I don't have time to post a story right now, but I just thought I'd point y'all to this nifty piece of flash fiction. Listen to the end; it's totally worth it, I promise.
The beautician, my usual, a glamorous middle-aged woman who had probably never seen the inside of any store that ended in “Mart,” gasped. She touched my long blonde curls with a reverence that was at once affirming... and creepy. “Chop all this gorgeous hair?” She stopped there, as if her grief could permit no further words. Then, after a moment, she squeaked, “Off?”
I raised my eyebrow and guided her hand from my hair to my nose. “Not the hair,” I corrected sternly.
“But... ?”
“The nose. All of it. Off.”
“I'm beautician.”
“And would you say my nose is beautiful?” I pressed.
She winced and removed her hand from it, as if suddenly realizing she had left her finger in a vat of putrefying meat. “No!” She frowned deeply. “Your nose is your worst feature. I've seen better noses on tapirs, darling.”
“So beautify.”
“That's really more of a surgery.”
“So sterilize your shears.”
“But...”
“If you don't do it, I'm going to Super Cuts.”
“But...”
I re-clarified the word by breaking it down into easy-to-understand syllables. “Bew. Tih. Fye.”
Her hand trembling, she reached for her shears and started pouring alchohol over the cutting surface. Finally convinced it was going to get no more sterile, she raised the shears up to the level of my nose. She took one deep breath to steady her nerves, and then –
I laughed and pushed the shears away. “Just kidding, not my nose, silly.”
“Oh, thank god!”
“But I'll bet now you're wiling to cut my hair off.”
"Okay," she says, tucking a strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. "Having hair-dye remorse?"
Guys with purple streaks in their hair must not be an unusual sight in her world. "My brother's idea of a joke," I say. Hopefully she'll drop it. It's bad enough looking like this without involving pity and/or sarcasm from the opposite sex.
"Oh I get it. Brotherly love."
Maybe because she's looking at me like she wants me to keep talking, or maybe it's because she's cute and seems oblivious to the thoughts that race through my mind as she looks at me that way, I say, "I've been crashing at his place. He has fun while I sleep."
"You must be a heavy sleeper." She's smiling, and-- have mercy, the girl has dimples. I can't smile back. I can barely nod. Girls this cute should carry a warning label.
"So, how short do you want it?" she asks. She runs her fingers through my hair. The feeling sends chills across my scalp. I'm tempted to close my eyes but don't.
"I don't know," I say. She'll need to stop massaging my scalp if she wants me to answer questions. She sprays water on my hair, tugging a little with each pass of her fingers. Spritz-spritz-tug. Now my eyes do close. "What do you recommend?" I ask.
"I guess... I could dye it back to normal and just give it a trim. It's either that or getting a buzz cut, and I like a guy with hair I can run my fingers through." I open my eyes and meet hers in the mirror. Her cheeks hadn't been this pink before. "I mean, in general," she adds.
Before I can stop myself I say, "I like a girl with dimples." My heart slams against my chest as I add, "Not just in general."
giggle, giggle, giggle. Nevets I LOVE it. I was nervous to the very end.
Diana - awww, so freaking cute. That's just some good lovin' stuff right there.
Here goes mine, sorry for the mood change.
I look at the beautician. "Chop it all off."
I ran my shaky hand through the blond bits of tiny fringe I had left.
The beautician’s nose crinkled in disgust, the usual first reaction when people saw me without my scarf. She corrected her expression and thoughtfully looked at the scissors in her hand.
“You’ll probably need to use the clippers.” I told her. “Just take it all the way down to the scalp.” I gulped down the rise of tears that started to well. I held on as long as I could to my long golden locks but my scattered threads and patches of hair scared me worse than it did my children.
The beautician grabbed the clippers and with a wobbly smile began to shear away at my last strands of life. I choked on the sight of myself, long clumps falling to the abyss of the concrete floor.
The doctor told me it was time to get my affairs in order, so I decided a haircut was long overdue.
[This is dedicated to my best girl whose mother just received the same prescription from her doctor.]
I look at the beautician. "Chop it all off."
ReplyDeleteI think, yes, it's time for a change.
I sit back and wait to see the new me at last emerge. Suddenly, I feel a frisson of nervousness.
I wonder, though not for long: Why is my beautician singing The Ballad of Sweeney Todd?
I don't have time to post a story right now, but I just thought I'd point y'all to this nifty piece of flash fiction. Listen to the end; it's totally worth it, I promise.
ReplyDeleteDevote Your Life to Beauty.
I think RJ stole my schtick for this one. hahaha :) And nicely done at that. I'll need a different angle.
ReplyDeleteI look at the beautician. “Chop it all off.”
ReplyDeleteThe beautician, my usual, a glamorous middle-aged woman who had probably never seen the inside of any store that ended in “Mart,” gasped. She touched my long blonde curls with a reverence that was at once affirming... and creepy. “Chop all this gorgeous hair?” She stopped there, as if her grief could permit no further words. Then, after a moment, she squeaked, “Off?”
