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I took a deep breath and pushed the door handle.  It was a typical glass door, like on most businesses.  Hanging in the door was the usual cardboard “open” sign.  As the door swung in, I felt the slight rush of airconditioned breeze and an electronic chime sounded,

“Hi there,”  the woman who was standing behind the large chrome and leather chair said, her caped client shifted his eyes to look me up and down though he didn’t move his head.  “What can I do for ya?”

“I heard you take walk-ins?  Is anyone available?”  I asked not feeling terribly enthusiastic.

“It’s just me today,”  she informed me as she resumed combing and snipping at the middle aged man’s short, slightly thinning hair.  “I’ll be available as soon as I’m done with Greg here.  Take a seat.”

“Thank you,”  I said, really just out of politeness, as I moved toward the line of chairs with hard plastic seats and metal frames against the wall.  

I took the shop in.  There were three other big chrome and leather chairs, though all three were unused in the moment, two of them had hints that they were used on other days.  To the left of the woman working the spaces in front of two of the chairs had photos taped around the mirrors, carefully arranged tools on counters, capes draped over arm rests.   To the right of her was a single chair that looked like it was mostly unused, supplies simply stacked in front of it.  In a corner was a small sink, toward the front was a desk and cash register.  There was a wood door in the back, which I presumed led to the usual things, though I had no way to confirm it.  

Finished her task, the woman walked the man to the register and wrung him up, not bothering to tell him the price as he simply handed over the correct amount of cash, instead just cheerfully finishing their conversation about an up coming church pot luck.  As he walked through the door, the chime sounded.

“Just give me one sec’” the woman requested as she grabbed a broom and used it to quickly push away the tiny circle of litter around the base of her chair, then added.  “Go ahead and take a seat, I just need to run to the back for a second.”

Though I was already sitting, I knew what she meant, so as she went through the wooden door at the back of the shop, I got out of the hard plastic waiting chair and walked over to the leather and chrome one.  Physically it was quite comfortable, reasonably padded, with a bar to rest my feet on.  In it I felt immensely uncomfortable.

Waiting, I stared at my reflection.  I’d taken off my uniform blouse in the car, and wore only a plain white crewneck teeshirt.  The uniform pants were mostly generic looking, plain black, they weren’t something that stood out and screamed uniform.  Unless you knew, they could be any basic work pants.  Even if you did know, you might miss it if you weren’t looking.   The boots gave away that the job involved hard physical labor.

I looked upward.  My face was clean and bare of makeup, which wasn’t really that much of a concession to professionalism, I really only bothered with light makeup for special occasions anyway.  Ironically, back when I’d worked retail, I’d been called out for not looking professional once because I’d been in a rush and skipped putting on makeup. It was funny how the definition of professional varied.  In my ears were simple pain stud earrings, earlier I’d been told those would need to come out before each shift going forward. 

My light brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun just as it had been each day for months.  I reached up to it, and began to take out the bobby pins that held it that way.  The long hair fell behind me into a twisted ponytail.

I was almost finished letting my hair down when the woman came back through the wooden door.  I took out the elastic that still held the hair back, pulling the long bundle forward over my shoulder as I did.  I knew that when I was standing up the long blunt cut hair reached the small of my back, though the ends were a little less blunt than usual and probably hung slightly longer, since I was overdue for a trim.

“Sorry about making you wait,” she said even though the wait seemed completely reasonable since I was a walk in. 

“No problem,” I said.

I began to shake out the long hair and finger combed through the twist that the bun had created, while she was walking toward the chair to stand behind me, stopping briefly to grab a strip of paper and a big claw clip from the counter.  The long hair wasn’t hard to run my fingers through, my hair was straight and healthy since I’d never bothered much with hair dryers and curling irons, and never colored or permed it, so the smooth strands parted easily.  

“So,”  she casually started as she began to twist my hair up into a different kind of bun, “what are we doing?”

