Pepper Spray

Note some mention of violence

 

I woke up to my alarm beeping and considered the possibility of pretending it wasn’t going off for a reason.  I hit snooze, but did start trying to get up.

Getting up was no easy task.  I hurt in so many places, they competed for attention, bruises I hadn’t been paying attention to suddenly reminding me of their existence as I turned over.   The cat, who’d been pressed up against my most swollen joint as we had slept together, complained loudly at the disruption.  I swung my legs down over the side of the bed.  

I sat for a few moments, just feeling all the bruises and joints that ached from being pulled in directions they aren’t meant to go in.  I slowly rose to my feet, inhaling sharply at the wave of pain the movement caused.  I slowly started limping towards the bathroom.  

In the bathroom, I closed the door and was presented with my reflection from the full length mirror that hung on the back of it.  The reflection was a horrible sight.  I’d been too sore and exhausted to bother putting on pajamas, which I usually slept in, so I stood there naked.  

I could see all the bruises I felt and then some.  The dots from the rubber bullets, the marks on my arms and legs obviously made by fingers digging into the flesh.  The huge oddly shaped one where the nightstick had hit me repeatedly.   Plus everywhere that had been exposed had a reddishness a bit like a mild sunburn from the peppers spray that had irritated it.

My hair was a shit show of its own.  Previously it hung in silky waves of chocolate brown over my shoulder and down my back reaching almost to my waist.  For several months, I’d not been particularly diligent about taking care of it, skipping conditioner knowing that having my hair a bit dry to start with extended the time I could go between washes without it looking greasy.  That way it wasn’t as obvious if I skipped showering when something came up suddenly, like things had yesterday.  In my reflection, it was a tangled mess and sticking up at all angles.  I’d had bed head from time to time, but this was well beyond that.  It wasn’t really a surprise, considering what yesterday had been like and the state I had been in when I finally climbed into bed.  

After what I’d been through, it made sense that my hair was a frightful rats’ nest.  I’d put it in a ponytail when I’d arrived, of course, but it hadn’t stayed in one.  The scramble to get on the goggles and respirator mask the first time we got a whiff of the pepper spray that had been deployed frequently and had been the first time I had accidentally released the ponytail.   I was used to wearing the mask and goggles, since I wore them when mixing up resin and powdered pigments, which I regularly did for work, but trying to get the elastic straps into place one handed while pushing them against my face with the other since the air was filled with pepper spray while coughing hard was completely different from the way I usually put them on carefully one strap at a time.  There’d been multiple on and offs of the mask and goggles and untangling the straps from my hair.

It also had just been a lot of things that messed the hair up.  I’d been dragged around, after I had been pushed over and gone limp so they couldn’t claim I’d fought back.  Someone had stepped on it in boots after I’d been dropped in the street.

When I had finally made my way home, I’d had to go straight to the basement laundry room to strip off the clothing that was contaminated with pepper spray.  Then I had simply stuck my head under the utility sink’s faucet.  I had washed myself, including my pepper spray saturated hair, with the dish detergent I kept in the laundry room for hand washing delicates like bras and sweaters.   

After, I had walked cold, naked, and shivering to the bathroom where I had taken a quick hot shower, making sure I got everything figuring I’d almost certainly missed spots when I’d washed in the utility sink.   Also rewashing the hair with actual shampoo, hoping to mitigate any damage from the detergent and because I suspected the first wash might have left some of the pepper spray deep in the locks.  Then I’d simply fallen into bed too exhausted to worry about untangling it or how it was going to dry.  

Staring at the mess in the mirror I remembered how much I’d just wanted it all gone the day before.  It had pulled painfully several times.  Worst of all though was the way it had held the pepper spray, and trying but failing to keep the spicy hair off my face and out of my eyes.

 

———————————————————————————

 

“So you want it all cut off?”  The woman, who had introduced herself as Amy, asked very nervously.

I sat in the salon chair at the cheap chain salon staring at the mirror.  Amy, who was younger and had long layered blonde hair with about a half inch of brown roots, stood behind me with her hands on the back of the chair.

I’d given myself a couple of days to recover, I still moved stiffly, but wasn’t visibly limping like I had been.   I wore clothing that hid most of the bruising.  I didn’t want to talk about what had happened with strangers I didn’t trust to share my convictions.  Even though I knew I probably should tell the story to those who weren’t paying attention to what was happening, I just felt weird about it and waiting to go out in public till it was less visible felt more comfortable, both physically and mentally.  Especially at the salon where I always felt kind of vulnerable, sitting passively while someone else changed my appearance.  Giving myself time to heal a bit also gave me time to be able to say to myself this wasn’t a completely impulsive decision.

