Oh, hello there! How kind of you to stop in! Could you allow me a simple liberty? Have you, perchance, ever felt a person’s hair? Their silky strands of natural linen, woven tightly into their scalp… Have you ever had the ability to feel it? To feel it?
No, no, I don’t suppose you have, have you? You don’t seem like the sort. You don’t really dabble in the affairs of the cosmetic department, I assume. I can’t blame you. Most people see it as tedious and boring. The naysayers always tell me how the cosmetic field is such an inane, frivolous branch of work to be in. Always describing of how it’s a silly, thoughtless endeavor. They don’t give it any real thought. None of them have felt hair before; none of them understand the obstacles one in my profession must face on a daily basis.
But, dear sir, I must ask you again, have you ever felt hair? No? I didn’t assume so. Hair is really such a fascinating subject to talk about. Could you give me a kindness and allow me to ramble?
You see, hair is an amazing medium to channel your creativity into. Twisting, turning, the fibers making wondrous shapes and twirling into anything your mind can come up with without any protest. An amazing medium, to be sure. Hair. It’s an incredible, truly stupendous thing. You see, I’ve had a taste for hair ever since I was a young lad. Ever since I was a little boy, I was spellbound by the simple movement of the silky strands of polychromatic colour. A riveting sight to behold. As a child, I studied the art of cosmetology, putting the delicate science in front of virtually everything else in my life: family, friends, the social scene. Instead of going to my friend’s parties, I would instead lie at home and dream of hair, the magnificent silk.
I opened a barber shop; it was the natural thing to do. I figured myself as an entrepreneur in my area. This town I lived in didn’t have any sort of… style or method to it. A soulless vacuum where creativity goes to perish. Of course, this didn’t make me think twice about opening my barber shop. I would be doing the men and women in this dreary stagnation a service! They were wary, at first. I’m sure of it. After all, why would these mindless yokels want to make a change for the better in their lives? They didn’t come to me at first. I worried about making ends meet.
Now, they flock to my store. They come in droves, I tell you. People passing through notice I’m the only barber shop here, and so if they need a quick cut, snip, snip, and they’re on their way. There’s no other competition here. There hasn’t been any competition for years. Even the residents of the town are less hesitant to come to my store. They welcome it. They enjoy it. For the first time, anyhow…
Now I sit in my store, my legs crossed in my chair, as I wait for the customers to stream in. All of them are in desperate need for attention. Some of them are old, some are thin, some wear tweeds, others are juvenile. All manners of people stroll in to receive a trim, or a cut, or a complete makeover. I grant them their wish in the utmost fashion. I’m quite happy with how I operate. I’m a professional at what I do. I never cease to amaze the crowd, or myself.
Here comes one now. I could hardly contain myself. I flung up from my chair and hastily booked the customer for an appointment that very minute. The patron today was a man with a heavy volume of matte, black hair. Not the most alluring prospect, I admit, but hair is hair. I put the haircape over the man, snugly fitting it to his figure. He told me he wanted a trim, in order to get rid of the mass of hair he had sitting above his skull. I obliged, doing exactly as he told me. Then I felt a strange sensation, like I always feel. As I finished the job the customer wanted, pulling away my clippers and shears, I set out on the job that I wanted. This was how every appointment went.
Snap snap, buzz buzz, clip clip. The locks of hair fell from the man’s scalp, cascading in the air and offering me a dance to show their appreciation for my work. They all thanked me generously, and seeing them do their subtle ball made me feel more euphoric, and I began to cut more and more. My client was becoming angry at me, but he could not move lest he want part of his head missing. Snip snip. The feeling of cutting hair and seeing it flow before you is almost orgasmic.
At last, my work was done. I set down my tools, gave the now-bald man’s head a quick shine with my towel, and took off his bib. I put the bib on the counter in front of me, making sure to collect the excess hair on the bib after the man had left. I had such a damn good time doing this job. The man was visibly distressed and demanded his money back, but I shooed him out the door and told him thank you for his service. He sulked around the entrance to my store for a while, then ultimately left when he realized that he could do nothing.
I placed the hair on the bib in my cabinet, savoring the feel of each individual strand. It felt so smooth, so nice. The hair would be a fine addition to my collection. As I was finishing up my job, I heard the door open and in walked my next client: A plump old lady with snow-white hair and spectacles. She reminded me of my lovely aunt. She asked me if I had any time for an appointment, and I told her of course I did. I booked her for that very minute, the same as I did with the last man. She was worried if I could do the job exactly how she wanted me to do it. She told me she wanted a trim and nothing more. I gave her a grin and said,
“Now, don’t worry. You can trust me. After all, I’m only your dear barber Fred.”
-Sifenchar and Selto854