Prompt: Birds of a Feather- Titled: "Cut My Hair, Pierce My Heart"
"There are more important things than hair," she calmly says, her fingers running through my blond strands.
"I know," I reply with a sigh. Part of me wondered at her words, aren't most stylists obsessed with looks? But I brushed those thoughts aside as I grabbed one last glance in the mirror. Goodbye my beauty. I have loved having long hair again but, regretfully I know, today I must bid farewell to my long tresses. It was time. When I grew it out, it was time to feel young again, to believe in possibilities. But, today, it was time to say goodbye. Today I have to grow up, become more practical, to free myself of the maintenance, to regain my time.
"Ready for the shampoo?" she said and I knew this was it.
"Ready!" I answered, the decision firm. Today, I would age again within the mirror, but today was the day. Three years ago, I was longing to be young but now I am ready to grow up, to embrace my decades once again. For me, the sign of a haircut is when I start defining myself by my hair. I am much more than that.
I needed to find me again, to uncover my dreams along with my neck.
I always feel awkward leaning back into those low bowls but the gentle soaking begins, as she holds the nozzle over my hair. Relaxing into the warmth, I feel myself sink back into my chair, letting loose of my fears. It would be ok. I would still be me.
Rrrrring. Rrring. I hear the phone but the water dulls the noise. My stylist answers, one-handed and softly murmurs, "See, I have to change your appointment. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I'm out next week for surgery, but the week after? How about Friday?"
I wonder what kind of surgery she is having but it is her business. She'll mention why if she wants to.
Back in her chair, she takes out her shiny scissors. I prefer to sit silently during a cut but I've noticed that sometimes unnerves the stylist.
"Have you worked here long?" I ask and she speaks of her years here, of the changes and ups and downs of a life devoted to bring out beauty, to adding color and subtracting hair from the heads of all who, like me, walk in wanting a change.
"Are you sure?" she asks and I say, "Yes, it's time" watching silently as three years falls away onto the floor. The hair was a promise, a dream, and its time has past.
"A lot of blond hair on the floor," a delivery man remarks as he walks by. On the floor, dropping, falling, ready to be thrown away. If only it were that easy! But this place does business in illusions. For the right price, they will change your texture, color, nails and face until you too feel ready to face a new beginning. I know the changes are only external but today I joined the crowds, all birds of a feather, flocking to those who may change our strands of dead protein into something new.
"Do you like working here?" I ask. Snip, Snip. More strands fall, settling on the drape across my chest. A small piece is tickling my nose.
"Ah, yes, we stay busy. I'm usually booked but not so much today. I guess you heard I have surgery Monday?" I can see her raised eyebrow.
"Yes. I hope it's nothing serious." I say. Her reflection in the mirror looks worried.
"Well, it's ... they caught it early. Breast cancer. I go in for my mammogram every year and suddenly, this year they found something. I'm only 43." Her voice is soft, devoid of much emotion. I get the feeling she is steeling herself, trying to stand strong inside.
"These days ... surely you will be all right. My husband's cousin had it and she's cancer free now." I wish there was more I can say. There's never a good response to give when someone says the word "cancer."
"I hope so," she said.
"Did your mom or sister have it maybe?" I don't want to pry but, at the same time, I wish she could know I care.
"Nope. No family history. Just, suddenly, they told me something showed up. I never felt a lump or anything. They say mine is internal. It makes me mad, you know? All those people trying to raise the age for a mammogram. They raise it to 50, women like me will end up dying of cancer." Her tone is angry ... and a little scared.
"I sure hope you'll be OK." The words feel flat. My concern won't change anything, really, but I have to say something. I wish there was more I could do.
"Well, what do you think?" she asks and I stare into the mirror. Eleven inches off and my face has changed dramatically.
"I like it!" I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. She did a great job but it will take time to relearn what I look like again. Who am I now, again? All I can think is: I am a woman who doesn't have surgery clouding my next week.
Like she said when we met, hair isn't the most important thing. Those words take on a whole new meaning now.
I leave a bigger tip than normal and go to the front to pay. She rings me up and I linger for just a moment.
"I really hope it goes well on Monday." I say.
"Thanks, it probably will." Her face is nervous but she's trying to be brave.
And I walk away. I wish I could hug her but who I am? Just one client in her day.
Another day. A brief intersection of lives, an exchange of stories. She touched my hair, my ears, my neck, and now she may die in surgery next week. I wonder if I'll see her again as silently I pray for a stylist named Sandy.