“Cheif Johnson recommended this place.”  I said stiffly as the woman used the clip to hold my hair up out of the way.  “He said you’d know what I needed, and would make sure it was done properly.”

“He warned you what that would be?”  The woman paused to ask me and looked me rather intensely in the eye.

More than actually warned me what exactly I was in for with specific details, he had simply ranted about how if a regulation was for safety then making an exception to the regulation for women meant that the exception put those women in danger and he did not care if the academy allowed it, he wasn’t going to put up with allowing any of his people’s safety to be compromised.

He’d then added that if I had a problem with it I could transfer.  There were reasons I wanted to be in this location.  Transferring meant at the very least a very long commute, but more likely having to move.  I just hoped that the person I had requested this location to be with was going to be ok with the change.

Besides, as much as I didn’t like it, the grumpy old dude kinda had a point.  If something isn’t safe for men, it isn’t safe for women.  The earrings and fiber content of socks made sense.  I did have a suspicion that the hair regulations might be more about enforcing conformity and that the claim that it was for safety in the handbook was just an excuse, but considering I’d graduated from the academy less than a week ago and he’d done the job for decades, I didn’t really think my opinion was a better informed one.   So, I’d agreed, promising that I’d show up tomorrow to start my first shift without the earrings and in compliance with the other regulations that had been waived for me at the academy since I was a woman.

Though I didn’t know all the specifics of hair length regulation, when I agreed to this standing in Chief Johnson’s office, I didn’t bother asking.  I could guess enough that I knew I wasn’t going to be happy, but I was willing to do it anyway.  He’d given me enough information for me to make it happen, a place where I could go to get it done without having to explain.  He’d even tossed me a fresh copy of the handbook in case I decided to go somewhere else than the place he recommended and would need it for reference.  I probably should have read it, but it wouldn’t change anything.  I’d left it in the car hoping that I wouldn’t need it for this, since he’d said if I went here they’d know.

“Yeah,”  I nodded.

“Ok” she simply acknowledged and began to fasten the strip of tissue around my neck.  “When you part your hair, which side do you part on?”

“On the right.”

I think she sensed that I wasn’t in a particularly chatty mood, because she didn’t bother to try to drag me into a conversation as she gave the cape a quick shake and swung it over me.  She pulled the cape up over my shoulders and fastened it around my neck, her fingers barely having room to reach in to press the snaps closed.  It was printed in thin blue and white strips in an imitation of ticking, with a clippers brand logo emblazed across the chest.   She spent just a moment spreading and smoothing the cape so it wasn’t bunched up anywhere.

She reached up to the top of my head and squeezed the claw clip, opening it and letting my hair tumble down around me.  She stepped away, and left me there staring at the mirror, my long hair hanging behind me, my only overt marker of femininity, unless you counted the barely noticeable earrings.   

She stood at the counter below the large mirror.  She dropped the claw clip on the counter, and selected a comb from a drawer.  Then she bent down and reached under the counter, taking a set of clippers from a hook, and gave the power cord a quick shake to make sure it wasn’t tangled on anything.  Then she walked back behind me.

Standing behind me, she was neither rushing nor dawdling, but I found myself both impatient to get it over and hoping that the next step would never come.  She flipped the switch on the clippers, which started with a pop before settling into loud steady humming.

She used the comb to lift a large lock of my hair that hung from the side of my head  just in front of my shoulder.  She didn’t pull the comb through, instead of untangling with the comb, just using it almost like a pitch fork, just holding up the hair from where she’d inserted it just around jaw length.  I’d expected her to comb the hair first, but  I supposed not bothering made sense, what was the point of spending a lot of time detangling and smoothing what was about to be trash anyway.  

She lifted the humming clippers to the hair dangling from the comb.   She placed the buzzing blades against the plastic teeth of the comb, causing a rattle to be added to the insistent humming.  She pushed the clippers back over the teeth of the comb and into the hair that dangled from it.

Buzzzzzzzzzoot.

