Getting it good from behind (pt. 3)

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing??”

“I’m adjusting the hair at the back. And, if you keep moving, I’m going to make a mistake and the hair won’t be straight.”

“Who the fuck cares if the back is straight?? People don’t look at the back of my head when they’re talking to me. If they do, I don’t want them talking to me. I talk to people to their face.” I wave my hands in front of my face in a circular motion.

“Just don’t move…” He walks around the chair, stands in front of me and points the rusty scissors at my face. “If you move, I’ll make a mistake.”

“You know what? Why don’t you just stop trimming the back of my neck and start with the rest of my hair. Look at this,” I say while pulling at large clumps of hair on the side of my head. “It’s still the same length. You haven’t even touched the rest of my hair.”

“Fine,” he says, exasperated. He continues to cut the rest of my hair very slowly. He pulls at my hair with the comb, gathers a clump with his hand and snips.

“Why aren’t you using the clippers?” I ask after a few minutes.

“I’m not supposed to use the clippers.”

“I said I wanted a buzz cut. That means you use the the #2 head on the clippers. It cuts your hair the same length all over your head.”

“You never told me you wanted that.”

Is he for real? “You know what?” I grab the sides of my chair, turn around and look at him. “Enough. Cut as much as you can in the next 15 minutes, and I’ll finish the rest on my own time.”

“Fine.” He trims some of the hair that doesn’t belong on the back of my head and I count the minutes. “Don’t ever ask me to do this again. I was only doing it as a favour to you,” he says. I let this last comment go. He does not want to push me any further.

Fifteen minutes pass and I stand up. His time is up. My father stands back, tools in hand, and says nothing. He isn’t impressed and, quite frankly, neither am I. I walk out of the bathroom with my schmatte on. As I pass the kitchen, my mother sits at the table with her guest. My sister is at the head of the table, one hand on her side, the other on her stomach. Her face and eyes are red from both laughing and crying. She’s been having a howl over this. I’ll get around to her later.

I know I have to say something to the guest. It is considered bad manners not to. She’s already heard me yelling and cursing at my father. Now she’s seeing me wear a ratty pair of gym shorts and a transparent schmatte. So, I make a desperate attempt at a greeting.

“Good afternoon,” I wave with a half-smile on my face. “I can’t come over there to greet you yet because I am covered in hair.” I blow some hair off my face. “I’m going to wash up and I’ll be back in about 15 minutes. Oh, and sorry you had to hear me screaming in the bathroom, but what I said had to be said.” I continue on with my journey.

Frustrated when I enter the upstairs bathroom, I turn on the lights for a closer inspection. Either my eyes are out of focus, or my hair looks horrible. No, it isn’t my eyes. The hair on the top of my head is a lopsided mess. My head looks like it was taken advantage of by a maniacal blind person with a pair of scissors and a grudge.

Attempting to correct some mistakes, I pull out a pair of scissors from a drawer and perform my own version of resuscitating an already dead body. It’s hopeless. My hair is still limp and lifeless.

After my shower, I finger style my mop to look presentable. It can pass for normal… in the dark. When I come downstairs, I notice the company has left. My sister comes up to me in the kitchen and asks whether I’m fine. She’s laughing while saying this. I tell her I’m alright.

“You know,” she continues, “I couldn’t stop myself laughing. You should’ve seen me. Mom thought I was going to pee myself from laughing so hard.”

“Gee, thanks,” I reply.

My mother gives me a look. She isn’t impressed with my behaviour (surprise, surprise) towards my father. She claims it was disrespectful. “I don’t know what your problem is.” She makes me turn around. “Your hair looks fine… from the back.”

Raising an eyebrow, I could answer with a pithy remark, but I figure why disrespect both my parents in such a short time span. Better spread the insults over a longer timeframe.

Spending the next few days with my hands on my head, I’m obsessively tugging and pulling at my hair. This side still feels a little longer than the other. He cut off way too much on this side of my head. All that wasted time and he can’t get the basics right. A pair of scissors in my hands is my hair’s friend for the next five days.

Of course, the back of my head looks great. That was my father’s intention all along.