My hair looked somewhat nice, not like it had the day after being knocked over, dragged, beaten, shoved, and exposed to the pepper spray.  It had taken forever to get the tangles out, but I had.  Now it was neatly parted above my left eye, as was my habit, and then hanging loosely over my shoulders and down my front.  So Amy was looking at long smooth waves that framed my face and the cleavage that the vee neck long sleeve tee I wore showed just a little of, not a tangled mess.  

Not that it was as perfect as it had been before, the way I’d treated it while decontaminating had had been the final blow after months of neglect, there were tons of split ends, and they went up high, probably many from strands that had gotten tangled in the goggles and mask elastic then broken when I took the mask and goggles off.   Realistically, I’m sure a healthy trim would have solved that, maybe at most up to my shoulders, and it would be fixed.  I still wanted it all gone anyway.

I wasn’t sure if wanting it gone was more about the practicality of the possibility of finding myself in that kind of situation again, maybe it was wanting to feel in control, or maybe it was about just wanting to stop looking like everything was normal when nothing felt right anymore.   Whatever the reason, I still wanted it gone.   

“Yeah,”  I confirmed.  “Really short.   Like a crewcut or buzzcut.”

“Do you have pictures?”  Amy asked, as though there were a million ways to interpret crewcut or buzzcut.

I wrinkled my brow, and thought about if maybe there really were a bunch of different ways to interpret it.   I supposed they were technically different things, crewcuts and buzzcuts, since they had different names, but I honestly just hadn’t thought about it that much.

“Sorry”  I told her as I shook my head.  

“Hang on,”  Amy sighed with frustration, “I’ll go get some.”

She walked over to the shelves that sort of divided the waiting area from the six styling stations in the shop.  I watcher grab a book, and come back over.  When she put it down on the counter in front oof me, I could see the title on the cover, Short Men’s and Boy’s Styles.   She opened it and flipped to a page filled with a few pictures of men and boys with their hair cut to just a bit of fuzz.  Amy flipped to the next page with more similar pictures.  Then to a third page.  Then back again to the beginning.

“Are these like what you had in mind?”  Amy asked.

I leaned forward and peered at the pictures a bit more closely.  I could see there were some subtle variations to the variety of buzzcuts and crewcuts on the various models.  Some a bit more tapered, others just one length.  Some were a bit shorter than others, looking more like stubble than fuzz.   Some of the variation seemed to have more to do with the model’s hair texture and head shape than the way it was cut.  

I was having a hard time trying to imagine how the subtle differences would look on me.  I didn’t know what shape my head really was under all my hair, and what exactly my hair was going to do when it wasn’t weighed down with all the length.  And of course none of the models looked even vaguely like me, since none were women.  I just kind of frowned at the variety. 

  “Or did you really mean more like a pixie with buzzed sides?”  Amy asked like she was hoping I just meant a pixie.  “I can go get some pictures of pixie cuts.”

“No,”  I told her, “these are like what I meant.  I’m just not sure which one to choose.  Like I’m not really sure what shape my head is.”

“So you really want a buzzcut.”  Amy conceded with only a hint of doubt as she closed the book, and I realized she hadn’t brought over the book for me to choose a particular buzzcut or crewcut, just to make sure I knew what one was.  “You’re sure?   Do you want to donate it?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s too damaged,”  I simply said, because of course donating it would make me feel good, but I didn’t want to waste their time and postage on garbage.

Amy lifted a lock of hair up finally, and scrutinized it and tried flicking her comb through to the ends.  The comb glided down much of the length, then got mildly stuck a few inches from the bottom.  She frowned.

“I see what you mean,”  she nodded.  “If you’re asking for a buzzcut because of the damage, it’s not that much.  I could just take off three inches and add layers?  That would get it pretty healthy.  Or a bob if you want it really healthy?”

“I… kinda.. don’t really.. want to…have to… think about it anymore.”  I tried to explain. “I don’t want to worry about taking care of it and preventing damage.  I don’t want to deal with it getting all tangled anymore.”

“With a pixie cut, you could just use a two-in-one, and not have to be careful about avoiding overusing hairdryers and stuff.”  Amy pointed out.  “I could go grab a book with some examples…”

I breathed in, and thought about it while staring at my reflection.   She was right, a pixie cut would do exactly what I wanted without being so extreme.  Easy, light, and comfortable.  A pixie wouldn’t get as tangled in the elastic of my goggles or mask.  It would be easier to wash out pepper spray, and not falling in my face and eyes till that happened.    Not quite as easy as a buzzcut, but close to it.  

