Brillo be Gone By: Cruzzer
The humming clippers make a loud r-r-r-rasp as they are forced on a path up my neck and over the back of my head. My thick curly hair has got to go. It’s been a mess lately in the mornings and so hot on those humid days. It will be such a relief to get rid of it. Since I work outside in road construction, between the hard hat and the elements, my hair gets damaged beyond belief. It’s been hard to get a comb through it lately and I didn’t bother to try this morning.
The old barber has bad coffee breath and looks pretty unhealthy with a big belly under his light blue haircutting smock. He pushes my head down further and continues the clipper shave in back. I stare down at the clumps on the cotton cape. Stroke after noisy stroke, make the clippers, peeling off dense wads, sending them into my lap. I can’t wait to go to the beach and tan my white head, feeling the hot sun on my scalp.
Now he is at my side, the clippers buzz in my ear as he attacks the thick pelt. This isn’t my first buzz cut, and I think back to the night with Liz and Wendy when they tackled me and held me down, shaving me right down to the scalp. That night started out rough but sure ended well. This barber was making quick work out of my request for a burr cut, I guess it’s not too uncommon to shave women’s heads in this shop.
Looking up into the mirror, I see that he has left the top mass of six-inch-high tangles for last. He tries to drag a comb through the mess and it gets caught and pulls, dropping to the floor. He grumbles something about a girl taking care of her hair, and gives up on combing through it. I can see that the back and sides are clipped down just as I had asked. I have quite a remarkable tan line from being outside so much.
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Then he leans my head back in the chair, to better mow through the thick brown brillo on top. Starting at the left he makes a few passes, mowing away as the teeth of the clippers chatter in protest against the wiry strands. Soon enough, the top hair falls to the floor in one large furry clump like an old toupee. The clippers are run over the top again, with a comb to even out the length. Then he finished the edges with a smaller clipper around my ears, buzzing in some short sideburns, and cleaning up my neck.
Just before he is about to turn off the little clipper, I blurt out, “Why don’t you go over the whole thing with those?” He looks at me in the mirror a little strangely at this request but then shrugs, putting his hand on top of my head to tilt it. Might as well go as short as possible, since I am already here in the chair. Then he sends the whining machine on path after path around my ear, clearing away the five o’clock shadow of stubble like a Zamboni on ice. Little dusty hairs float down in a cloud in front of my face. Continuing around, he holds the clippers tightly against my scalp to get the full effect of the shave all over my head. A minute later he uncapes me and swishes my neck with a brush.
Now completely rid of my hot tangled curls and sporting a white girlish chrome dome, I get out of the chair and pay the barber. I open the heavy glass door and get blasted with a wave of hot Florida air, what a relief to be rid of that mop.