“How short?” he asks.
“Shorter,” I say.
He pulls the ends of my wet hair to my shoulders.
“Here?” he asks.
I bring my hands to my ears and then drop them down an inch.
“An Italian bob,” I say, using the phrase I saw in a Refinery29 article.
“What?”
“I have pictures,” I say, pulling out my phone. His face morphs from confusion to understanding and then to…
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