It could still be fairly pretty and feminine looking if done right, though to get done right I probably should have gone to a fancier salon.   I realized though, I didn’t simply want the ease and convenience of short hair, I wanted to reject convention. I didn’t want to simply fit in anymore.  I didn’t want to go along with the conventions of a society that was doing so much harm.   I sure as hell didn’t give a fuck about the male gaze.

“I think a buzzcut fits my personality better than a pixie.”  I simply said without getting into the state of the world.

“Ok,”  Amy finally accepted.  

Having accepted that I both knew what a buzzcut was and that I actually wanted one, even if that made Amy assume I was insane, Amy began.  She stepped over to the counter, and pulled a long strip of paper from a roll, and then came back behind me and wrapped it around my neck.   Then she pulled the cape that was draped over the back of the chair out from behind me and started shaking out the folds.  

As she shook out the cape, she chatted with me, asking me if I had any pets.  I answered her, telling her about my cat.  I hoped the casual chatting would distract me from the impending change that even though I was fairly settled on, I had to admit I wasn’t exactly sure I was going to like.  I knew most would see it as a down grade of my appearance, including me, I just was ok with that sacrifice.  I cared more about being ready for action than looking pretty for the moment.  The chatting was too casual to really take me away from the moment though as the collar of the cape pressed into my neck, and I felt Amy pushing the velcro closed.

Amy retrieved a spray bottle from the counter, and gave my long hair a light misting, not really wetting it, probably just adding enough humidity to prevent static.  She put the bottle back, and picked up a pair of scissors that she tucked into the palm of her hand.  Then she began to give the chocolate brown locks a quick combing out. 

As I talked to her, I thought about the possibility of telling her to forget the buzzcut and to just give it a healthy trim instead, but I didn’t. I just prattled on about the cat.  My eyes kept darting to the silver scissors that were half hidden under her fingers in the hand she combed my hair with.

When she got the long hair satisfactorily smooth, she combed up a single lock from the top of my head.  She pulled it up between the fingers of her free hand with her palm facing up, almost cupping the lock that dangled down over her fingers.  She held the lock a few inches above my head, then did some sleight of hand and flipped the comb down and the scissors up.

Shhhhnip, ssshnup, sshhnip.

The blades flashed open and closed, and the long lock started to tumble down to my shoulder, where it draped.   She pulled her hand away, letting the short lock fall to my head.  

She was cutting it much longer than I’d asked for, I suspected simply because she was nervous that I would change my mind, so leaving enough that pivoting to a pixie cut was a possibility.   Though much longer than the buzzcut length I expected the finished haircut to be, it was the shortest my long hair had ever been cut, and it made my heart skip a beat.  Maybe she was right, maybe I would change my mind.

She flipped the comb down, the scissors up, and combed up part of the first lock again, along with a second lock.  Once again, she cupped the hair in her hand.  She lined up her fingers to the length she had snipped off the first lock at.  Then she flipped the scissor and again.

Sssssnip, sssshnip, sshhnup.

The blades flashed again, and the second lock snaked its way down, slowly sliding along the still long hair below it then falling to the floor beside me.  Amy pulled her fingers away, the short locks fell back to my head.  I swallowed, pausing the story about the cat getting locked in the fridge momentarily.

As Amy combed up the next lock, she encouraged me to continue the story, asking what happened next as the scissors flipped down.

Ssshhnup, sshnip, sssnip, ssnip.

The lock slid down the cape, and came to rest in my lap.  I tried to keep up the conversation and ignore the long brown strands that draped over my thigh.

Ssssshhnip, ssshhhnip, snip.

Amy kept cutting lock after lock, slowly working forward over the top of my head.  More and more of the locks slid into my lap.  Finally she reached my hairline, combing the hair just above my forehead up and into her fingers.  The long dark lock dangling over her fingers, hung in front of my face with gentle waves down its length.

Sssshhnip,  Snip, ssshnup, ssshnip.

The soft strand fell before my eyes, joining the growing pile of hair in my lap.  I look in the mirror at what was just a strip of short hair between where I parted it and the top of my head. 

Amy went back to the top of my head where she’d begun the haircut, and combed up a similar large lock next to the first one she’d cut.

Shhhnip, ssssnip, shhhnp.  Combing.  Shhhnip, sssshhnup, sssshhhnap.  Combing.  Sssshhhnip, ssshhnip, ssshhnup.  Combing.  Sssssshnip, ssssnup, shhhnip.  Combing.  

She once again worked her way forward, reducing everything to a simple even three or so inches over the top of my head, till once again she was at the hairline, where the lock draping over her fingers hung in front of my face.  Again she flipped down the scissor, the silver blades catching the light as they opened.

