Haircut

Haircut

I looked at myself. My black hair fell down to my waist in a long smooth sheet of damp silk. I had tended it carefully for so many years, with countless oils and masks and unguents; not that it had done me much good. He’d left anyway, for a woman with split ends and dandruff. 

I met the hairdresser’s eyes in the mirror. 

‘Yeah. I’m sure. I want it all gone. I want to donate it to that wig thing.’ 

‘You're being brave. I like it,’ he smiled as he started combing through the tangles. He rapidly plaited it into a thick braid that fell just below my shoulder blades, and passed me the scissors. 

‘Do you want to do the honours?’ 

As I began to cut, the first sizzle of the scissors was harsh and loud next to my ear. No turning back. It took longer than I thought, the hair tough and resistant. Finally, I felt the plait drop and shook my head in surprise at how light it felt now. 

‘You're going to look great.’ The hairdresser held out the plait, a memento, but I was repulsed and waved it away. He handed it to an assistant and started to comb through the choppy uneven hair that was left. The black hair fell around my face in a way I had never seen. I hardly recognised myself. 

I said, ‘I’m thinking I want it like hers in that film.’

‘Yep, I know the one you mean.’ 

I looked to see if he was making fun of me for my vagueness. He was looking at my hair, running it through his fingers, examining it from different angles. 

‘Sorry, I mean that one where she—’ 

‘Pretty sure I know the one you mean.’ 

‘With the height at the back but also smooth and—’ 

‘Yep.’ 

‘—and framing—’

He put his hands firmly on my shoulders to stop me and looked at me in the mirror. 

‘I know exactly what you want.’ 

I stared at him, unwilling at first to relinquish my idea that I knew best. It had been so long. After a moment, I took a deep breath and let my shoulders drop as I exhaled. Okay then. 

Assured that I had put my trust in him, he began to work in silence. The metallic zip of the scissors was the only sound. Occasionally, I felt his breath on my neck as he leaned in to catch a few stray hairs with focused concentration.

After the blow-dry, he turned me away from the mirror. With his face inches from mine, he stared intently at anything but my eyes as he rubbed in waxes and serums for polish and hold. I felt a tingle in my spine as I was treated like a work of art. When he turned me back to the mirror, I saw a new woman: angular, defined, chic. 

I was acutely aware of his hands on my shoulders.

‘Satisfied?'

originally published in Popshot Magazine, March 2021