When haircuts attack [short story]
It was a sunny autumn afternoon with the perfect blend of breeze and sun. I had been up late the night before pouring over equations which balance standard deviation and Gaussian theory. I was wrecked mentally and, as I slept, all I could remember was thinking how badly I was in need of a haircut every time my fingers would drift through my hair in my habitual effort to stimulate brain activity. When I finally woke just before noon I was like a geas'd zombie bent on reducing the woolly mass atop my cranium to mere stubble before this day had let out.
I began with a meal fit to reinforce the hardiest of warriors; meat, potatoes, a solitary, green vegetable. Once I was filled to capacity I fetched a plastic trash bag from under the kitchen sink, the lubricating spray from the pantry, and stormed the privy. The shears were brought out of their retirement village under the cabinet -where all dreams go to die- and given a liberal dousing with the lubricant. I wanted none of the hazily remembered protests which had earned them their early grave in the first. I flicked the red switch standing out against eh black and blue casing to test the utensil. it sprang to life as though impervious to time. If only I'd had the foresight to make note of the colors of the Crap-o-trim model; all the colors of a bruised rainbow. But the warpaint would not have dissuaded me. I spread the trash bag over the basin to speed along cleaning afterward. After all, I am an intelligent man who commands his destiny.
The stage for success was set. I had purpose, shears, a catch for the hair I would be removing, and lubricant to ensure proper function of my tool. And so I set my jaw, thumbed the switch and sneered as I placed the roaring follicle mulcher at the base of my skull and guided it toward the crown of my head. A heavy swatch of thick, dark, wavy hair was lifted up and over my head and I watched as it fell to the plastic protector with some satisfaction. I returned the shears to the starting position and over a couple inches for the next strip of what promised to be a short matter. I guided the shears upward and waited for the next plummeting clump but it did not come. I lifted my head to see if I had somehow let the strip of waste fall to the tiles. it was the worst thing I could foresee as tile is so hard to clean hair from. Bu there was nothing there. Nor on the bag, counter or my back and shoulders. I felt at the back of my head and found the hair still clinging tightly. i assumed I had merely held the shears at the wrong angle and I made at the section again. The results were the same. Thought the first pass went wonderfully but it would not do so again. I switched off the shears and cast them to the counter with a snide comment. They had exacted their revenge on me for their imprisonment under the counter. Had they not worked at all I would have been no better off but no worse either. There was still the option of going to the barber and paying the ungodly sum of $7 for him to do nothing more than make a few passes over my skull with his own shears. I immediately felt that a great deal of that cost could be justified in the quality of the tools in the possession of such a skilled professional. But that did nothing to change my current predicament. There I stood, a large highway of scalp mowed into a canvas of rich, chocolate waves. This would be difficult to explain to those I convened with socially and the explanation gave no hope that I might come out looking any less than foolish and a tad over-frugal in the process. I dislike advertising my affinity to either publicly you must know. And so I was inspired to trudge on. This was still my war against too much hair spreading willy-nilly over one of my few parts I prefer to keep visible.
With no more than a moments pause I reached out and procured the beard trimmer. It's a fancy thing. No longer than a hot dog frank, possessing only slightly more girth but the features and attachments are seemingly endless. It was a gift of course for I never would have thought to spend so extravagantly on myself. My father had placed a bit more value in my convenience a pair of holidays back and thus the advanced device was now staring back at me while I looked it over contemplating the possibilities. It has two adjustable attachments for desired length. each attachment has 5 settings. With the larger of the two and the highest setting to boot it seemed to measure up exactly to the #3 attachment I had originally set out with before the shears had avenged their short life. I could think of no other solution so I ignited the tiny shears with thoughts of young David facing the mighty Goliath.
The first pass yielded noticeable but minimal results and my heart sank a bit. I had hoped they might perform beyond my expectations but they did not. They performed almost exactly within my expectations in fact. At least one of my amenities has a heart like mine. It was enough to keep me trudging along. I made several more passes noting that I had to clean the blades with every swipe because the long hairs were overwhelming the narrow (only 3/4 of an inch wide) cutting surface. I needed better tactics if I were to prevail before fatigue took me. It was time for mercenary action. careful not to track hair over the carpet, I exited the privy and carefully moved down the corridor as fast as I could without causing a breeze for fear of the tiny deposits of hair the smaller device yielded from escaping my neck, shoulders and back though i could think of nothing more wonderful than to be shed of the nuisance. still, I had to think of the carpet first. It is unable to defend itself as I learned during The Stain of 2003. But I digress.
I dashed into the office and procured the large scissor I knew lived on my desk and was back in front of the sink in short time. I went at every clump of renegade hair I could with t he abandon of a man sans sanity. Twice I felt the blades brush my fingers far closer than I expected but I was making progress now and I openly laughed at the blue and black shears laying discarded, this time eternally, on the far side of the counter. Once the scissor had leveled the field a bit the beard trimmer was sent to the front lines once more. It performed admirably. I began to clam and even smile finding time to examine my work even. A light shone at the end of my tunnel and from that light I could hear the voices of angels in chorus. And then the voices began to fade. The volume seemed to be decreasing a nd I beckoned to the angels to sing. Sing for the love of all good things! As I fell silent I noted it was not the angels choir that was fading but the hum of the beard trimmer. how long since I had charged it? how long would it take to charge? Normally I had to let it rest in it's base for a day solid between uses. i had forgotten the little soldier lacked stamina. I switched the beard trimmer off to preserve power and felt around my head. i had nearly finished with the top and one side and was sure I'd have enough to do the other side but he back still boasted random tendrils and outcroppings of snarling rebels. I surmised I would simply have to go as as best i could and then let eh brave David rest. When his strength had returned I would ask him to clear the field.