Sshhhnap, ssshhnip, ssssnip.

The locks fell away, leaving the asymmetrical section of short hair on the top of my head wider than the edge of my eye brow on the right.  

Instead of going back to the top of my head, Amy combed up the still long hair at my hairline on the other side of my part.  

Sssssshnip, sssssssshnip, shhhnup.

The last of the long strands that could really get in my eyes fell away.  

Amy moved downward, to my temple, and again sliced off the long hair to a few inches.  Then went further down combing up the hair from just above my ear and from  my side burn and cutting that off too.   The short hair still covered my ear, but no longer framed my face really.  It no longer softened my jaw line. 

When Amy cut the hair from my temple to sideburn on the other side of my head to  the same length, I started to look like I had a bad mullet.   As regret set in, I trailed off my prattling on about the cat, and allowed Amy to take over the conversation and shift it to her ferrets.  I tried to remember haircuts always looked bad in the process, I wouldn’t be keeping the bad mullet.

Amy went back to the top of my head again, this time, combing the hair below up into her fingers.

Sssshhhnup, sshhsshhnip, sssshnip.

I could hear and feel her cutting the hair from the back of my head as she worked down, but not really see what was happening.  As she worked downward, my head was lightly pushed down so I was looking down instead of at the mirror.  I just stared at the pile of long locks in my lap, trying to listen to Amy tell me about ferrets instead of questioning all my life choices.

Shhhnup, ssssnip, shhhnip.  Combing. Ssssshnip, ssssnip, shhnup.  Combing.  Sssshhhnap, ssshhnip, ssshhnup.  Combing.  Ssssssnip, sssshhnup, shhhnap.  Combing.  Shhhhhnap, ssssshnap, ssssnip, sssssnip.

When she got to the very bottom, she smoothed the hair against my neck, and began to cut it against my neck in a gently curving line.  The tips of the scissors poking very slightly as they traversed the sensitive skin. 

Shnip-shnip-snip-shnip-snip-snip-shnip-snip.

Most of the strands I felt slide down my neck and fall away behind me, but a few caught on my shoulder, and just on from the left corner slid forward adding to the pile I was staring at in my lap.

Amy began to comb through the short hair,  no longer pressing against the back of my head.  I looked up, and at my new reflection.  Even though she had just been cutting off the bulk of the length, presumably in preparation for the buzzcut I’d asked for, she hadn’t hacked it off haphazardly.  Though not a fully styled haircut, it was basically even and neat, I could walk out as it was and it was a passable style.

“How does that feel?”   Amy stated, as she switched from combing to fluffing the short hair with her fingers.  “Looks pretty cute this length…I bet without all that weight, it will curl if you scrunch it gently and don’t blow dry it… It’s a very easy length… I could just neaten it up…”

I sighed looking in the mirror at my not terrible reflection.  She wasn’t wrong.  I sat try to figure out why I just wanted all the hair gone still.  I could say it was because even this short, it would still be enough to tangle with the elastic, but considering the beating I’d endured enduring a little hair tugging wasn’t that much.   I decided it didn’t really matter if I couldn’t completely figure out the why, I didn’t have to justify this even if it was going against norms and expectations.   Heck, maybe that was the biggest part of the why, just wanting to go against that right now in a very visible way.

“I still think the buzzcut is what I want.”

“Ok,”  Amy said, still looking reluctant.

Amy started separating out the hair on the top of my head, which surprised me a bit, but I just figured she knew how she wanted to do things.  She started asking me about my hobbies as she began to use clips to hold the short hair up on top of my head.   

Amy finally picked up the clippers from the counter.  She spent some time adjusting them as she encouraged me to talk about my garden.  When she had it adjusted the way she wanted, she came around behind me.

Pop-lunk, buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I felt the plastic teeth of the guard on the end of the clippers press against my neck.  Amy pushed the clippers up through my hair as she used the comb to feed the hair down into the clipper blades.  The clipper guard reached the spot where Amy had parted the hair.   

Amy pulled the clippers away, and I felt the clump of hair tumble down off the top of the clippers to my neck.  She briefly used the comb to sweep away the loose hair that was in her way, before she combed up the hair just to the side of the hair she’d buzzed, and placed the clippers against my neck again.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-buzzzzzzzzz-buzzzoot

I felt the clippers combing up over my scalp over and over as the back of my head was shorn.   Soft hair rained down on my neck, sometimes in a steady stream when Amy pushed them more horizontally, other times in chunks if the clippings balanced on top of the clippers for a while.   Every now and then she would use the comb to brush the hair off my shoulders and neck, some of the debris sliding forward into my lap, burying the long locks under the short clippings.

