rightdownthemiddle
Author’s Note: This story features an anthropomorphic sheep protagonist and occasionally uses language that reflects that (“wool”, “shearing”, and so on). Beyond that, the story isn’t particularly furry-coded.
Hi, my name is Laney (it’s pronounced “LAY-nee”).
Earlier today, I was in my car on my way home to my granny’s house, where I live with her. I bopped my head along to the oldies on the radio, my heavy curls bouncing around my face to the beat.
(I could only get away with this without dying of exertion, mind you, because the AC in the car was on full blast.)
It was 90° outside today, or in other words: apocalyptic heat for a sheep girl like me. It was the kind of day that only allowed for the breeziest clothes. So I wore a light, sleeveless button-front top with scalloped edging, and a pair of high-waisted blue denim shorts.
Pulling up into the gravel driveway, Granny’s pickup was nowhere to be seen. Good. As in: “good, that gives me a bit of privacy” – it’s not like I didn’t like having her around, but today I had plans that were easier to pull off without her there.
–
I killed the engine and grabbed my tote bag from the passenger seat, hugging it to my chest. Getting out of the car was going to be awful, and I had to brace myself for it. I took a few deep breaths, counted to three, then opened the door. It was like running face-first into a wall!
One agonizing march across the yard and up to the porch later I was finally at home. The moment I closed the front door, I leaned my back against it and slid a little way down. The interior was still hot, but at least not skin-melting-off-my-bones hot.
Granny had shut down the farm business a few years back, but she’d refused to move out of the old farmhouse a little ways out of town. It was well lived-in, made from old wood, and it had a homey smell to it when the sun warmed it up.
After a few minutes of not dying of heatstroke, I made my way over to the kitchen. On the wall there’s a piece of framed embroidery with green vines and red flowers wreathed around a cursive line of text that reads: “Amazing Graze”. Granny claims that it was her mom, my great-granny, who hung it up, but I think it sounds too much like her own terrible brand of humor. To me, it’s just one more bit of the house’s charm and homeyness.
I scoured the fridge for some iced tea and, sure enough, there was some with a sticky note attached to it.
“Back by supper. Stay hydrated! Love, Granny ♡”
After taking one long, cold gulp, I realized I was stalling. Enough of that – it was time to head into the bathroom!
–
I set the tote bag on the spacious sink and took a long look in the mirror.
The summer heat had come early this year, so I’d already had my spring shearing and the wool on my body was neatly trimmed.
The wool on my head I usually think of as my “hair”. I know it’s silly to differentiate, but when we’d get our yearly shearing, folks would only do the wool on their chest, hips, thighs, and ankles. Everything else wasn’t covered in wool in the first place, or – well – their “hair”, which stays longer.
Anyway, the hair/wool on my head was long, and spilled out in an almost untamable mass. In winter, it was like a fuzzy blanket – cozy and comfortably warm. But in summer, it became a fuzzy nightmare – constantly tangled, sticky, and sweaty.
I usually wore it side-parted as best I could. I liked the look, even if it got into my face sometimes. But truth be told: I didn’t quite know what to do with it. There had been a time when I wore it shorter. I had even (very briefly) dyed it pastel pink, but it’d long since grown out again.
I got the long, frizzy hair from the maternal side of my family. My great-granny, granny, and mom (rest her soul) all had the same hair as I do. My father’s side of the family has straight(er) hair. Did I envy that? I’d say only about a quarter of the time – but the hottest months were definitely when I felt it most. Who I envied on the regular were the rams my age, as they would go for their summer buzzcuts… but there wasn’t a reason why a “young lady” (Granny’s way to put it) couldn’t do just the same.
Which brings us back to the point: I was going to give myself a bit of a shearing today.
–
Why go for such an extreme change, you may ask?
For one, the aforementioned heat. With all this hair, it was torturous to even think about going outside. Still, I could just go to the salon in town and see a professional. Have my hair cut into a nice bob, or even a pixie. (There was always a trendy pixie in season, after all.)
The truth is – and I know it’s silly – I was scared I’d change my mind at the last second. That I’d sit in the chair, chicken out, then smile politely and ask only for a small trim. So I planned to take matters into my own hands, in a familiar and safe environment – which was why it was good that Granny was out!