And so I sit now watching over the resting warrior. His single red eye swells and pulses telling me his wounds are not yet healed but I know soon he will open that brilliant green eye and tell me he is ready to go on. And that will truly be a happy day for us all. It will bring to a close the day we challenged the haircut and won.
I began with a meal fit to reinforce the hardiest of warriors; meat, potatoes, a solitary, green vegetable. Once I was filled to capacity I fetched a plastic trash bag from under the kitchen sink, the lubricating spray from the pantry, and stormed the privy. The shears were brought out of their retirement village under the cabinet -where all dreams go to die- and given a liberal dousing with the lubricant. I wanted none of the hazily remembered protests which had earned them their early grave in the first. I flicked the red switch standing out against eh black and blue casing to test the utensil. it sprang to life as though impervious to time. If only I'd had the foresight to make note of the colors of the Crap-o-trim model; all the colors of a bruised rainbow. But the warpaint would not have dissuaded me. I spread the trash bag over the basin to speed along cleaning afterward. After all, I am an intelligent man who commands his destiny.
The stage for success was set. I had purpose, shears, a catch for the hair I would be removing, and lubricant to ensure proper function of my tool. And so I set my jaw, thumbed the switch and sneered as I placed the roaring follicle mulcher at the base of my skull and guided it toward the crown of my head. A heavy swatch of thick, dark, wavy hair was lifted up and over my head and I watched as it fell to the plastic protector with some satisfaction. I returned the shears to the starting position and over a couple inches for the next strip of what promised to be a short matter. I guided the shears upward and waited for the next plummeting clump but it did not come. I lifted my head to see if I had somehow let the strip of waste fall to the tiles. it was the worst thing I could foresee as tile is so hard to clean hair from. Bu there was nothing there. Nor on the bag, counter or my back and shoulders. I felt at the back of my head and found the hair still clinging tightly. i assumed I had merely held the shears at the wrong angle and I made at the section again. The results were the same. Thought the first pass went wonderfully but it would not do so again. I switched off the shears and cast them to the counter with a snide comment. They had exacted their revenge on me for their imprisonment under the counter. Had they not worked at all I would have been no better off but no worse either. There was still the option of going to the barber and paying the ungodly sum of $7 for him to do nothing more than make a few passes over my skull with his own shears. I immediately felt that a great deal of that cost could be justified in the quality of the tools in the possession of such a skilled professional. But that did nothing to change my current predicament. There I stood, a large highway of scalp mowed into a canvas of rich, chocolate waves. This would be difficult to explain to those I convened with socially and the explanation gave no hope that I might come out looking any less than foolish and a tad over-frugal in the process. I dislike advertising my affinity to either publicly you must know. And so I was inspired to trudge on. This was still my war against too much hair spreading willy-nilly over one of my few parts I prefer to keep visible.
With no more than a moments pause I reached out and procured the beard trimmer. It's a fancy thing. No longer than a hot dog frank, possessing only slightly more girth but the features and attachments are seemingly endless. It was a gift of course for I never would have thought to spend so extravagantly on myself. My father had placed a bit more value in my convenience a pair of holidays back and thus the advanced device was now staring back at me while I looked it over contemplating the possibilities. It has two adjustable attachments for desired length. each attachment has 5 settings. With the larger of the two and the highest setting to boot it seemed to measure up exactly to the #3 attachment I had originally set out with before the shears had avenged their short life. I could think of no other solution so I ignited the tiny shears with thoughts of young David facing the mighty Goliath.
The first pass yielded noticeable but minimal results and my heart sank a bit. I had hoped they might perform beyond my expectations but they did not. They performed almost exactly within my expectations in fact. At least one of my amenities has a heart like mine. It was enough to keep me trudging along. I made several more passes noting that I had to clean the blades with every swipe because the long hairs were overwhelming the narrow (only 3/4 of an inch wide) cutting surface. I needed better tactics if I were to prevail before fatigue took me. It was time for mercenary action. careful not to track hair over the carpet, I exited the privy and carefully moved down the corridor as fast as I could without causing a breeze for fear of the tiny deposits of hair the smaller device yielded from escaping my neck, shoulders and back though i could think of nothing more wonderful than to be shed of the nuisance. still, I had to think of the carpet first. It is unable to defend itself as I learned during The Stain of 2003. But I digress.
I dashed into the office and procured the large scissor I knew lived on my desk and was back in front of the sink in short time. I went at every clump of renegade hair I could with t he abandon of a man sans sanity. Twice I felt the blades brush my fingers far closer than I expected but I was making progress now and I openly laughed at the blue and black shears laying discarded, this time eternally, on the far side of the counter. Once the scissor had leveled the field a bit the beard trimmer was sent to the front lines once more. It performed admirably. I began to clam and even smile finding time to examine my work even. A light shone at the end of my tunnel and from that light I could hear the voices of angels in chorus. And then the voices began to fade. The volume seemed to be decreasing a nd I beckoned to the angels to sing. Sing for the love of all good things! As I fell silent I noted it was not the angels choir that was fading but the hum of the beard trimmer. how long since I had charged it? how long would it take to charge? Normally I had to let it rest in it's base for a day solid between uses. i had forgotten the little soldier lacked stamina. I switched the beard trimmer off to preserve power and felt around my head. i had nearly finished with the top and one side and was sure I'd have enough to do the other side but he back still boasted random tendrils and outcroppings of snarling rebels. I surmised I would simply have to go as as best i could and then let eh brave David rest. When his strength had returned I would ask him to clear the field.
And so I sit now watching over the resting warrior. His single red eye swells and pulses telling me his wounds are not yet healed but I know soon he will open that brilliant green eye and tell me he is ready to go on. And that will truly be a happy day for us all. It will bring to a close the day we challenged the haircut and won.