Stranded

Stranded

This story is purely fictional and involves female haircutting and may offend some readers.

Stranded – VaMurimi

It was a very cold December day, even for northern Quebec. The blizzard had forced me to change my travel plans. I still had a five-day drive to Alberta. I had decided that even though I had been living like Grizzly Adams for three days, I had a hotel room and there was an old-fashioned barbershop in the lobby. I had decided, after realizing that the only TV stations were in French, to try a good old-fashioned barbershop shave. I had already used up my college French on the local mechanic, all of the bar waitresses and the hotel clerk. The barber greeted me in near-flawless English. He was a middle-aged man with a perfectly-trained military moustache and heavily pomaded grey hair.

Truly, this barber was a model of sartorial art. He was cleaning his tools at the counter as I walked in. He turned to me and asked what he could do for me. I replied that I was stuck in the blizzard and really needed to have a shave and a trim. He asked me if I’d mind waiting for a while, he had a previous appointment. He suggested that I wait in the lobby or go to the bar for a cold beer. I told him that I would wait there as I spied the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

Just as I was thumbing through the magazine, I looked up and heard the doorbell. The barber turned and opened the door. I thought to myself that this must be the previous appointment. In walked a nun, followed by an older woman dressed entirely in black, she was pulling the arm of a teenaged girl. The barber spoke to the nun in French, like he was receiving instructions. The woman clenched her hand around the girl’s arm.

The barber said to me, “Monsieur, this girl, Joanne, ran away from home and her mother is sending her to the Abbey. The sister is here to take her there, but she is going to leave this here.” He smiled as he lifted up the three-foot-long thick brown hair from the girl’s neck.

The barber then told me that he would buy the girl’s hair and donate it to the convent, then he added that they would shave her head once a week at the Abbey. As I looked at the spectacle in front of my eyes, I decided the swimsuit issue could wait.

The nun looked at the girl and sternly said something in French. The tears were welling up in her deep brown eyes as she was taken to the barber’s chair. The barber examined the thick brown mane falling down the back of the chair with an almost lusty look in his eyes. He turned to his cash register and pulled out three crisp 20-dollar bills and handed them to the nun. I could tell that the pleasure was well worth the investment. The nun stood in front on the chair and held the girl’s arms down. Resistance was clearly futile and, except for the steady flow of tears, she appeared resigned to her fate.

The nun said, “Commence!”

The barber pulled her mane into a 3-foot ponytail, wound a rubber band around the base. Then the nun turned the chair so that the girl was facing the mirror. My view was excellent, although no-one even acknowledged my presence except the barber. Then the clippers in the barber’s hand came to life. Slowly he pushed the clippers toward the center of the girl’s head, while holding the ponytail aloft like a trophy. The girl’s body writhed with each slow stroke of the clippers, as the nun smiled at the hysterical girl. The barber took his time as he steadied the girl’s head and severed the ponytail, leaving only a stubbled scalp. Then he clipped the remaining hair down to a shadow. After laying the ponytail and all the stray locks on the counter, the barber motioned to the nun and she smiled. The old woman had shed a few tears as she watched the haircut. The nun nodded with approval and stood up, grabbed the trembling girl’s head and held it up to the mirror. Then she said to the barber, “Fini!”

With that, he turned the clippers back on and made pass after pass until her head was almost bald. Then he asked the nun to hold her again as he stropped the straight razor. Then with a few deft strokes he shaved off all the lather leaving her shaven bald, trembling in the chair as the nun literally lifted her out of the chair and hurried out into the lobby. The barber noticed that I had been fixated on the previous haircut, picked up his razor and said, “Next!”

 

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