I dread haircuts. I try to never get them. Once in a while, though, I forget why, and, as if possessed by sudden madness, I surrender to the scissors.

I wanted the sightliest of trims. I even brought a picture. The only available lady seemed impatient, yet she wanted to cut my hair. I accepted her. She saw the picture and nodded, as if provided with a perfect memory. I didn’t know she was blind.

She made small talk and rumbled. I think it necessary to whip them up, so they don’t cut you on purpose, so I talked too. I mentioned a wedding, and she talked about divorces. I continued awkwardly, even as she grabbed me by the hair and washed me like a pet monkey. She talked about my generation, her motherland, and that I looked possibly asian. I was distracted, I admit. I had my guard down.

‘You have beautiful hair,’ said the sadist.

It did look beautiful, long and black. I told her I liked my fringe, and, to this day, I feel that saved me. She fret everywhere and with every new inconsistent word she would erode the sides, or repass over where there was no more harm to do. I don’t know at what point she had forgot about the picture, and strayed from course, falling of the sharp cliffs she was creating, sculpting something she alone could see. I sat there with horror in my eyes. I couldn’t react.

I was considering tattooing ‘no clippers’ on the nape of my neck, when I noticed. She must’ve had a knack for dictators, because she was going full Kim Jong-Un.

‘I think it’s too short.’

‘Too short. It’s never too short. You know why? Because it grows,’ the audacity.

But that stopped her. I was fuming inside, but she was a nice lady. I didn’t say a thing. I gave her a handshake even, and a tip, horrorstruck that I would rejoin the civilized world looking like this.

I cried. I cried like I always cry. My companion at the mall saw through my stoicism. I put my fringe down like I always do, and as I like it. The Mom said I looked OK. I saw my reflection on the windows of the shops. I looked like Hitler.

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