The auditorium is small-intimate actually-with a low stage and only ten rows of plush blue chairs rising up in stadium style. A single spotlight emphasizing the center of the empty stage is the only direct lighting. Soft music plays as the audience files in. The seats are nearly full. There is a murmur of hushed conversation coming from the group, whispers of wonder and excitement at what they are about to see. Precisely at 8:00 pm the background music fades. The stage went dark and from the darkness, a soft soothing voice begins to speak.
"Welcome, friends. Tonight's journey will guide your first steps toward a goal that is as much a part of you as your eye color or fingerprints." Music rises in the background, a swell of sound that accompanies a change in voice from the unseen announcer.
"While it may not define you, for some of you it may represent the fulfillment of a wish that you've harbored for literally years. A quiet little secret, hidden in the back of your mind-unshared with only a few, or with no one at all-until now." There is a flash of light that leaves you and the rest of the audience blinking, with spots of color seen behind closed lids.
"While your motives may vary, your goal is the same as the person next to you.. or behind you.or three rows away. Here your secret is honored. Here your secret is safe-to explore, to witness.to live." As the final word hangs in the dark stillness of the auditorium, a pin spot snaps on, illuminating a single chair on the stage where a small girl sits. She wears two long braids in her dark hair. Her bangs hang in her eyes. She could be you-many years ago. On the floor in front of her on the floor lay a doll whose hair is brutally shorn by dull play scissors. You contemplate her, but only for a second, as the pin spot goes suddenly dark.
Upstage right another spot hits the stage where you focus on a boy of about eight, in striped tee shirt and jeans with dirty knees. He tosses a ball and catches it in a well-worn glove, anticipating the games that he'll play all summer. The stage around him is pitch black. The light flashes again and when your eyes adjust, you see the clippers-magically floating against the backdrop. You hear the incessant buzz from all around you-the surround sound serving to make your spine tingle with excitement.
An unseen hand guides the clippers, placed firmly against the boy's forehead and drawn back. Dirty blond locks fall to his shoulders and to the stage, leaving a pale path from forehead to crown. The boy's hand brushes the mowed off path and he grins from ear to ear.
The stage goes dark and when the pin spot clicks on, again you see the girl. In her hand, she slowly opens and closes a small pair of blunt-tipped chrome scissors. She pets her bangs and selects a lock from the center of her forehead. You watch as she rolls her eyes up, trying to see what she is about to do. After a couple of attempts at correctly positioning the scissors, she closes them and begins gnawing off the lock, very close to the hairline. The scissors are indeed dull and it takes what seems like minutes for her to sever the lock. She grins and drops the lock to the floor by her doll. She lifts the tail of her braid and reaches more than half way up its length with the shiny little scissors. The light fades, but the surround sound reveals what is happening in the darkness.
The unmistakable sound of dull scissors gnawing through a rope of hair fills the surround sound system. Your hands reach for your own hair and perhaps, just perhaps, you remember.
The music rises just as you hear the sound of the blades coming together for the last time and you know the girl's braid is now either in her chubby hand, or lying on the floor. The voice returns calm and steady.
"Is that how it started for you? Can you relate to our young friends-the curiosity of a small girl or the summer shearing of a boy before he heads to the sandlot for one of many ball games? Or for you, was the beginning less innocent? More ominous?"
The stage is still dark, but you hear a door slam. Voices are raised in anger-a mom and a daughter arguing. The arguing escalates and your skin begins to crawl as the spotlight shines again. The girl, a redhead with bouncy curls that fall below her shoulders, is attempting to shield her head from the inevitable. A hand comes out of the darkness, wielding kitchen shears like a weapon. "NO MOM" is the last thing you hear, as a handful of titian curls are hacked away and tossed to the floor. As another handful is grabbed and the shears are raised, the stage goes dark over the girl and illuminates a teenaged boy.
His hair is long, curling over his ears and collar. He works at tuning an electric guitar while in the background; a stern male voice hollers complaints about the noise. "I DON'T CARE IF HE'S IN TEN BANDS! NO SON OF MINE IS GOING TO LOOK LIKE A DAMNED GIRL!" The guitar falls to the stage, when the hand from the darkness strikes the boy. The second hand pushes guard-less clippers up the side of the surprised boy's head. The stage goes dark.