"I know," I reply with a sigh. Part of me wondered at her words, aren't most stylists obsessed with looks? But I brushed those thoughts aside as I grabbed one last glance in the mirror. Goodbye my beauty. I have loved having long hair again but, regretfully I know, today I must bid farewell to my long tresses. It was time. When I grew it out, it was time to feel young again, to believe in possibilities. But, today, it was time to say goodbye. Today I have to grow up, become more practical, to free myself of the maintenance, to regain my time.
"Ready for the shampoo?" she said and I knew this was it.
"Ready!" I answered, the decision firm. Today, I would age again within the mirror, but today was the day. Three years ago, I was longing to be young but now I am ready to grow up, to embrace my decades once again. For me, the sign of a haircut is when I start defining myself by my hair. I am much more than that.
I needed to find me again, to uncover my dreams along with my neck.
I always feel awkward leaning back into those low bowls but the gentle soaking begins, as she holds the nozzle over my hair. Relaxing into the warmth, I feel myself sink back into my chair, letting loose of my fears. It would be ok. I would still be me.
Rrrrring. Rrring. I hear the phone but the water dulls the noise. My stylist answers, one-handed and softly murmurs, "See, I have to change your appointment. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I'm out next week for surgery, but the week after? How about Friday?"
I wonder what kind of surgery she is having but it is her business. She'll mention why if she wants to.
Back in her chair, she takes out her shiny scissors. I prefer to sit silently during a cut but I've noticed that sometimes unnerves the stylist.
"Have you worked here long?" I ask and she speaks of her years here, of the changes and ups and downs of a life devoted to bring out beauty, to adding color and subtracting hair from the heads of all who, like me, walk in wanting a change.
"Are you sure?" she asks and I say, "Yes, it's time" watching silently as three years falls away onto the floor. The hair was a promise, a dream, and its time has past.
"A lot of blond hair on the floor," a delivery man remarks as he walks by. On the floor, dropping, falling, ready to be thrown away. If only it were that easy! But this place does business in illusions. For the right price, they will change your texture, color, nails and face until you too feel ready to face a new beginning. I know the changes are only external but today I joined the crowds, all birds of a feather, flocking to those who may change our strands of dead protein into something new.
"Do you like working here?" I ask. Snip, Snip. More strands fall, settling on the drape across my chest. A small piece is tickling my nose.
"Ah, yes, we stay busy. I'm usually booked but not so much today. I guess you heard I have surgery Monday?" I can see her raised eyebrow.
"Yes. I hope it's nothing serious." I say. Her reflection in the mirror looks worried.
"Well, it's ... they caught it early. Breast cancer. I go in for my mammogram every year and suddenly, this year they found something. I'm only 43." Her voice is soft, devoid of much emotion. I get the feeling she is steeling herself, trying to stand strong inside.
"These days ... surely you will be all right. My husband's cousin had it and she's cancer free now." I wish there was more I can say. There's never a good response to give when someone says the word "cancer."
"I hope so," she said.
"Did your mom or sister have it maybe?" I don't want to pry but, at the same time, I wish she could know I care.
"Nope. No family history. Just, suddenly, they told me something showed up. I never felt a lump or anything. They say mine is internal. It makes me mad, you know? All those people trying to raise the age for a mammogram. They raise it to 50, women like me will end up dying of cancer." Her tone is angry ... and a little scared.
"I sure hope you'll be OK." The words feel flat. My concern won't change anything, really, but I have to say something. I wish there was more I could do.
"Well, what do you think?" she asks and I stare into the mirror. Eleven inches off and my face has changed dramatically.
"I like it!" I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. She did a great job but it will take time to relearn what I look like again. Who am I now, again? All I can think is: I am a woman who doesn't have surgery clouding my next week.
Like she said when we met, hair isn't the most important thing. Those words take on a whole new meaning now.
I leave a bigger tip than normal and go to the front to pay. She rings me up and I linger for just a moment.
"I really hope it goes well on Monday." I say.
"Thanks, it probably will." Her face is nervous but she's trying to be brave.
And I walk away. I wish I could hug her but who I am? Just one client in her day.
Another day. A brief intersection of lives, an exchange of stories. She touched my hair, my ears, my neck, and now she may die in surgery next week. I wonder if I'll see her again as silently I pray for a stylist named Sandy.