The long lock fell to my chest, then slivered down to my lap.  I looked down at it, the smooth hair just laying there scrunched up on top of my cape covered thigh.   As I looked down at it, I felt the comb lifting more hair and looked back up at my reflection.  She held the hair out slightly above my shoulder.

Buzzzzzzzzzzwoot.

Long locks fell, the strands splitting apart as they hit my shoulder, some sliding forward to join the lock already in my lap, some sliding off to the side and down to the floor.   Left behind was what was starting to look like a bob.   I‘d been pretty sure that I was supposed to get it shorter than just a bob, but looking at what was left on my head I started to hope.  Not that I wanted a bob, but it wasn’t as bad as what I had imagined when Chief Johnson said you need to get that hair cut so it meets regulations.  Maybe all the guys at the academy just preferred their hair to be shorter than regulations actually demanded.

I felt the woman behind me insert the comb into the hair hanging down my neck, then I felt the blades of the clippers brush against my neck as they slid over the comb’s teeth.

Buzzzzzzzzzzutzzz.

I couldn’t see the hair fall, just hear the soft sound of it sliding down the cape.  She kept working around the back, cutting all the hair off at the bobbed length she’d started at.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzwoop, buzzzzzzzzoot,  buzzzzzzzzzzzzwoot.

She came around my other side, and the same as before, used the comb to lift the hair above my shoulder, leaving only a thin lock hanging next to my face.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzoot.

She combed up the last long lock a little carelessly and ran the clippers over it, letting the last of my long hair fall into the puddle of hair in my lap.  

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzoop.

The lock fell back down, slightly longer than the others and angled a bit downward.   She ignored the discrepancy.  I wondered if it was a deliberate touch to make it a slightly asymmetrical align bob, or if it just didn’t matter because I’d been right and this was going to be a lot shorter soon.

As I looked in the mirror the woman started combing my hair smooth, getting out the few tangles I had.  It didn’t take long, and she kept the clippers running, humming in her hand as she did it.

With my hair smooth, I hoped that she would comb it down and just start refining the line of the rough bob she’d given me, even though I didn’t really expect it.  When instead of combing downward, she used the comb to lift the hair up and hold it out from my head just a few inches away from my ear.  I wasn’t really surprised, the lack of surprise didn’t dull the disappointment though as she once again ran the blades over the teeth of the comb.  

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.

The cut hair tumbled down into my lap as the shortened hair settled back against my head in messy layers only coming part way down my ear.

She combed up more hair and again ran the blades of the clippers over the teeth of the comb.  She did it over and over, carving the rough bob away, taking the hair closer and closer to my head.

Bzzzzzzzzoot, buzzzztzztzt, buzzzzzzoop, buzzzzzzwoop, bzzzt, bzzzt, buzzzzzzzzwooop.

The hair poured down, covering not just my lap, but my shoulders too, since the shorter strands weren’t fighting as hard against gravity.  She had reduced the hair to a slightly messy few inches, when she finally paused and turned off the clippers.  She took a quick second to use the comb to brush off some of the hair from my shoulders, before walking away.

As I watched her put away the clippers, I thought she’d switch to scissors, but instead, she picked up a different set of clippers, cordless ones. I watched as she opened  a drawer and took out a smaller something I couldn’t quite see, but figured it was probably a guard for the clippers.  I seemed to be correct as she snapped it on to the end of the clippers as she walked back around the chair.

Standing behind me she flicked the clippers on.  This time she lightly guided my head down, exposing the back of my neck.  I felt the vibrating guard touch my neck, just below my hairline.  I felt the clippers move up into my hair, scraping along a bit like a comb, but of course not a comb.   Combs didn’t hum and vibrate.  Combs didn’t cause a sprinkling of splintery hairs to rain down onto my neck.

Hum-buzzzzzzzzoo-hmmmm-buzzzzzzzzzzz-hmmmm-bwuzzzzzzz-buzzwoot.

