Getting it good from behind (pt. 2)
The sadistic session begins with me getting a folding chair from the basement that manages to let your thighs stick to the seat even when you’re wearing trousers. An old schmatte replaces the cape used at salons. The only thing I’m wearing is an old pair of gym shorts (never used them for gym, so I better use them now).
A feeling of déjà-vu comes over me. Not only am I regressing back to when I was nine, but the room reminds me of the scene in Marathon Man where Laurence Olivier continually repeats the question, “Is it safe?” while he performs unnecessary surgery on Dustin Hoffman – sans anaesthesia.
The bathroom is nippy, like a night in October, and the only thing that is covering my torso is this ridiculous, flowered shamatte, which is not only scratchy, but also makes you hot and sweaty while leaving your skin cold to the touch. Ah, the miracles of polyester.
Taking my seat as my father walks in, he looks at me and asks, “Are you ready?”
I nod as a reply. Lord Jesus, I think, this is as ready as I’ll ever be.
He pulls out the clippers, the same pair of scissors he’s been using to cut hair for the past 15 years, and that same, nasty comb. He turns on the machine and begins trimming the hair on the back of my head. The buzz of the motor massages my scalp.
Voices are heard from the radio in the kitchen. There must be a soccer game on, as is usual with Saturday afternoons. My fingers twitch and are getting cold. I can barely feel them. Tilting my head down, my eyes tell me they’re blue.
“Stop moving your head. Do you want me to make a mistake?” says my father behind me. Finding a more comfortable position on that sticky chair, I hear the doorbell ring. It’s a friend of the family. The last thing I need is an audience for mine and my father’s oratory performance behind the bathroom door.
My mind wanders. God, is he still cutting the hair at the back of my head? He’s switched to the scissors. How long has he been doing that? By my estimates, an hour has passed, judging by the beeps on the radio, indicating two news breaks.
My legs start to grow numb while my feet turn blue. I smack them a few times. Great, I can’t feel anything. Rigour mortis is currently taking place on a living person.
I can’t handle it. It’s really bothering me. He hasn’t spent barely five minutes on the rest of my head. This isn’t going to be like last time. I am not going to let him take two hours of my life while he maniacally manicures my head.
“Keep still,” he says. “Don’t move. Keep you head still. Still!” He grabs the back of my head with his mitt-like hands and turns it one direction and then another. My blood simmers. I haven’t said anything for the past hour. I try to keep my conversation to a minimum so as not to bother the maestro. I can’t. I just can’t. It’s about to come out. If he twists my head once more in a direction God didn’t intend it to move, I’m gonna…
“Sit still!”
My blood has boiled over.
A feeling of déjà-vu comes over me. Not only am I regressing back to when I was nine, but the room reminds me of the scene in Marathon Man where Laurence Olivier continually repeats the question, “Is it safe?” while he performs unnecessary surgery on Dustin Hoffman – sans anaesthesia.
The bathroom is nippy, like a night in October, and the only thing that is covering my torso is this ridiculous, flowered shamatte, which is not only scratchy, but also makes you hot and sweaty while leaving your skin cold to the touch. Ah, the miracles of polyester.
Taking my seat as my father walks in, he looks at me and asks, “Are you ready?”
I nod as a reply. Lord Jesus, I think, this is as ready as I’ll ever be.
He pulls out the clippers, the same pair of scissors he’s been using to cut hair for the past 15 years, and that same, nasty comb. He turns on the machine and begins trimming the hair on the back of my head. The buzz of the motor massages my scalp.
Voices are heard from the radio in the kitchen. There must be a soccer game on, as is usual with Saturday afternoons. My fingers twitch and are getting cold. I can barely feel them. Tilting my head down, my eyes tell me they’re blue.
“Stop moving your head. Do you want me to make a mistake?” says my father behind me. Finding a more comfortable position on that sticky chair, I hear the doorbell ring. It’s a friend of the family. The last thing I need is an audience for mine and my father’s oratory performance behind the bathroom door.
My mind wanders. God, is he still cutting the hair at the back of my head? He’s switched to the scissors. How long has he been doing that? By my estimates, an hour has passed, judging by the beeps on the radio, indicating two news breaks.
My legs start to grow numb while my feet turn blue. I smack them a few times. Great, I can’t feel anything. Rigour mortis is currently taking place on a living person.
I can’t handle it. It’s really bothering me. He hasn’t spent barely five minutes on the rest of my head. This isn’t going to be like last time. I am not going to let him take two hours of my life while he maniacally manicures my head.
“Keep still,” he says. “Don’t move. Keep you head still. Still!” He grabs the back of my head with his mitt-like hands and turns it one direction and then another. My blood simmers. I haven’t said anything for the past hour. I try to keep my conversation to a minimum so as not to bother the maestro. I can’t. I just can’t. It’s about to come out. If he twists my head once more in a direction God didn’t intend it to move, I’m gonna…
“Sit still!”
My blood has boiled over.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
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