As Amy worked forward, I could see the hair falling to my shoulders.   As the clippers traveled up behind my ears, I felt the vibration along the cartilage and cringed slightly at the uncomfortable sensation.  

It was when she finally pushed the clippers up my side burn and over my left ear that I saw the length.  It must have been a fairly long guard, because it looked more like just a regular short hair cut than a buzzcut.

“It doesn’t really look like a buzzcut…”  I pointed out as I watched her run the clippers around my right ear.

“It’s going to look shorter once the top is cut too, I’ve tapered it, and cleaned up the perimeter.”  Amy claimed.  “And I can always take more off.”

I had my doubts about it looking shorter once the top was cut, but of course she was right about being able to cut more if I was right.   I did worry she was going to give me a hard time about taking it shorter after she’d finished a whole haircut.   I didn’t really see a point in arguing though, if I asked her to redo it after she finished, it wasn’t like it was my fault for not saying anything.  

I just sat there, watching her cut my hair, not as short as I’d asked for with complicated feelings.   It wasn’t like I’d felt completely sure about the crewcut or buzzcut when I walked in,  and I hadn’t really known the exact length I wanted, so why was I feeling so annoyed about it seeming not short enough.   I think Amy’s reluctance was actually making me feel more determined.   I had a feeling that if I’d been a guy, she would have just buzzed off all my long hair without a second thought.

After buzzing everything loose to an even length, Amy switched to a smaller set of clippers, started using them to create a clean edge along my hairline.  I felt the little clippers pressed straight in then dragged down, removing the hair that hung below my hairline.   When she finished my neckline, she carved my sideburns into slightly curved shapes.   The clean edge did not make the hair above it look any shorter, if anything it looked longer in comparison.  I watched skeptically , as she used the smaller clippers against the comb to add the tiniest bit of a taper, that had a negligible effect on the look.

Amy put the clippers down and took out the clips that were holding the hair at the top up, while holding a spray bottle.  With the hair that was quite a bit longer than the hair below, even if it was considerably short than what I had walked in with, throughly wetted, down, Amy swapped the bottle for scissors.

I felt a bit frustrated Amy seemed to be determined to not simply give me the buzzcut I’d ask for, but I held my tongue.  I sat as she combed the slightly shaggy damp hair forward onto my forehead.  The damp hair hung over my eyebrows and obscured my vision slightly as it clung to my skin.  I felt the point of the scissor slide under the damp locks and along my forehead about halfway between my eyebrows and hairline.

Ssssssssshlick, ssssssshhhhhhhlick, ssssssssssssshhhlick.

The damp hair mostly fell before my eyes, tumbling to the already impressive pile in my lap, just a bit clinging to my forehead.  Above my eye brow, I had short little bangs forming a straight line across my forehead.  I hadn’t expected to have anything that could be described as bangs,   Amy used the comb to flick off the bit clinging to my forehead, then began combing the short little bangs up and back into her fingers, which hovered above my head.

“I… uh… thought…”  I started stumbling to say,  “the… bangs don’t seem like part of a buzzcut…”

Sssshhhhhhhlick, sssssslick, ssssssshnip.

“It will look shorter when it’s dry.”  Amy claimed as hair tumbled.  “That’s why people always mess up their bangs cutting them too short when trying to trim them themselves, they wet them and then they shrink up.  If you wanted bangs you would be unhappy when this is dry, but you said you wanted it shorter.”

Sssssssssssclick, ssssssssshhhhhnip, sssssssnip.

“ok…”  I tried to just trust the process even though I was getting a bit impatient, my bruised and battered body was having a hard time sitting still, as she combed the hair back again and once again matched the length of the bangs.

Sssssshhhlick, sssssssssclick, sssssssssshhhnip.  Combing. Ssssssssshlick, ssssssshhhhhhhlick, ssssssssssssshhhlick.   Combing.  Sssshhhnip, sssssslick, sssssshhhlick.

I watched as very gradually Amy spent time carefully cutting my hair to a length that just didn’t look like a buzzcut.  I knew this was going to end up taking four or five times longer than it needed to, and I wasn’t sure I was actually going to have the haircut I’d asked for in the end, though I had mixed feelings about that.  

Maybe Amy was right that I didn’t really want a crewcut or buzzcut.  I’d been kind of unsure about it when I’d walked in, maybe this was more about my tone when I had said “I want something really short, like a crewcut or buzzcut,” and not about my gender.  It had been a rather impulsive decision, I wasn’t really sure I wanted short hair, but by now I already had short hair, if I was stuck growing out short hair anyway, I might as well go all in.