She raised the clippers up over my nape and up the back of my head.   I felt her using the comb to push the hair down into the clipper blades, till finally she finally pushed the clippers off about half way up my head.  

She swiped the comb down through my hair one time, and then the clippers were back, just to the side of my spine.  Again she pulled the clippers up through my hair using the comb to feed the short locks into the blades.   

Hmmmmmm-buzzzzzzz-hum-buzzzzzzzzzzwooo-hmmmm-bwuzzzzzzz-buzzt.

As she began the third pass up the back of my head, I noticed that the places where she’d already mowed down the hair to the uniform length the guard allowed, I could feel the cold of the airconditioning against my scalp.  I’d expected my neck to be cooler, but not my scalp.  I tried not to think about quite how short my hair had to be that the airconditioned breeze reached it.

Hum-buzzzzzzzzoo-hmmmm-buzzzzzzzzzzz-hhhumm-buzzzzzooot-buzz,  buzzwoot, hum-buzzzzzzzzzzwooo-hmmmm-bwuzzzzz.

She kept stroking the clippers up over my nape and up the back of my head.  Going side to side.  Though she mostly went upward, sometimes she would go up and down a couple of times in a particular spot, reminding me of when you hit a particularly dirt spot while vacuuming you went over it a couple of extra times.  

When she reached my ears, she used the comb to press them forward, making space for the clippers to get behind. Behind my ears was one of those spots she went up and down a lot, changing direction slightly on the upstroke sometimes.

Having buzzed all the hair on the back of my head to a uniform length from ear to ear, she took the guard off the clipper.  She held the guard with just her pinky and ring finger against her palm, while in the same hand holding the comb with her pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb in a way that looked awkward as hell to me, but didn’t seem to be causing her any trouble. 

She began to once again cut the hair against the teeth of the comb, with the bare blades of the clippers.  This time, she was more precise, as she placed the comb before running the clippers over it.  The comb was right up against my scalp almost acting like a guard as she shaped around the edges.

Buzzzzt, buzzzzoot, buzzzzzzwoop, bzzzt, buzzzzzzzzzwoot, buzzzzztz.

When she’d gone all around, along my neckline and up behind my ears, she put the guard back over the clipper blades and began to use both the comb and the guard up at the border between the hair she’d clipped to a single even length and the hair she’d only roughly cut early. 

Buzzzuzzzt, buzzzzoot, buzzzzzzoop, bzzzt, bzzzt, buzzzzzzzzwooop.

She worked side to side again, using the comb to add just a little more space between my scalp and the blades than what the guard had created.  When she got to working up and around my ears, she started popping the guard on and off as she shaped the hair there, working up to the tops of my ears then up and around them.  

As she worked up and over my ears, it became clear that she wasn’t going to be leaving anything to hide the tops of them.  There was going to be nothing to minimize them, there was going to barely be hair framing them.

Bzzzzt, buzzzzzwoop, buzzzzuzzzuzt, buzzzzzoot, buzzzzt.

She took the guard off again, and I felt the warm blades directly against my skin, stroking down my neck.  She guided my head down and then to the side with the hand that held the comb and guard, her knuckles making little pressure points.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-uzzzzzzzzz-uzzzzzzzzz

When she finally turned off the clippers and stepped away towards the counter, I turned my head and tried to get a better look at exactly how short she’d cut the hair around my ear.  I got a vague glimpse of hair so short that stood up away from my head.

I was frowning at my reflection with my head tilted when she turned back towards me with a spray bottle in hand.  I instinctively went back to facing forward.  She pointed the nozzle up towards my hairline as she used her hand to create a slight shield for my eyes, and she pulled the trigger, sending a mist of water up into my hair.  I closed my eyes.

She walked around me, and slowly turned the chair, wetting all of my hair.  She used the comb to distribute the wetness as she went.  I felt the chilly water hit my exposed ears and bare neck.   She finally stopped when my hair was wet enough that I felt a drip hit my nose.

