The scissors flash past his eyeballs, swooping in sharp, graze the eyebrow.
Hair flies off. Snip. Snip. Snip.
“I just came here for a trim.”
Happened so fast, now it’s over. The barber grins. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s the worst haircut I’ve ever had.”
Mirror confirms it. Worst, for sure.
“I’m not happy.”
“Sure you are.”
“No. I’m not paying.”
“Well you just met someone who won’t.”
“I don’t think so.”
The barber’s arm shot up. The Scissors plunged deep into the customer’s skull. To the hilt. Then, the scissors came up. A wet pop as the hole in the brain sucked shut.
The scissors went into the barbersol. Now the barbersol was blue liquid with hints of pink.
“How do you like your haircut now?”
The customer studied it. The barber held up a mirror to reflect the back of the head.
“It’s nice.” The customer said.
Talc. Brush the clipping off. Shake the bib. “Have a nice day. Tell your friends.”
The customer stood up from the chair, walked out. Saw the receptionist. Paid. Left.
On his way home, the customer whistled. Swung his arms, something he had never thought to do before.
He stopped at the grocery store, saw an old friend there. The customer began to talk about his unpleasant experience at the barber shop but as he began to speak about the haircut, the words came out all wrong.
He found himself praising the experience.
“I know! That barber is the best, isn’t he?” the old friend said.
“I use him too.”
The old friend leaned forward and showed off his head wound where the scissor had gone in.
The two of them made plans to meet for racquetball the following day after work.