Think About It

Think About It By Lela

I had long had a crush on Leslie, not that she would have known it. Who could guess that the quiet girl in the chorus lusted after the lead, with her blue eyes sparkling and her smile shining in the spotlight. Leslie herself was shy and quiet, reminiscent of the role she had played in many plays. She kept her beautiful straight gold hair long. It was her pride, and it was as delicate as an angel’s might have been. She never let anyone touch it, although people were always begging her to let them do that. Leslie dared not put it up with an elastic, lest it tear, so it simply swung about her and hid her face. But Leslie did not realize this, although directors would often tell her to reposition herself so it would not block her face.

It was Leslie’s senior year, and she had an audition for NYU’s drama department in a week. Although her hair was long, she scarcely neglected it, instead she went for monthly trims. Generally these trims were little more than a half-inch or so, but this month she walked into school with a chin length bob, which had required at least eight inches of the glorious hair to be snipped off. Now, if she did not know of my crush, there was no way she could have known that I had a secret hair fetish, which lately had been dreaming of cutting her hair. That night, as I lay myself to sleep, I imagined how her cut must have gone:

She walked into the salon, absently tucking her hair behind her ears. She walked to the desk, and gave them her name and they told her to have a seat. Once she was called, she walked to the same stylist who had always cut it. She would have swallowed hard, for this would not be easy for her. She requested the bob. The stylist would have known the cut, as she had it done about five years previously. She would have combed out the hair – oh beautiful, flowing hair – and then carefully begun to comb out the piece along Leslie’s ivory neck. Leslie would have winced slightly at the comb gliding down her neck. The stylist would have raised the shears and – snip! Six inches of her pride would have flopped unceremoniously to the floor. I could see Leslie nervously raising her hand to feel the butchered strands, and then the cut would have continued, with the hair being done along the right cheek – and yet another slice. By now a downy pile of her locks would have formed. Once the initial butchering was done, the stylist would have taken her bangs and trimmed them, then gone on to layer the hair so it fell just so, and then begun to dry it.

Leslie would have smiled at her reflection in approval, and then gone on to meet her friends. They would have shrieked with shock, and then the newly beautiful Leslie would have gone on to NYU.

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