When I carefully blinked my eyes open, my reflection was blocked by her once again at the counter putting down the sprayer and picking out a pair of scissors from the small collection of them lined up on a small towel on the counter.  They were long and pointy, simply silver, the blades around five inches long.  They were pretty standard, not unlike the ones the guy at the salon I went to, used to go to I suddenly realized, used when he’d trimmed off my split ends.

With the scissors in her hand, she came back behind me, and just started combing.  I sat there watching her comb through the wet hair, with the scissor just there in her hand, waiting to be used.  She kept combing the hair flat around my head and down over my forehead, the damp hair creating a veil over my eyes I could only just barely see through.

I felt the cold metal points of the scissors of the scissors poke through the veil of hair high up on my forehead, well above my right eyebrow.  I tried looking upward, but couldn’t see anything other than the veil of hair.

Sssssssssssshnip.

The thin lock of hair half fell still clinging to the hair next to it and dangling.   The cut ends sticking out just in front of my cheek.  I felt the tips of the scissors move very slightly to the left.  

Sssssssssssssshnup.

I closed my eyes, fearing the falling hair would get into them.  I felt the points of the scissors traveling left along my forehead.

Sssshhnip, ssssssnip, ssssssshnip, sssnip, sssshhhsssssnp.

As the damp locks fell to my lap, more heavily than the dry hair had, it occasionally hit my eyelashes, or brushed my cheek along the way.  When she got to the center, I felt it slide off my nose.

Sssssssssssnup, sssssssssnip,  sssshhnip, ssshnip.

I felt the tips of the scissors go past the end of my left eyebrow.  I was contemplating opening my eyes even though I felt strands of hair in my eyelashes, when I heard her foot steps moving.

“Hold on,” she said, moments before I felt a soft brush similar to a makeup brush sweep the loose strands from my face.

I opened my eyes, and looked at the short damp bangs that clung to my forehead.  I didn’t get very long to look at them and contemplate how heavy they looked, because they were soon swept up off my forehead by the comb and into the woman’s fingers.

She clamped the hair between her fingers holding up straight up above my head, with only a slight gap between her fingers and my scalp. 

Sssshhhssshhhlick

She sliced off the hair that stuck up above her fingers.  The damp locks fell on my head, a few tumbling over my forehead to my lap.  When she released the short bangs, they just stood there, not falling back to my forehead.

Without skipping a beat, the woman combed the short hair back, scooping up some of the still slightly longer hair with it into her fingers.

Shhssssssshhlooock.

She ignored the loose severed hair that fell to my head, just sweeping it back with the comb as she combed the hair on the top of my head back and up into her fingers just slightly behind where she’d just cut the hair.

Ssssssssshhsssclick, sssssssssssslick, ssssshhlick, ssssshhluck, sssshnip.

She worked her way back over the top of my head, combing the hair back into her fingers each time going back about an inch or so before slicing the hair off to the same length as the bangs.  When she’d cut all the hair along the center to the same length, she came back to the front and began to cut the hair off to the side, holding it at a slight angle to the side instead of straight up.  

Shssssssssssclick, sssshnip, ssssslick, ssssssshnip, ssssshhlick, sssshnip, ssssshhluck.

She repeated the pattern over and over, coming back to the front, and working her way back, reducing the already short hair to less than a couple of inches.   She worked her way down side to side, holding the hair closer to straight out than straight up each time.

Ssssssssclick, sssshnip, ssssslick, sssssssssnip, ssssshhlick, ssssshhlick.

With my hair all cut off to what I presumed was the regulation length, the woman finally slowed slightly, and began refining the shape.   She combed through the short damp hair, back and forth occasionally combing it back up into her fingers and slicing off more here and there.  Then she began combing up and cutting the hair against the comb, making where the slightly longer top met the shorter sides more gradual.   

Ssshnip, click,  ssslick, sssssssshlick, sssssnip.