Ssssssssshlick, ssssssshhhhhhhlick, ssssssssssssshhhlick.

Amy kept snipping away, as the hair kept falling, I began to think maybe she really was cutting it as short as the guys in the pictures she’d shown me.  Especially since she’d said it would look shorter once dry.  An awful lot of hair was falling, and she was combing the hair up at a new angle and cutting more off.

Ssssssssslick, ssssssshhclick, sssssssssshhhlick.  Combing. Sssssssssnip, ssssssshhhhhhhlick, ssssssssssssshhhlick.   Combing.  Sssshhhlick, sssssssssshhnip, sssssshhhnap.

When she finally put down the scissors though and got out the hairdryer, I had my doubts it would look that much like a crewcut or buzzcut dry than it did wet.   But I waited as she very quickly dried the short hair, using a brush to coax the cropped top into a parting.

I look at the mirror as Amy proclaimed, “see how quick and easy it is to dry and style!”

I had admittedly been quite thoroughly shorn, the transformation was undeniably dramatic, yet it still felt not quite like what I’d asked for.  Though just barely long enough, it was still long enough that the term pixie wasn’t completely crazy, especially since the top was clearly longer than the sides.  It felt like a compromise, not like a full on statement of being fully done with having hair that denoted gender compliance.   Plus frankly, it wasn’t exactly the most skillfully done haircut, which I figured would matter less with a buzzcut,

As much as I hated being a bother, and as done as I was with sitting in the chair, I knew that if I walked out accepting the compromise, I’d have regrets.  

“It doesn’t really look like what I think of as a buzzcut.”  I said.  “I don’t just want it quick and easy to style, I want it to need no styling at all.”

“You said ‘or crewcut’ so I went for more of a crewcut shape.”  Amy tried to convince me.

“It seems really long for a crewcut.”

Amy sighed deeply, “I’ve already spent longer on this haircut than I’m supposed to.”

I kind of felt like asking “well whose fault was that?”  But instead I stayed diplomatic, “I’m sorry, but it’s not really what I wanted.  I should have brought a picture.”

“Do you want to show me what length you had in mind in the book?”  Amy asked as she handed over the book from early, opening it to the first page of crewcuts as she did.

As I leaned forward to take the book, cut hair started to slide.  The pile in my lap slid forward onto my shoes.   I tried to just ignore it, but I had a feeling a reminder of what I’d done would be coming home with me in the  form of long strands tangled in shoe laces.

I looked at the pages of photos, flipping through quickly, since both Amy and I were pretty impatient by then and really wanted to get this ordeal over and done.   I looked for one with a similar hair texture to mine.  Also, now that my hair had been cropped quite short, I had a better sense of what my head shape was.  I found one that wasn’t exactly a great match, which was impossible since all the models were men or boys, none were adult women.   The model looked like a young teen, so no distracting beard or anything yet, his neckline was shaved into a gentle curve that didn’t feel too dramatically masculine, and his side burns were left in a soft natural shape.   His hair, which was a bit lighter in color than mine, was simply buzzed to a length it could stand up at all over, that was short enough you got a hint of scalp through it.

“Like this one.”  I said as I pointed.  Then remembering how reluctant Amy was I added, “Or maybe just a bit shorter so it grows out to this in a week or two.

“Your scalp is going to show more through your hair because there is more contrast between your skintone and haircolor,”  Amy warned me.  “Especially, if I take it down a guard size.”

“I’m fine with that.” I insisted.  “Just go for it.”

“Alright,”  Amy reluctantly agreed.  “I’d prefer to go a little longer then, let you decide if you wanted more off, but we really don’t have time for that, so I guess I’ll just go straight to a guard below that one, looks like it was probably a number two, I guess I’ll use a one.”

It was my turn to feel frustrated, seeing it slightly longer first wasn’t a bad idea.  It would have been great if we’d done that 20 minutes ago before she wasted all that time trying to pass off a short pixie as a buzzcut.  While I knew the basic concept of guard sizes, the numbers only vaguely meant something, but I figured that having a guard, even if it was a really small one, meant I wouldn’t be bald, so it was fine.  

“Sounds good.”  I said hoping it would be quick since I was getting stiff.

Amy gave a tentative nod, as she took the book from me and placed it open to the picture, even though the picture faced the other way, so I didn’t think she felt a need to look at it again. Then she went and got out her clippers again.   As she selected and put on the guard, she glanced over at me like she was checking to see if I had changed my mind.  Every time she looked, I tried to just look confident.  With the clippers in hand, she came back behind me.

