches of my hair.

It’s as if I’ve suddenly realised that I’ve got to take control of this post-break-up existence.
I’ve already got one pretty major obstacle in the way of Joseph and me getting back together – him – so I don’t need anything else.

I look back down at the hair in my hand and laugh. It’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but somehow it seems like the sanest decision I’ve made in weeks.

Chapter Two

Four weeks exactly since I was dumped and twenty-two hours since I hacked off my hair.

Waking up to my new hairdo this morning was a bit of a shock. I’ve had long hair my whole life, or at least I would have done if my sister Jill hadn’t got bored of her Dolls World Styling Head and chopped my hair instead. But aside from that unwanted pixie cut when I was six, my hair has always
hung like a shiny mane far down my back and sometimes skimming my bum. So when I sleepily went to scrape it back, I wasn’t expecting that I’d have to hunt around for it.

I can just about make a ponytail out of my new hair, which is marginally better than the scarecrow look I have when it’s down.

It might have been symbolic – cutting away the dead ends of my hair as if cutting away the dead ends
of my life – but I hadn’t really thought through the consequences for my appearance.

Thank goodness it’s Saturday and I’ve got time to get it sorted.

I manage to nab my hairdresser’s last available appointment, and luckily for me it’s a freezing March day, so I can legitimately tuck my scrappy bob under a beanie.

‘Abi!’ says Carly, my hairdresser, as she walks across the floor. ‘You’re not
due another cut already, are you?’

‘No, but I, er, needed a bit of a change.’

She puts a silky black robe over me and I follow her over to a comfy black chair.

My last haircut was the weekend that Joseph broke up with me. I feel foolish thinking that I’d sat in this very chair telling Carly how amazing my boyfriend was, only for him to end things with me hours later.

She pulls off my hat and
gasps.

‘What the hell happened?’ she shrieks. She starts pulling clumps of my hair up and letting it fall back down.

‘I needed a change,’ I say again, feeling a bit like a broken record.

‘You did this to yourself?’ she asks in disbelief.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Whilst sober?’

‘Yep,’ I say, embarrassed.

She looks at my reflection in the mirror as if searching my eyes for an answer.

‘You broke up with
your boyfriend,’ she guesses, gasping again.

I pull my lips into my mouth and bite down on them, trying to stop the tears from falling. I can already feel my eyes glistening.

‘Well, don’t worry. We’re going to have you looking hotter than ever. You know, bobs are bang on-trend,’ she smiles, and as I listen to her I start to feel the need to cry ebb away. ‘I think with a little bit taken off
the front here to shape it, and maybe putting a few layers in here, it’ll look really good.

‘I’m just gutted that I wasn’t the one to do the initial snip. I’ve wanted to change your hair for years and you’ve never let me take more than an inch off, and the one time you want something drastic done, you ruin the fun for me.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, smiling.

‘Well, let’s get you over to the sinks and
then we can get started. I’m so excited. I think you’re going to look amazing. I don’t usually advocate self-mutilation, but I think in this case it’s going to turn out just fine.’

After what seemed like the quickest hair wash ever, thanks to the seventy-five per cent reduction in my hair, Carly gets to work. She rakes up tiny bits of hair at a time and snips away what seems to be an awful lot
considering she doesn’t have much to work with. My heart is racing quicker with every cut. It isn’t until she starts to blow dry it, and I begin to see it taking shape, that I start to relax.

By the time my bob has been masterfully flicked around my face, in a way that I’ll never be able to replicate, no matter how hard I try, I barely recognise the person in the mirror.

OK, so I can still see
it’s me, thanks to the saucer-like dark circles under my eyes, but I look different. I look all right. In fact, I look pretty damn good.

I wonder if Joseph would like it?

No, no, no, I think, shaking my head and invoking the wrath of Carly, who almost takes a chunk out at the front of my hair. I apologise before trying to banish thoughts of Joseph from my mind. I’m not thinking about him today.

I’m so busy trying to rid myself of thoughts of my ex that I haven’t been paying attention to the finishing touches Carly is doing.

‘Ta-daa,’ she says theatrically. She picks up a round mirror and holds it behind my head so that I can see the back of my hair.

‘Bloody hell,’ I say. She’s clearly run a product through my hair that’s given it a sheen and shine that makes it look as glossy as chocolate
fondue.

‘It really suits you. See, you should have let me do this type of cut years ago.’

I put my hand up to it, and recoil almost immediately, too frightened that I’m going to mess it up.

‘I can’t believe it’s me,’ I say in a whisper.

‘You look gorgeous,’ says Carly. ‘Now, I hope you’re going to go somewhere good tonight to show it off?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Well, make sure you do,’ says
Carly.

She pulls my chair back and I slowly rise to my feet and follow her over to the till, paying and thanking her profusely as I leave.

I shove my hat into my bag – there’s no way I’m going to put that on now, even if it means my ears are going to get a little chilly.

