The Hairdresser. Part One.

I was once a normal girl, from a normal family, with normal aspirations. The only thing unique about me when I was younger was the amount of time I spent constantly thinking about hair. I often wondered whether I was alone in this, but the truth is, I would never dream of asking.

I remember being very small, when I saw a blond boy for the first time. I studied every layer of hair on his head, and wondered who would butcher his beautiful gold locks in such a way. I constantly imagined myself expertly trimming each strand, with a grace I was completely incapable of. Such was my guilt over this obsession, that as a young girl, I poured my little heart out in confession, and bartered with God, promising to stop if He granted me this or that. Time passed, and I don't remember much of it, but my obsession with hair grew stronger and more secretive. I would be riding a bus to school or taking English classes, and suddenly think: if I knew how to cut hair, I'd be thinking about how good it feels, right now.

When I grew enough, I would sometimes venture into hair salons and try to overhear details of their experiences with hairdressing. Some would say it was exhausting, some said it was boring, some said it was the best thing that ever happened to them: I honestly wasn't sure who to believe. I heard horror stories of first haircuts and I must admit I feared them, but I was convinced that this had to be my calling.

Some time later, when I was a teenager and rebelling against whatever was in style, I cut class and ventured off somewhere in Brooklyn. A friend took my to his house and in the midst of watching TV, I realized he was pulling at his hair. what an odd thing to do, I thought, and then asked him why he seemed so uncomfortable. When he explained his hair was bothering him, I almost shook with excitement. Trying to catch my breath, I considered what this could mean, and weighed the possibilities of actually doing it for the first time. As I gazed open-eyed, he looked at me with almost begging eyes and asked me: please... will you just trim it a little? I can barely concentrate on anything.

I agreed.

I grabbed the shears and slipped my fingers into the orifices, shaking violently, which was something he thankfully never noticed. He asked me "have you done this before?" and I lied, said "of course" and realized my lie had to seem believable. Amidst the shaking I had to pull myself together and do my duty.

So I did it.

I remember thinking, "THIS is it.. what I've wanted to do for so long.. THIS is what I want to spend the rest of my life doing, every day, forever". However, it was strange to think that while certainly enjoyable, there was no excruciating pleasure in cutting hair as I imagined. In fact, very little of what I imagined actually went on. I had been told that you always nipped your own skin when using shears for the first time, for example.. I was told that there is a moment of pure ecstasy when the world fades and you are alone with a head of hair. I didn't see the world fade. Quite the contrary, I was hyper-aware of everything, and hoped for this catharsis to happen. When I was done (or he told me that I was done), I started doubting myself.

Was there something wrong with me? was I somehow broken? Would I be able to do this again? and if so, when?

Little did I know what life had in store for me.