I sat there just watching, unsure how exactly I felt.  Looking at the reflection looking back at me, it was hard to think of it as me.  The lack of connection made it hard to figure out how much I disliked that the rather butch looking woman was me now.   Though the career I’d chosen to pursue was one where the men greatly outnumbered the women still, I had always felt like a girl before, I’d always wanted to look like a girl.  Looking at the mirror, the woman staring back at me didn’t look like she cared about looking like a girl.

The woman working behind me, pushed my head down, so I was looking at the pile of long hair in my lap instead of the unfamiliar reflection.  I felt the points of the scissors tracing a line around my head, down behind my ears, then around the base of my skull, scribing a curving line.

Sshnip, shnip, snip, shnup, snip, snip, shnip.

After combing the hair down a few times at slightly different angles and repeating the snipping along the line, she began combing the hair up ward and slicing at it right against the comb again.  This time snapping the scissors even faster.  I could feel the steady rain of hair that was little more than a dust as it landed on my very exposed feeling neck.

The irony struck me that I’d been told to do this because long hair was a safety issue yet I was feeling more vulnerable and exposed than I had in a long time as the woman behind me sheared away the hair that had always covered me.  As she snapped the hair shorter and shorter, my head was less and less shielded from the air conditioner blowing on it.

Ssssssssclick, click. sssshnip, ssssslick, sshnip, click,  ssslick, sssssssshlick, sssssnip, sssssssssnip, ssssshhlick, ssshhlick.

The woman worked her way upward, gradually allowing me to raise my head so I could once again look at my unfamiliar too masculine reflection.  I just stared as I listened to the rhythm of the blades against the comb and a light sprinkling of hair fell to my shoulders as she blended away the ridge between the sides and top.

She paused the relentless snapping of the scissors against the comb briefly to snip free hand at the wispy hair in front of my ear.  She combed it mostly downward, and used the tips of her scissors to follow the natural shape the border between the shortened hair and bare skin of my face formed.

After she’d trimmed down my sideburns, she went back to combing upward and snapping the scissors right against the comb.  By the time she paused again, my hair was pretty much dry, the last bit falling lightly.

She walked back to the counter, and exchanged the long pointy scissors for a toothy pair of thinning shears.  She came back behind me, and combed the hair on the top of my head upward.  She trapped the hair in her fingers once again, this time they actually touched my scalp.  She brought the thinning shears to the hair that stuck up above her fingers and closed them.

Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.

When I saw how much hair was stuck between the teeth of the thinning shears and in the comb, I had a moment of wondering if I should have asked her not to use them, I doubted thinning was part of regulations, but it also kind of felt like it didn’t matter.  My hair was just so short and masculine already, not letting her thin it wouldn’t change that.  Besides, she probably did know what she was doing.  Chief Johnson said they’d do it right here when he recommended the place, it’s why I hadn’t bothered telling her what I wanted.  Of course, I’d known what I actually wanted hadn’t been an option.

She combed up the hair a little further back into her fingers, and raised the thinning shear to it.  It was weird the way she just ignored that her tools looked like they were fluffy from the hair stick out.

Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.  Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.

She worked her way back, following a similar pattern as she had when she’d cut the length off.  Though she mostly ignored the hair stuck in the thinning shears and comb, every now and then, it seemed to get thick enough to interfere with them functioning, and she would shake the hair out onto the floor.

Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.  Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.   Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.

At a certain point, I realized that she was making sure my hair wanted to lay in the direction I had said I parted it when it wasn’t pulled back into a tight bun.   I realized that I probably was going to be pretty much stuck with it in that one style.  Always parted off the side, not in a variety of arrangements.

Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.  Sshchomp, sschomp, sshschomp.  

When she’d finished the top,  she gave the shears and comb a good shake, dislodging the hair stuck in them.  Then she began combing the hair on the sides upward and snapping the blades of the thinning shears against the comb.  

Shchomp, click, shump, click, click, shomp, schomp.

She worked fast, the blades almost a blur as they opened and closed rapidly.  A steady rain of hair dust fell on my shoulders, that were already covered in cut off hair. 

