Piekje
The Flemish Hairdresser
The girl in the chair next to me looked over and said, “Why not? You can at least try it once.”
But let’s go back to the beginning.
My hair was longer than usual, falling past my chin, and my bangs would hang over my eyes if I combed them forward. Indecisiveness and fantasizing about getting it cut had caused me to keep postponing a trip to the hairdresser. It had been over two months since my last haircut, and even then, hardly anything had been cut off.
The hairdresser, a nice Flemish woman, greeted me warmly and invited me to take a seat in front of the mirror, looking at me questioningly.
I told her I had been pleased with her work the last time. She had listened well and made something nice out of it with just a bit of trimming.
She responded, “I know I was very careful last time. I can do the same today if you like. But personally, I don’t think it would be a bad idea to cut it a bit shorter, if you trust me, of course.”
This was one of the rare times a hairdresser had suggested this to me. In the past, you could count on hairdressers cutting more than you indicated, but that had changed in recent decades.
“I do trust you, but I’ve worn it longer for years. Even though it doesn’t always make me happy. I have to admit I’ve been thinking about getting it cut shorter for quite some time. Even last night when I made this appointment.”
“You mean taking a good chunk off, or really short?”
It slipped out of my mouth: “If I dared… Yes.”
She gave me a questioning look. “How short would you want it if you did dare?”
“Really short, but not a buzz cut,” I answered.
“No, that would be very drastic. But even with just scissors, I can cut it very short. Just realize that once I start, there’s no going back. So, tell me.”
A lump formed in my throat.
The girl in the chair next to me looked over and said, “Why not? You can at least try it once.”
“Short. You decide how short,” I answered.
“I think you might never want long hair in the future when I’m done. I’ll wash it afterward. No point washing what’s going. Be prepared; you might be shocked by the first cut.”
She slowly combed through my hair, and as I started to drift off, she grabbed her scissors and took a section of hair near the crown. My hair was at least 15 cm long there. She held the strand between her fingers, leaving a few centimeters above her hand. Then she looked at me through the mirror and snip. Instead of cutting above her fingers as I expected, she cut way below them. As if putting on a show, she dramatically let the cut hair fall onto my cape. I looked down and saw a huge lock, at least 10 centimeters or more.
She smiled in the mirror and gently pushed my head down. I immediately felt her comb lift the hair at the nape of my neck, followed by the sound of scissors cutting. She kept going, and going, and going. From the bottom of my neck to the crown. After what felt like an eternity, I could feel the comb gliding over the back of my scalp. It felt cold.
“No need for clippers,” she chuckled, continuing to snip away.
I was in shock, but also overjoyed. She was in control and doing the cut she’d had on her mind the previous visit.
I wanted her to stop, but at the same time, I wanted her to continue.
She made sure my head stayed down as she continued cutting. She gently but firmly pushed my head forward with her flat hand each time. She went over it at least a dozen times. It seemed like an eternity before she slowly lifted my chin. I looked the same from the front as when I came in, but I knew she had cut off almost everything in the back.
Then she placed the comb under my hair along my ear and cut scissor-over-comb, just as she had done in the back. As she turned me to cut the other side, I swear I could see my skin on the side she had just finished.
I hated it, but I also loved it. I think I loved it much more than I hated it.
She surprisingly finished the other side quickly. I said nothing. My eyes in the mirror said everything.
“It’s a big improvement, right?” she said with a wink in the mirror. Now she took the short piece near my crown as a guideline and started cutting the top of my hair. She did this very precisely but also decisively. She laid her hand flat on my head while grabbing a new section of hair between her fingers each time. This time, she cut just above her fingers. As she cut section after section, she deliberately, I think, threw the hair into my lap.
Then she moved to my bangs. She combed what was left of my front hair down over my eyes. I felt her place the scissors high on my forehead and SNIP, a waterfall of hair fell onto my cape. I could feel that it was high, really high. SNIP, SNIP, SNIP. Done.
With a razor, she removed the small hairs on my neck and sides that the scissors had missed. Finally, she held up a hand mirror and slowly turned the chair so I could see my haircut from all angles.
She said nothing, just slowly rotated the chair so I could take it all in. My eyes must have been as big as saucers. I saw my neck, cut up gradually from zero to at most 1 centimeter. My sides were the same. A lot of my skin was visible between the super-short locks. The top of my hair was just long enough to run a comb through and change its direction. Where I had bangs for years, my hair now stopped at the top of my forehead.
I looked in the mirror and smiled, wondering how I would ever get out of this chair without revealing what this had done to me. Not to mention how I would explain this to friends and acquaintances. I didn’t recognize myself. I remember a hairdresser who loved cutting hair once saying afterward, “That was almost a year’s worth of hair…” But this surpassed everything. If I wanted to return to my old length, it probably wouldn’t happen within a year.
The end
