On Cutting My Hair (A Short Story)

DISCLAIMER: This was a true story, in 1992! So you can stop worrying, I haven't cut my hair.

Well after midnight, my tiny apartment in High Park felt like an oven. The heatwave gripping the city continued into the fifth day. I lay naked on top of my sticky sheets trying to feel a breeze through the small window in my bedroom. The fan on my dresser in front of the window pushed waves of muggy air back and forth over my tired, limp, sweaty body. A mass of overpermed hair, contained by an elastic band and an intricate series of barrettes, lay snarled on my sweat-stained pillow. I simply could not cool down. I hauled myself up and headed to the bathroom for another shower. As I padded down the hall, the tiled floor felt cool on my feet. My hair felt heavy piled on top of my sweating head.

I stepped into the shower and turned on the tap without adjusting the temperature. I had turned it to cold earlier in the evening when I got home from work. I didn't even flinch as the water hit me. This was my fourth shower in eighteen hours. I briefly considered the possibility that my rent would be increased due to my over-consumption of electricity and water. Fat chance, I thought. My landlord, Mr. Shang, loved me and hadn't raised my rent in over three years. At only $510 per month, including utilities, my apartment represented a bargain in Toronto's overpriced rental market. I inhabited less than 500 square fee on the top floor of an old house, conveniently located two blocks from the subway.

I considered sleeping in the shower and although it looked big enough to hold four adults standing, I couldn't lie down in the 4' by 4' stall. I reluctantly turned off the water and grabbed my towel from the rack. It still felt damp from my shower at six o'clock. Nothing dried in this humidity. With the snap of broken elastic, my hair suddenly tumbled down in a lank, tangled mess in front of my face. The sheer weight of it caused a metal barrette to fly off and hit me in the neck. I dropped my towel on the toilet seat and pushed the dark red scraggly jumble back from my face as I looked at myself in the mirror. A witch with dark circles under her eyes stared back at me.

I opened the door to the vanity under the sink and held my hair at bay with one hand as I bent over to scrounge around for an elastic with the other. My search proved fruitless. I remembered prforming a similar search that morning and finding only one elastic buried under a box of old makeup. I meant to buy some at lunch and forgot. I stood up and let my hair fall halfway down my back. It was so heavy when wet. Hot again from all my exertions, I removed the remaining barrettes and grabbed the wet towel. I hung upside down as I wrapped the towel turban style around my head. I straightened up and flipped the end of the towel behind me so I could tuck it under the edge running behind my head. I headed back to bed and prayed for sleep.

*******

Early the next morning, I left the house after another cold shower and decided to pick up a few necessities before the heat of the day struck in its entirety. I strolled through Bloor West Village on the shady side of the street, enjoying the relative coolness offered by overhead awnings. Suddenly, I found myself standing outside a beauty salon, reading the words "Grand Opening" across a banner in the window. I looked inside and saw a man standing behind a reception counter. He smiled and motioned me inside. I opened the door and entered the air conditioned sanctuary.

"Welcome! Hot enough for you?" he said.

"Too hot", I replied. "When did you open?"

"Earlier this week but our grand opening is today. I'm Roberto, the owner."

I glanced around the shop. The chrome gleamed on the salon chairs and the room was tastefully decorated in soothing tones of sand and peach. Three workstations displayed all the accoutrements of the trade -- blow dryers, curling irons, combs, brushes, clips and curlers. Three pristine sinks stood ready for business at the back of the shop. The shelves over them held large containers of shampoo, conditioner, hair gel and chemical solutions. The ceramic floor looked like it had never seen a single strand of hair. Posters of women and men, beautifully coiffed, adorned the walls.

"Can I help you?" he asked. He was around 40 years old, casually dressed in soft tan pants with a matching shirt rolled up at the sleeves and open at the neck. Fine leather sandals encased his feet. I did not detect an accent but his elegance and style made me think of Europe.

"Well yes, actually, I have this problem", I said.

"What is it?"

I moved my hand to the barrette as the back of my head and snapped it loose. My hair, freed from its restraint, escaped down past my shoulders.

"I think I need a cut", I said. "And I had a bad perm recently."

"What do you mean?"

I turned around and showed him.

"Oh my goodness! Who did this to you?"

"Someone I'd like to forget. Can you help me?"

He moved swiftly to the first workstation and swung the chair towards me. "Have a seat."

He swivelled the chair so I was facing the mirror. His face registered dismay at the condition of my hair. I watched him closely as his hands tenderly separated my locks into strands. He held the ends up in front of his face for closer inspection.

"Well, I can give you a trim but that really won't solve the problem. There's only one way to get your hair back into shape and that's a major cut. Let me do a sketch for you. Would you like a coffee?"

Suddenly my mouth went dry. "Something cold would be better", I said.

I looked in the mirror, trying to imagine what I would look like without this massive volume of hair. He handed me a cold glass of water and settled into the adjoining chair, facing me, his sketchpad on his knee. He looked at me and then proceeded to sketch vigorously with a pencil. He looked a me a few more times and then appeared satisfied with his result. He stretched across and handed me the paper with his sketch. I took it with trembling fingers.

"What do you think?" he said.

I looked at the picture in open-mouthed amazement. He had drawn a remarkable likeness of my face from the side. The hair in the drawing was short. Really short, with wisps around the face and neck.

"I don't know how else to fix it other than to cut it all off", he said sadly.

"I know it's bad but do you really think this is necessary?" I asked.

He came to stand behind me once again and turned me towards the mirror. The sketch rested heavily in my lap.

"There's nothing I can do to save it. It's in pretty rough shape. I think the best thing to do is to start fresh. What do you think?"

I looked again into the mirror. I looked at the sketch in my lap. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

"Do it."