I was also at least a little intrigued by the look. I’ve seen other women pull it off, so what was the big deal? It would still be girly… just a nice and tidy buzz. I gathered all of my hair behind my head, and dropped it again.
Oh wait! Before I could start, I set up a fan on a stool next to the bathtub which mostly just pushed the hot air around. It wasn’t really cooling me down, but I felt like it was better than not having it there. (Not stalling again at all, no sir. I’m starting any second now.)
–
Every summer, when Granny sheared our wool, she’d leave about half an inch (“a young ewe like you should be modest, and too short looks showy”). I liked the fluffy feeling of it, and that’s what I wanted to go for. The old electric shears she used, however, I didn’t like.
They’d almost reached family-heirloom status: an archaic monster with a 50s look to it. They were quality-made, sturdy metal, with a leather grip. Despite being well-maintained and regularly oiled, they showed their age; they were noisy and would tug at my wool uncomfortably and, at times, painfully.
I’d rather spare my scalp that sensation. So I bought some brand-new shears on my way home from town, which I now pulled out of the tote bag. According to the label on the box, they were “Lightweight — Powerful — Precise”. Most importantly, though, they were battery-powered, so I didn’t have to tango with the cord.
I opened the box and marveled at them. I didn’t bother with the instruction manual – how hard could it be? I’d seen Granny use electric shears countless times. When I flicked them on, they gave off a pleasant and reassuring whir. I nervously licked my lips and pondered: Was this really such a good idea? Sure, I had my hair cut short before, but completely shorn—? I hesitated. Then I focused on the bead of sweat that just ran down my neck…
Ah, screw it – this is all coming off today!
–
I shut my eyes tight before doubt could catch up. Then I pressed the tool to my head, feeling the cold metal comb against my forehead.
This was it.
I swiftly shoved the churning shears into my hair. There was no tugging, only a slight change of pitch, as they effortlessly worked their way over the top of my head. A heavy tangle of loose wool brushed against my back, sending a shiver down my spine.
I opened my eyes and—
I stood in front of the mirror, frozen in place. A breathless gasp of surprise escaped my lips. The wide brown eyes of my reflection stared back at me as I tried to comprehend the path the shears carved all the way to my crown: there was virtually no length left!
Just a trace of cream-white stubble, set against my deep charcoal skin, which was now on very stark display. The long hair around it was untouched. I expected all the color to drain from my face, but the opposite happened: I flushed bright red.
Wait, this couldn’t be right – Granny’s shears never cut that close?!
–
I put my shears down on the sink, trying hard not to just drop them. With shaky hands, I rummaged around in the drawer next to it until I found Granny’s old pair.
Holding both devices, the difference became apparent: the gap between the broad metal comb and the gleaming edges of the blades was much, much wider on the would-be antique. I turned them both around. On the underside of the old model, there was a small screw, completely worn out and, from the looks of it, also likely rusted shut. Above it, engraved in a hard-to-read font, it said:
+ ← Length → –
My own set of shears had no such screw. I put down both shears and picked up the box I had previously discarded, and fished the instruction manual out. Flicking through it, I quickly found what I was looking for:
“To adjust the length (0.06″ to 1.00″), turn the Guard Distance Knob (fig. 2) in the desired direction—” and so forth.
The guard distance…? Sure enough, at the top of the shears, above the blades was a black plastic knob. Did that mean it was at the lowest setting by default? I cringed, as I had no idea how in all green pastures I could have missed this. Why did I not read the gosh-darn manual?! How had I not spent even a second thinking about the length?
I groaned loudly and clenched my eyes shut. Why couldn’t I have started in the back?
That way, it’d have been so easy to abort this silly mission and pretend I hadn’t just butchered all my beautiful hair! I should have just gone to the salon! But no, I was so preoccupied with not being sweaty anymore…
I paced around the room, grabbing my hair with both hands and pulling it in frustration. Then I opened my eyes again; OK, time to calm down.
I needed to look at this with a level head. I tested the knob above the blades on my shears… yep, sure enough, that changed the distance between the blades and the comb. But setting the length to something more than practically nothing wasn’t going to cut it now.