Shchomp, click, shomp, click, sschomp, schomp, click.

As she worked her way around the back, she nudged my head down, so I was again looking at the pile of long hair in my lap and feeling the hair pouring onto my exposed neck.

Shchomp, click, shump, click, click, shomp, schomp.

When she put down the thinning shears and picked up the little trimmer, I thought she would spend just a few seconds cleaning the edges, but it wasn’t that simple.  She did stroke the trimmer down my neck, taking it from merely bare to shaved clean, but also, she used them to cut the hair above the high artificial hairline some more, cutting against the comb the same way she had with the clippers at the start of this.

Hhhhhuuummmmmmm-hummmmbttz-hhhhuuuummmmmmmmmmm-bzzzzt-hummmmm.

The high pitched whiney hum was constant as she stroked the trimmer in an arch around my ear.  I felt the bare blades against the skin behind and above my ears that felt a little like they were burning, even though I could feel the airconditioned breeze against them.  

Huummmmmmmbzzzzt-hummmmbttz-hhhhuuuummm-bzzzzt-hummmmm-bzzzt.

She used the trimmer to clean around my sideburns a little and take them a touch shorter.  She even used the trimmer along my hairline in the front.  I clamped my jaw tightly as I felt the blades against my face.

Hhhhhuuummm-hummmmbttz-hummmmm.

She finally put down the trimmer, and used the hair dryer like a leaf blower to clean away all the hair that had collected on my shoulders and lap.   Then she gave me a thorough dusting with the big fluffy brush.  

I thought the ordeal was completely over as I stared ahead and tried to come to terms with what I saw as she unfastened the cape and tore the paper, but then she went and picked up the trimmer again.  

Hhhhhuuummmmm-hummmmm.

She stroked the trimmer over the part of my neck that the paper had covered.  She even pulled the collar of my t-shirt down slightly to get to hair I guess I had underneath it.

Finally she took the cape off me, and I saw what I looked like.  If you didn’t look closely at the slight bulge of my breasts, which were mostly compressed by the tight sports bra I wore under the plain crew neck teeshirt, you would easily mistake me for a teenage boy.  I knew tomorrow the image would be even closer without the small earrings.

With all the length that had been exposed to the sun during trips to the beach and hikes, my hair looked darker.  Simply brown, not light brown anymore.  A flatter color without highlights.

The hair lay flat against my head.  I reached up and tried to ruffle it, but she’d cut it so that it just fell back into the neat side parting she combed it into.  The hair around my ears was little more than stubble, eliminating any chance to tuck anything behind my ears.  When I turned my head to look at the short hair just above my ear, I could look through it to see the skin of my pale scalp through it.   Around the edges, my fingers encountered stubble.

As she held the mirror up behind my head, showing off the severely tapered nape, she told me, “I made this rounded back here, and left the sideburns soft instead of squaring everything off like I do for the men, so it’s a bit more feminine.”

I took a deep breath, and nodded.  The bit of femininity was a very tiny bit.

I got up and headed over to the register to pay.  I glanced down at the pile of hair as I went, feeling my jaw tighten at the idea that the locks I had valued when I washed and conditioned, then put up into the tight bun this morning, were now just garbage.  

I barely paid attention as she quoted the price to me, and I handed over cash, not really looking, instead switching my gaze between the pile of my hair and my unfamiliar reflection.

“Here’s my card,” she told me as I handed over the small gratuity I was in the habit of giving even though I wasn’t actually very grateful.  “I’ll see you next month.”

I nodded and said, “Yeah, thanks,” knowing that I would have to come back even if I didn’t really want to.

I stepped out the door out of the air conditioning and into the hot air.  I felt the sun immediately, beating down on my bare skin.  Not just my exposed ears and neck, which I had felt when my hair was in a tight bun, but through the hair that was too short to filter it completely and onto my pale scalp.

I hurried back to my vehicle, hoping to avoid adding a sunburn to my misery.