I raised my eyebrow and guided her hand from my hair to my nose. “Not the hair,” I corrected sternly.
“But... ?”
“The nose. All of it. Off.”
“I'm beautician.”
“And would you say my nose is beautiful?” I pressed.
She winced and removed her hand from it, as if suddenly realizing she had left her finger in a vat of putrefying meat. “No!” She frowned deeply. “Your nose is your worst feature. I've seen better noses on tapirs, darling.”
“So beautify.”
“That's really more of a surgery.”
“So sterilize your shears.”
“But...”
“If you don't do it, I'm going to Super Cuts.”
“But...”
I re-clarified the word by breaking it down into easy-to-understand syllables. “Bew. Tih. Fye.”
Her hand trembling, she reached for her shears and started pouring alchohol over the cutting surface. Finally convinced it was going to get no more sterile, she raised the shears up to the level of my nose. She took one deep breath to steady her nerves, and then –
I laughed and pushed the shears away. “Just kidding, not my nose, silly.”
“Oh, thank god!”
“But I'll bet now you're wiling to cut my hair off.”
“Gladly, darling.”
Nevets - that was brilliant! My hat is off (but not my hair or nose!)
ReplyDeleteOh my gosh, Nevets, after your Christmas decorations post I was scared of where you were taking us with this one! Nicely done :)
ReplyDeleteI look at the beautician. "Chop it all off."
ReplyDelete"Okay," she says, tucking a strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. "Having hair-dye remorse?"
Guys with purple streaks in their hair must not be an unusual sight in her world. "My brother's idea of a joke," I say. Hopefully she'll drop it. It's bad enough looking like this without involving pity and/or sarcasm from the opposite sex.
"Oh I get it. Brotherly love."
Maybe because she's looking at me like she wants me to keep talking, or maybe it's because she's cute and seems oblivious to the thoughts that race through my mind as she looks at me that way, I say, "I've been crashing at his place. He has fun while I sleep."
"You must be a heavy sleeper." She's smiling, and-- have mercy, the girl has dimples. I can't smile back. I can barely nod. Girls this cute should carry a warning label.
"So, how short do you want it?" she asks. She runs her fingers through my hair. The feeling sends chills across my scalp. I'm tempted to close my eyes but don't.
"I don't know," I say. She'll need to stop massaging my scalp if she wants me to answer questions. She sprays water on my hair, tugging a little with each pass of her fingers. Spritz-spritz-tug. Now my eyes do close. "What do you recommend?" I ask.
"I guess... I could dye it back to normal and just give it a trim. It's either that or getting a buzz cut, and I like a guy with hair I can run my fingers through." I open my eyes and meet hers in the mirror. Her cheeks hadn't been this pink before. "I mean, in general," she adds.
Before I can stop myself I say, "I like a girl with dimples." My heart slams against my chest as I add, "Not just in general."
giggle, giggle, giggle. Nevets I LOVE it. I was nervous to the very end.
ReplyDeleteDiana - awww, so freaking cute. That's just some good lovin' stuff right there.
Here goes mine, sorry for the mood change.
I look at the beautician. "Chop it all off."
I ran my shaky hand through the blond bits of tiny fringe I had left.
The beautician’s nose crinkled in disgust, the usual first reaction when people saw me without my scarf. She corrected her expression and thoughtfully looked at the scissors in her hand.
“You’ll probably need to use the clippers.” I told her. “Just take it all the way down to the scalp.” I gulped down the rise of tears that started to well. I held on as long as I could to my long golden locks but my scattered threads and patches of hair scared me worse than it did my children.
The beautician grabbed the clippers and with a wobbly smile began to shear away at my last strands of life. I choked on the sight of myself, long clumps falling to the abyss of the concrete floor.
The doctor told me it was time to get my affairs in order, so I decided a haircut was long overdue.
[This is dedicated to my best girl whose mother just received the same prescription from her doctor.]
Aww crap. Sorry I didn't stay in present tense. Ugh.
ReplyDeleteGwoe that is so sad. I know about those kinds of prescriptions, too. Very nicely done, and I like it in past tense.
ReplyDeleteI look at the beautician. "Chop it all off."
ReplyDeleteShe looked at me incredulously. "Uh, Sir," she started, "I don't know about that."
"Look" I said, "I'm a paying customer. When I ask you to chop it all off, I want service."
"But Sir..." she stammered.
"No buts", I said "Do it."
"I'm sorry sir, I'm going to have to get my manager!"
"Get whoever you wish, then CHOP IT!"
"Is there a problem here Sir?" a starchy prune with far too much eye make-up drones.
"I want it chopped off. All of it." I said determined.
"But Sir, don't you think we should let the lady sober up and see how she feels about you chopping off her hair?"