Again the voice interrupts the absolute silence in the pitch-black room.
"Regardless of circumstances, inside this room we are all one. We all have a fascination with the tactile experiences of our youth. The snap and buzz of clippers coming to life may incite a moment of fear, but it dissolves into the increasing hum of arousal. The sound of scissors slicing through a substantial lock echoes in our ears. We may long for the near silent rustle of hair hitting a nylon cape, falling quietly to the floor. Do you long to have the control you had as a child, or to regain the control you lost as a child? In either case, your journey begins here."
The stage lights come up and reveal a beautiful old barber's chair at center stage. The chrome is polished, the soft red leather seat looks inviting. There is a freestanding oval mirror, reflecting the full length of the chair. A cape is draped over the arm of the chair and on a small table, all of the tools for cutting hair. A woman comes in and sits down, obviously the barber. She smokes a cigarette, showing long shapely legs as she relaxes with a magazine. The voice breaks the silence.
"Is this what you think of? An attractive barber to take you on your journey? She's waiting for you.just you.to sit in her chair and let her create your fantasy in tonight's reality."
A man with shoulder length hair appears in front of the stage. Your mind races as you try to remember if you saw the man in the audience before the show. The barber looks up and draws on her cigarette as she asks the man, what can I do for you today? She uncrosses her legs and stands up, indicating that he should sit. The man looks around, and then steps up onto the stage. He sits down tentatively--the barber pulling his shoulders back into the chair so that she can tissue and cape him. She runs her hands through his long hair, raking it back into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck.
Holding the tail in one hand, she picks up the scissors and begins to sever it close to his neck. As the shorn hair separates, what remains falls forward, settling just below the line of his jaw. The barber tosses the shorn tail onto the floor and she reaches for the clippers. Pushing his head forward, the barber begins to shear off even more of the soft blonde locks-leaving a plush sandy pelt in her wake that runs from nape to crown. The sun-streaked locks continue to fall from the back, then the sides.
From your seat in the audience, you feel your own security blanket, falling straight around your shoulders, ending in soft waves just around your hips. In the darkness you think of the richness of the tone of your locks. Chestnut brown, thick and silky. Can a man possibly feel about his hair like you feel about yours-wanting it gone but fearful of the result?
Your answer is found as you look
back to the stage, where the barber has turned her client away from the mirror to face the audience. There is an unmistakable look of excitement in his eyes-mixed with fear and arousal. You are sure that he's glad to have the protection of the cape to hide his arousal. By now all that remains of his long locks is the shock of hair still remaining on top of his head. The sides and back are buzzed short and tapered in tight at the hairline. Holding up the top locks, the barber flashes open a straight razor. Her knee pushes the chair around so that the man faces the mirror. The blade rests at his hairline and your mind races as to the prospects of what will happen next. His eyes are wide as she slowly raises the blade, cutting the top in short lengths, blending them with the sides. When she finishes, she uses a small brush to remove the loose hair, then uses product to define the texture she created through the top. The cut is short-revealing pale skin through the sandy stubble. The stage lights fade, leaving only the pin spot on the perfectly executed cut. Then again--blackness.
When the lights come up on the stage, the setting is a bathroom. It could be your house-tile walls around a tub. The adjacent vanity is well lit by four globe lights. On the vanity lie a brush and a hand mirror. A pair of scissors sits there as well, waiting for the inevitable. Once again, the voice breaks the silence.
"What about you? Do you long to recapture the bravery of your youth-when a few snips of scissors did not make you shiver with fear, but instead made you free? Do you long to swing your head from side to side and feel the soft blunt edges of your freshly shorn hair on your cheeks? Do you think of it as you brush your hair each morning and each night-the work of 100 long slow strokes? The stage is yours."
For a few moments there is just silence, then a rustle from the darkness of the auditorium as a middle-aged woman steps forward. Her hair is long and flowing, dark with streaks of silver sparkling as she moves closer to the light. Taking the stage, she moves tentatively to the vanity, considering what she is about to do. She gathers her hair in a loose ponytail, and then holds it up in the back, creating the look of a short bob. Her earlobes show and you see small gold hoops. Letting her locks fall back into place, she picks up the brush and begins to stroke it through her hair. As she brushes, you count under your breath-1, 2, 3.35, 36, 37.and eventually 98, 99.100. The brush is back on the vanity and the scissors are in her hand.
