“When I was young, I loved getting my hair cut,” she says. “I loved knowing that it would grow back. No matter what. We should always have elegant, well-maintained hair. It’s part of who we are.”

I watch her in the mirror. She pauses, steps back, looks down at my hair, the scissors at her side.

“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed talking with Hilbert,” she says to me in the mirror.

I feel myself blush.

“He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he? He’s brilliant, you know. Still works on his equations every day. We encourage all of you to have something to focus on, to make use of your time here. It’s a special group we have.”

Shelley makes eye contact again, through the mirror, then continues cutting.

I never wanted to only have one serious boyfriend. I always said yes to dates. I loved meeting new boys. Even if we just went out once or twice. I’d always give them a chance. All my friends seemed ready for marriage and kids right away. Not me.

And then I met someone. I met him at one of his openings. He was outgoing and articulate. I could tell he felt something for me, and I liked how confident he seemed. Within two months, we’d decided to move in together.

I didn’t know then that I would spend the rest of my adult life with him. Until coming here.

I have a hard time remembering more than that. We did fall in love. We did have fun, for a while. It’s so strange. All that time together and I’m left with only a vague feeling about facts and details.

“Hilbert is easy to talk with,” I say. “He waits to be asked questions before he gives his thoughts. He wants to ask me about mine. I think he and I are very different. I don’t understand the world the way he does, and I really like that. Too often I’ve only been around other artists. I trust him.”

“It sounds to me like you might have a little crush, Penny,” Shelley says.

“I’m too old for any of that now.”

She starts using a soft brush to remove any stray hairs around my face and neck.

“Give me your hand, please,” she says.

I hold my hand up. Shelley takes it and starts to give me a hand massage, rubbing her gloved thumbs over my palm. It’s firm but not unpleasant.

“Human touch is so important. You’ve gone so long without.”

She’s right. I have. Years. Even when he was still alive, the touch I felt and the touch I gave were mostly cold and brisk. I let my eyes slip shut again. I feel her hold my thumb and then the click of a nail clipper. She’s cutting my nails. She’s taking her time, doing it meticulously.

“Your nails are like your hair, healthy and strong. We could paint them if you want. Maybe pink? Something fun for the party.”

She starts cutting the nails of my left hand. She’s cutting the nails quite short.