“You’re sure about this?”  Amy asked, looking me in the eye through the mirror.

“Yeah,”  I said as confidently as I could meeting her gaze.

“Ok,” Amy agreed with a slight shake of her head.

Amy used the comb to hold up my unwanted bangs, flicked the clippers on, and placed them on my forehead.

Pop-clunk, buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Slowly Amy pulled the clippers back to meet my hairline.  The clippers tone changed ever so slightly at the insignificant resistance my hair put up.   Short brown hairs began to rain down.

Buzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzuhzzzzzzz

As the clippers moved slowly back over the top of my head, the path they had mowed was revealed.    

Buzzzzzzuhzzzzzzuzzzzzz

OH GOD I’M GOING TO BE BALD!!!  I thought as I saw I didn’t have short bristles as I’d expected, but more like a five o’clock shadow of stubble.  My heart started pounding and my eyes grew wide.  I kept reminding myself, I wanted it gone, I wanted it gone, I wanted it gone… just maybe not quite this completely gone.  I swallowed and just tried to calm myself.

Buzzzzuhzzzzwoot

Amy pulled the clipper off the back of my head.  I felt the rain of short hair hit my neck.  Then the comb was back again at the front of my hairline, with the clippers soon following,

Buzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzwoot.

More hair rained onto my shoulder and neck, as the path of stubble widened.  I looked at it feeling a bit nervous that the thin strip where the two passes with the clippers had overlapped looked lighter than where they hadn’t.

Amy seemed unconcerned about it as she brought the clippers back to my forehead.

Bhuzzzzzzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzoot.

Over and over Amy simply brought the clippers to the front again, pulling them to the back of my head.  Short hairs almost constantly rained down.  

Buzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzzuhzzzzzwoot, bhuzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzoot, buzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzzzwoot, buzzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzoot, buzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzzzwoot, bhuzzzuzzzzuhzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzoop, bwuzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzzzwoot,

I watched as the hair was stripped away, revealing a small completely bald inch long streak that must have been the scar from that time I fell off the jungle gym and had to get stitches.  Then when she ran the clippers over my part, the part looked a bit like another stripe.  It definitely was still a bit uneven, with the parts she’d gone over twice looking lighter.  Other places, there were slightly longer bristles, where I guess the clippers had not followed the curve of my head perfectly.

Once the dome of my head was bare she moved to the sides, pulling the clippers up through the short side burn.  Some of the shorter hair flew to the sides instead of straight down, the vibrations of the clippers seeming to be enough to send the tiny clippings airborne.   I squinted as the short hairs flew towards my face, torn between fearing them getting in my eyes, and needing to see what was happening to me.

Buzzzzoot, buzzzzzzzoot.

Amy pushed lightly with the comb tilting my head to the side, and stroked the clippers upward repeatedly, cutting away all the hair around my ears.  I tried to not look too unhappy as I cringed at the feeling of the vibrations against the cartilage.

Buzzzzoot, bzzt, buzzzzt, buzzzzzzzoot, buzzzzzwoot.

Satisfied that she’d gotten all of the hair around my ear, Amy nudged my head down so I was looking at the new pile of short hair clipping in my lap as she stroked the clippers up my nape and over the back of my head.  The feel of the clippers vibrating while going up my head was a much more pleasant sensation than it had been around my ears, and I wasn’t staring at my shockingly changed reflection, so I had a moment  to just relax.

Bhuzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzzuhzzzzzwoot, buzzzzzuhzzzzzzuhzzzzzzoot, buzzzuhzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzzzwoop, buzzzzzzzuhzzzzzzwoot, bhuzzzzuhzzzzuhzzzzzzwoot, bhuzzzuzzzzuhzzzzzzuhzzzzzzzzoop, buzzzzzzuhzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzzzwoop,

After running the clippers up the back of my head several times, Amy nudged my head to the side, exposing the ear that still had hair around it.  I went back to cringing and squinting as I tried to look at my reflection with hair flying through the air and the clippers brushing against my ear.

Amy let my head up, once she’d buzzed away all the hair around my ear.   I had a moment to stare at the slightly uneven stubble, and wonder if the reason Amy had been so reluctant to give me a buzzcut was because she was bad at them, as Amy swapped the comb for a little hair brush.  With the little brush in hand though, Amy started the clippers up again and started going back over everything again.