I have a spring in my step as I walk down Southsea High Street to meet Sian, and I find myself grinning at strangers. My
mouth muscles start to ache, unused to all the smiling, but I don’t care. For the first time in weeks, I feel happy. It’s like I’ve seen a glimpse of my old self.

I spot Sian in the distance standing outside the department store where we planned to meet. As I get closer to her I start to feel nervous and begin to doubt my radical new hairdo. What if it’s too drastic? Sure, Carly said she liked
it, but can you really trust a hairdresser that you once saw with half her hair cut in a pink bob and the other side completely shaved off?

Sian hasn’t noticed me yet; she’s too busy scrolling on her phone. I walk right up and stand in front of her. She glances up momentarily, but she doesn’t say anything and instead turns her attention back to her phone.

Has all that time hiding in my flat
turned me invisible? I continue to stand there, waiting for her to notice me.

She looks up again, this time with a hint of annoyance on her face, before her jaw drops open.

‘Oh, my God. Abi!’

‘Hiya,’ I say, laughing. It’s not often that I shock my friend.

‘I can’t believe it’s you. Look at your hair.’

I tuck a bit behind my ear, self-consciously.

‘Do you like it?’ I say, holding my breath.

‘I don’t like it,’ she says, causing my heart to sink. ‘I love it! It really suits you. Wow. I can’t believe it’s you.’

I catch my reflection in the shop window, and I can’t believe it’s me either.

‘You’re like a completely different Abi from the tear-stained mess I left on Thursday night,’ she says, shaking her head, her mouth still hanging open. ‘You look bloody amazing.’

‘Thanks. It’s nice
not to be told I look like shit.’

She’s been saying that to me so much lately that it has almost become her catchphrase.

‘You know I only told you that because I love you and I wanted you to crawl out from the rock you were hiding under, and see, now you have.’

I smile with a little bit of pride.

‘So shall we go for a coffee?’ I say.

‘Oh no, we’re going shopping. Hair like that deserves new
clothes.’

‘I don’t know . . .’ I say, prodding my belly. I wanted to lose the extra break-up pounds before I bought any new clothes.

‘Nonsense. Come on.’

Sian turns and walks straight into the department store and makes a beeline for Womenswear. She’s like a woman on a mission as she flicks through the rails of clothes, holding up dresses here and there in my direction, before wrinkling her
nose and returning them to the rack.

‘So what happened?’ she asks as she starts piling items over her arm. ‘I’ve been trying for weeks to get you to leave the house, and not only do you agree to meet me in town, but you also turn up looking like a model.’

‘Ha, a model in need of a lot of airbrushing,’ I say, shuddering at the thought of yesterday’s photo shoot. Sian looks back at me expectantly
as if I haven’t answered her question. ‘I was feeling pretty crap as I’d had my photo taken at work and I looked awful. Then I walked into my flat and saw how gross it had become. And then it hit me that my flat was a reflection of me. So I felt like I needed to take matters into my own hands and I chopped my hair and spent the rest of the night cleaning.’

‘Wow, so you don’t need a biohazard
symbol on your door any more?’

‘Very funny.’

I’d love to protest that it wasn’t that bad, but it really was.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’m glad as I was going to don my Marigolds and head over with a bottle of Cillit Bang.’

Blimey, that would have been proof of true friendship. I wouldn’t have wished last night’s cleaning on my worst enemy.

I watch as she throws a dress that is breaching the Trade
Descriptions Act as it’s short enough to be a top over her arm.

‘Try these on,’ she says, thrusting the pile of garments at me.

I take them and walk towards the fitting room, managing to lose the top masquerading as a dress along the way. There’s no way that even Sian’s persuasive skills would have been able to get me and my tree trunk thighs to wear that.

I try the first dress on and stand
back to look at myself for a moment before opening the curtain and allowing her to see.

‘That looks all right,’ she says. ‘But try one of the others on.’

I do as I’m told, and after putting a metallic body-con dress to one side – that ain’t ever going to happen – I settle on an electric-blue skater dress instead. At least it covers my bum and the skirt juts out, hiding my thighs.

‘That’s the
one,’ says Sian, before I’ve barely made it out of the cubicle. ‘That’ll be perfect for going out for a few drinks tonight.’

‘Tonight? I’m still not sure I’m ready to go out,’ I say as I shut the curtain and slip the dress off.

‘With that dress, your new haircut and a bottle of wine, you’ll feel differently. We’ll go back to yours and shove some tunes on to get you in the mood.’

I slip my jeans
and baggy jumper back on, and wonder if I could face going out.

I pay for the dress and we leave the shop, walking in the direction of my flat.

‘Look at the difference forty-eight hours makes,’ says Sian as we walk away from the High Street, and the shops give way to letting agents and restaurants.

‘I know. I’m beginning to feel a bit more like the old me.’

‘That’s good, I’ve missed her.’

The closer we get to the flat, the closer we are to the seafront and the biting wind that blows along it. The sun’s started to set and a chill’s descended on the air. I pull my coat tighter around me and Sian links her arm through mine.