You feel dampness between your legs as she raises the scissors to her cheek and inserts them into her hair just above the earlobe. As she closes the blades, a foot of hair falls silently to the vanity and then to the floor. She continues to cut, moving to the back of her head. Half shorn, the woman considers what she has done and she begins to smile. Picking the scissors again, she begins to cut the other side-faster this time, with greater urgency. When the scissors close at the back of her head, she has a rough bob and a huge smile. She runs both hands up the back of her head and lets the hair fall back into place. She swings her head and her laughter breaks the silence. Bangs.she is going to cut bangs-you realize as she finger-combs down her forelock. The scissors slide in just above her brows, releasing more hair to the vanity top. She considers the effect, then snips off another inch from her bangs-leaving a child-like fringe. Having abandoned the scissors, she begins takes up the hand mirror to get a different view of her now-short locks. The lights fade and you hear a new voice. A girl speaks from the darkness.
"As a girl I was never allowed to have short hair. My parents loved my hair more than they loved me-at least that is how it seems. I always wanted to cut my hair off very short. To take control of that part of my life and to be loved, regardless of whether my hair was long or short. What? You'd love me even if my head were shaved bare? Are you sure?"
The stage lights come up on a man in his twenties-shirtless and handsome. His soft eyes sparkle as he looks in the direction of the audience. He holds out his hand to an unknown person. The stage is set for romance and it is obvious he is waiting for you. You rise and move from your chair into the light. He meets you and helps you to the stage, gently holding your elbow as you step up. Leaving you for only a moment, he turns on the stereo-returning to you hold you close and dance. He pushes your hair from your neck and buries his face in your neck as he kisses it softly. As you dance, your bountiful waves sway loose at your hips. He dances you slowly.closer and closer to the kitchen chair that sits on the stage by the table. He seats you and hands you a hand mirror. Stepping behind you, he brushes back your hair, gathering it behind your head in a ponytail. He is encouraging you to consider your hair short.
You consider the length of your neck-now graceful it looks as you turn your head. Your eyes seem bigger somehow, and your cheekbones higher. You look at his reflection in the hand mirror, making eye contact. You nod-yes.yes. You want him to shear you and to love you. Kneeling before you, he slowly unbuttons your blouse and removes it. Your bare breasts are proud and firm, the nipples budding pink against your rich tan. He stands, cupping your breast-then bending to give you a tender kiss. Picking up the scissors, he opens them and questions you again with his eyes. You nod again. And as he stands before you, he selects a lock and snips it off, barely an inch from your scalp. He steps back, letting you see the full length of your shorn hair. Laying it across your lap, he selects another lock-then still another. Your lap is filling with your hair. He moves to the side, then behind you. The blanket of hair that symbolized all that you thought people loved about you is nearly gone. Only one shoulder remains covered, but in moments, those locks are gone as well.
The scissors clink as he drops them to the table and there is a sudden pop! He moves around in front of you and shows you the clippers. There is a guard on them, but you don't understand what that means. He raises the clippers to your forehead, resting his free hand at the back of your head. You lean into the clippers as they move over the top of your head, sending small clumps of hair tumbling down your bare back. The clippers now rest at your nape behind your ear, moving forward as he bends your ear forward to get a clean line. Hair falls to your breasts and you brush it away, lingering at your swollen nipple. The sensation of the clippers is incredible.leaving you wet and wanting. You are fully shorn and he pulls you to your feet, blowing away stray hairs from your bare skin before suckling your throbbing nipple. His hand moves to the front of your jeans and the stage goes black. Your eyes are closed in ecstasy.
You listen for the audience but hear only the breeze. The breeze???? Confused, you open your eyes. Your hair.still long and full.sticks to your face where your cheek rested on the pillow. You sit up and look around. The bathroom door is open and on the vanity you see your brush.and your hand mirror. The scissors are in the drawer---waiting.
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