–
I stared at the almost-bald section on my head and swallowed dryly. This was so severe. The exposed strip felt huge, even after just a single pass. But what choice did I have but to continue? I picked up the electric shears again, trying not to shake too badly. Their incessant whir continued as I turned them on, now seemingly louder than before.
A thought suddenly crossed my mind: No more brushing out this mess…
This somehow gave me the strength to raise the tool to my forehead again. For the second pass, I wanted to see what I was doing. Mesmerized, I stared at the oscillating blades as they slowly ate into my hairline. A second lock of long, curly hair slowly peeled from my head. It almost got caught on its way down, but then its own weight pulled it loose and it drifted to the floor. I continued to run the shears all the way to the back of my head, as far as I could go without changing my grip on them.
After that, I picked up a strand from the floor and examined it. Stretched taut, it was easily two feet long – or even longer!
Then my eyes met my reflection in the mirror, and stared at the shorn part. I knew I’d have to touch it eventually anyway, so I decided to get it over with quickly and ran my hand along it.
Oh wow…
My hair was so thick and dense, feeling the stubble was like touching a really stiff scrub brush. A giggle escaped me as I rubbed my hand over it, back and forth. There was a tiny, scratching sound to it… Wait, was I actually starting to enjoy this?
–
I pulled out a bit of wool that got stuck in the blades, and continued. Next, I gathered up a thick handful at my temple, held it away from my head, and guided the humming shears into it from beneath. They slid in with that soft change in pitch. A clump of hair slumped over my wrist as it came loose, and I dropped it into the sink. For a moment, I stared down at it. I couldn’t help it – just ten seconds ago, that all had been attached to me!
As I progressed, I paid less and less attention to the bits I’d taken off. I worked on the side of my head now. My floppy ears kept twitching whenever the blades came close, which was extremely unhelpful. I was careful not to get the shears’ comb tangled in one of my piercings.
Soon, the better part of my head was shorn all the way down. I turned a bit, and a tiny rush of air made me freeze for a second. It wasn’t cool, exactly – the fan still just lazily stirred the bathroom heat, after all. But against my exposed scalp that had never felt that much open air, it might as well have been a winter breeze. I tilted my head into it, eyes fluttering half-shut.
This felt so good…
–
I slowed down a bit – not because I was hesitating anymore, but because I quite enjoyed the sensation of the shears running over my skin. Each pass made me feel more giddy, and the shape of my bare head was slowly emerging in the mirror.
The second half was easier than the first, but the back was the hardest. I had to turn sideways to see what I was doing, and twist my arm at an awkward angle. I dragged the tool through the bulk of my hair, and all of it dropped around me.
–
By the time I was finished, the shears had been running hot for some time. (I’d have to remember to oil them.)
I stared at the pile of shorn-off curly wool in the sink and on the floor around me. It was everywhere – in the basin, around the faucet, on the bathmat. Some was still sticking to my arms and shoulders. It was enough to knit a sweater for the colder months! I almost felt the regret swell up again – that is, until I realized that I wasn’t even sweaty anymore.
My gaze drifted up. I still couldn’t believe I had, in fact, shorn all my hair off… It looked so unfamiliar, as if I was looking at someone else.
Without the big cloud of curls, my face seemed smaller, and my ears bigger. My eyes looked HUGE. Thankfully, my head, hidden until now under all that fluff, was even and had a nice overall shape. I turned slowly in the mirror, studying myself. The afternoon light caught in what little remained of the wool on my head. The stubble had a nice, silvery sheen to it now.
I rubbed it again, with both hands this time. It was actually kind of fun to have so little hair! Sure, I didn’t look like I had pictured myself this morning. But I didn’t look bad, either. Now, the longest bit of wool on my entire body was the poofy ball on my tail.
–
I’m sitting outside on the porch now (yes, outside – where it’s still hot!), sipping on a glass of iced tea. Granny should be home soon, and I can already hear what she’s going to say.
Thankfully, my wool grows super fast. But who knows – maybe I’ll be due for another trim sooner than I think.
Author’s Note: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story. It explored a setting I hadn’t written before, and was very fun to write.
— rightdownthemiddle