The second pass of the clippers looked like the places where when she’d first buzzed the hair she’d overlapped and left the stubble lighter looking.  The lines between the passes began to disappear.   In a few places where the stubble was darker, Amy went back and forth over the same spot, till it blended in.  The whole time, Amy would use the little brush to dust off the minuscule clippings that rained down from the clippers and stuck to my scalp.  It only took a couple of minutes, till the stubble that covered my head looked decently even, and Amy was turning off the clippers.

Amy swapped the mini hairbrush for a bigger dusting brush, and came back and finally dusted off some of the hair I could feel stuck to my face and neck.   I wondered if that meant that she felt the neckline she’d carved earlier was sufficient and she’d be leaving it, and getting the mirror to show me the back.    After a quick brushing though, instead of getting the mirror and unfastening the cape, she picked up the small edger.

Hummmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Amy tilted my head down again, and started stroking the edger down my neck.   Then I felt her carve in a new neckline, higher up than the last one, higher up than I thought I wanted it.   I figured though, that how it felt may not really be telling me much about how it was actually going to look though.  

Once again, Amy tilted my head to the side as she used the edger to continue carving the line up around my ear.   She steered the fine blades over the top of my ear.   I felt little splitters of hair flying, some hitting my face.

When Amy brought the edger around to the front of my ear, I was still cringing from the vibrations on the cartilage of my ear and squinting against the flying hair.  I wasn’t really paying that much attention when I felt Amy carve a sharp line through my sideburn instead of leaving it soft and natural.   By the time I realized, it was too late to say anything, so I just sat there as she made the other side match.  

I stared at the way too square looking sideburns as Amy put down the edger and picked up the fluffy brush again.  I glanced down at the photo of the model, it really didn’t match.  I guessed it was in part my fault, since I’d asked her to take it a bit shorter so it would grow out to the picture, in about a week, hopefully it really would just be a week or so.  I supposed it being a bit shorter also meant that the unwanted crisp line she’d shaved into my sideburn would blend in more quickly.

Amy, confident that we were truly done, since I wasn’t complaining as she dusted me off, started to unfasten the cape she’d spread over me.  With it only part way off though, she grabbed the edger again.   I sat there mildly confused as she ran the tiny blades over lower neck skin that I had never thought had hair on it.   She took the the cape all the way off.

“Well?”  Amy asked as she held up the hand mirror behind me.  “If you still want it shorter, I pretty much have to shave your head.”

I peered at the neckline she’d carved, it was higher than I wanted and it just didn’t curve quite right.  I didn’t think asking for her to try to reshape it was going to improve matters though, especially since it was too high.  It finally really did look like a buzzcut though, even if not like the most well executed buzzcut ever. 

I had slightly mixed feelings, on the one hand I didn’t think I looked pretty with the drastic cut, but that kind of wasn’t what I wanted right now.   I knew it would be easy, no need to deal with it in hurry, no falling in my eyes, no escaping messed up ponytails.  It kind of wasn’t minding the feel of cool air on my scalp.   I might not be pretty, but it had a fun counterculture appeal.   Most of all it was very unapologetically queer.

“Nah,”  I assured her as I ran my hand over the stubble that felt like velvet, and felt myself smile at the pleasant new sensation.  “This is a good length.  Thanks.”

 

——————————————————————

 

“I’ll drop you here and go find a place to park,”  my safety buddy Rachel said as she pulled the car up at the edge of the fray.  “Be careful.”

I simply turned slightly, giving her a look as I undid my seatbelt and grabbed my mask and goggles.  She knew that careful was an unachievable request, I wasn’t the one who would escalate things.  There was no way I could promise to be careful.

“Fine,” Rachel grumbled, “at least promise me you will try to not get killed.”

“I’ll do my best.”  I promised, stepping out of the car.  

  I would do my best, I would go limp.  I wouldn’t make any sudden movements.  I’d do nothing that could even be vaguely interpreted as fighting back.

As I ran towards the line of people sitting on the sidewalk.  I got the first whiff of pepper spray in the air.  I pulled the elastic of the respirator mask up, it easily glided over the soft velvety bristles of hair that were way too short to get tangled in it.  Then I pulled on my goggles too.

I sat down, in a gap in the second line forming behind the frontline and linked arms with the guy who had just sat down before me.  As I watched them begin to pull at and drag the people in the front line, a young woman sat down next to me and linked her arm with mine.

The young lady looked at me, her own mask didn’t look as serious as mine, but there wasn’t much to be done about that, it was too late.  Her eyes looked wide with fear, I felt it too.  I gave her a nod, an unspoken acknowledgement of my commitment to hold the line.  She nodded back, then looked forward.  I noticed more people coming in and sitting behind us as the frontline was being thinned out.

I took in a deep shaky breath, and braced myself for what was likely to happen.